Still prowling around. Mid-afternoon. Guts rattling. Beginning to rain now. Notre-Dame rises tomb-like from the water. The gargoyles lean far out over the lace facade. They hang there like an idee fixe in the mind of a monomaniac. An old man with yellow whiskers approaches me. Has some Jaworski nonsense in his hand. Comes up to me with his head thrown back and the rain splashing in his face turns the golden sands to mud.

I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, for grander failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack, I want everyone to scratch him…

All the men she's been with and now you, just you, and the barges going by, masts and hulls, the whole damned current of life flowing through you, through her,…

For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not one man, in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to put a bomb up th…

'...in the West, the insane are so many that they are put in an asylum, in China the insane are so unusual that we worship them . . . .' (p. 3)

'I know everyone will say 'Nijinsky has gone mad', but I don't care because I have already played the mad man at home. That is what everyone will think, but th…

Nous avons psychologise comme les fous, qui augmentent leur folie en s'efforcant de la comprendre.