I deeply wished I could make the stars all come down and breathe them; disappear in them - Alfred de Musset

It is unfortunately true that there is in blasphemy a certain outlet which solaces the burdened heart. When an atheist, drawing his watch, gave God a quarter of an hour in which to strike him dead, it is certain that it was a quarter of an hour of wrath and of atrocious joy. It was the paroxysm of despair, a nameless appeal to all celestial powers; it was a poor, wretched creature squirming under the foot that was crushing him; it was a loud cry of pain. Who knows? In the eyes of Him who sees all things, it was perhaps a prayer.

How glorious it is – and also how painful – to be an exception.

Sirkte yaralanan boğalar, sırtlarında matadorun kılıcıyla, bir köşede yatmaya gitmek ve sükûn içinde ölmekte serbesttirler. Şurada veya burada, söyleyin bana, ne yapmaya gideyim. Bana temiz bir sema, ağaçlar ve evler, konuşan, içen, şarkı söyleyen adamlar, rakseden kadınlar ve doludizgin koşan atlar göstereceksiniz. Bütün bunlar hayat değildir, hayatın gürültüsüdür.