And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness.
Since we're all going to die, it's obvious that when and how don't matter.
Then we understand that rebellion cannot exist without a strange form of love. Those who find no rest in God or in history are condemned to live for those who, like themselves, cannot live; in fact, for the humiliated.
It occurred to me that anyway one more Sunday was over that Maman was buried now, that I was going back to work, and that, really, nothing had changed.
For ever, I shall be a stranger to myself.
Everything is true, and nothing is true!
... one cannot be happy in exile or in oblivion. One cannot always be a stranger. I want to return to my homeland, make all my loved ones happy. I see no further than this.
Have you no hope at all? And do you really live with the thought that when you die, you die, and nothing remains?" "Yes," I said.
Rebellion cannot exist without a strange form of love.
I was assailed by memories of a life that wasn't mine anymore, but one in which I'd found the simplest and most lasting joys.