Цитаты из книги «Книга непокоя», страница 16

Not the six feet of cold earth that cover our closed eyes beneath the warm sun and next to the green grass, but the death that surpasses our life and is a life all its own – a dead presence in some god, the unknown god of the religion of my Gods.

...мы - внуки Судьбы и пасынки Бога, обвенчавшегося с Вечной Ночью, когда она стала вдовою Хаоса, породившего нас.

(с) болезненный промежуток

... I start to wonder why our scientific age’s will to understand hasn’t been extended to artificial, inorganic things. And one of the questions that I most languidly ponder is why we don’t develop, along with the usual psychology of human and subhuman creatures, a psychology (for surely they have one) of artificial figures and of creatures whose existence takes place only in rugs and in pictures. It’s a sad view of reality that would limit it to the organic realm and not place the idea of soul in statuettes and needlework. Where there’s form there’s a soul.

I’ve always thought it futile to see life as a valley of tears; yes, it is a valley of tears, but one in which we rarely weep. Heine said that after great tragedies we always merely blow our noses. As a Jew, and therefore universal, he understood the universal nature of humanity.

The dreamers of ideals – socialists, altruists, and humanitarians of whatever ilk – make me physically sick to my stomach. They’re idealists with no ideal, thinkers with no thought. They’re enchanted by life’s surface because their destiny is to love rubbish, which floats on the water and they think it’s beautiful, because scattered shells float on the water too.

I seem to have been born, spiritually speaking, on a short winter day. Night fell early on my being. The only way I can live my life is in frustration and desolation.

And my entire world of all these souls who don’t know each other casts, like a motley but compact multitude, a single shadow...

In the vast colony of our being there are many species of people who think and feel in different ways.

Each of us is several, is many, is profusion of selves.

Whether we like it or not we’re servants of the hour and its colours and shapes, we’re subjects of the sky and earth. Even those who delve only in themselves, disdaining what surrounds them, delve by different paths when it rains and when it’s clear. Obscure transmutations, perhaps felt only in the depths of abstract feelings, occur because it rains or stops raining. They’re felt without our feeling them because the weather we didn’t feel made itself felt.