Life is contemptuous of knowledge. It forces it to sit in the anterooms, to wait outside. Passion, energy, lies, are what life admires. Still, anything can be endured if all humanity is watching.

There is no complete life. There are only fragments. We are born to have nothing, to have it pour through our hands. And yet, this pouring, this flood of encounters, struggles, dreams... one must be unthinking, like a tortise. One must be resolute, blind. For whatever we do, even whatever we do not do prevents us from the opposite. Acts demolish their alternatives, that is the paradox. So that life is a matter of choices, each one final and of little consequence, like dropping stones into the sea.