I see the insipid flesh blossoming and palpitating with abandon. - Jean-Paul Sartre

Every age has its own poetry; in every age the circumstances of history choose a nation, a race, a class to take up the torch by creating situations that can be expressed or transcended only through poetry.

Absurd, irreducible; nothing — not even a profound and secret delirium of nature — could explain it. Obviously I did not know everything, I had not seen the seeds sprout, or the tree grow. But faced with this great wrinkled paw, neither ignorance nor knowledge was important: the world of explanations and reasons is not the world of existence. A circle is not absurd, it is clearly explained by the rotation of a straight segment around one of its extremities. But neither does a circle exist. This root, on the other hand, existed in such a way that I could not explain it.

Las palabras se habían desvanecido, y con ellas la significación de las cosas, sus modos de empleo, las débiles marcas que los hombres han trazado en su superficie. Estaba sentado, un poco encorvado, cabizbajo, solo frente a aquella masa negra y nudosa, enteramente bruta y que me daba miedo. Y entonces tuve esa iluminación.