I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me.
To want fame is to prefer dying scorned than forgotten.
We are so lonely in life that we must ask ourselves if the loneliness of dying is not a symbol of our human existence.
We have lost, being born, as much as we shall lose dying: Everything!
There is not much difference between a mortal man and a dying man. The absurdity of making plans is only slightly more obvious in the second case.
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