Born Of The Sensibility, Art Sows And

Science Is The Only Truth And It Is The Great Lie. It Knows Nothing, And People Think It Knows Everything. It Is Misrepresented. People Think That Science Is Electricity, Automobilism, And Dirigible Balloons. It Is Something Very Different. It Is Life Devouring Itself. It Is The Sensibility Transformed Into Intelligence. It Is The Need To Know Stifling The Need To Live. It Is The Genius Of Knowledge Vivisecting The Vital Genius.

And There Is Neither Beginning Nor End, Nor Past Nor Future; There Is Only A Present, At The Same Time Static And Ephemeral, Multiple And Absolute. It Is The Vital Ocean In Which We All Share, According To Our Strength, Our Needs Or Our Desires.

Nothing Exists Except By Virtue Of A Disequilibrium, An Injustice. All Existence Is A Theft Paid For By Other Existences; No Life Flowers Except On A Cemetery.

Art Is The Accomplice Of Love.

The Human Mind Is So Complex And Things Are So Tangled Up With Each Other That, To Explain A Blade Of Straw, One Would Have To Take To Pieces An Entire Universe. A Definition Is A Sack Of Flour Compressed Into A Thimble.