Those Who Fail To Reread Are Obliged

The Ventoux Is A God Of Evil, To Which Sacrifices Must Be Made. It Never Forgives Weakness And Extracts An Unfair Tribute Of Suffering.

Other Countries Drink To Get Drunk, And This Is Accepted By Everyone; In France, Drunkenness Is A Consequence, Never An Intention. A Drink Is Felt As The Spinning Out Of A Pleasure, Not As The Necessary Cause Of An Effect Which Is Sought: Wine Is Not Only A Philtre, It Is Also The Leisurely Act Of Drinking.

It Is Said That Mourning, By Its Gradual Labour, Slowly Erases Pain; I Could Not, I Cannot Believe This; Because For Me, Time Eliminates The Emotion Of Loss (i Do Note Weep), That Is All. For The Rest, Everything Has Remained Motionless. For What I Have Lost Is Not A Figure (the Mother), But A Being; And Not A Being, But A Quality (a Soul): Not The Indispensable, But The Irreplaceable.

Even Hidden In The Most Squalid Parisian Halls, Wrestling Partakes Of The Nature Of The Great Solar Spectacles, Greek Drama And Bullfights: In Both, A Light Without Shadow Generates An Emotion Without Reserve.

Le Langage Est Une Peau: Je Frotte Mon Langage Contre L'autre. Language Is A Skin; I Rub My Language Against Another Language.