Farce continuelle!

"Chacun a sa raison, mépris et charité: je retiens ma place au sommet de cette angélique échelle de bon sens."

-A Season in Hell

(Each has its perks, contempt and charity: I reserve my place at the top of this angelic ladder of good sense.)

"Just depressed out of my fucking mind, want to sleep it out. Ever since I was sixteen I've been filling notebooks and hard drives with terrible, weird writing. I can't withstand it anymore: just a waste, a misguided, ragged, shitty hobby. Just makes me angry, nauseates me. What was I thinking. My brain, my stupid dick. What was I trying to redeem.
"Whatever it is, depair, whatever, it gets so fascinatingly clean and pure. Almost beautiful, this hopelessness or somehing--the absence of woman, eros, play. Sealed. It is so clean and undiluted: it startles, attracts, scintillates with novelty."

"An apology always on my lips for not giving all of myself in conversation, as stupid as I am and as lame as my ideas are. But it's not a man's ideas that are wanted here, it's his jellyfish-shaped sentiments, his charity of all his soul, which is the same for every being, the same for every"one, but this is what he has to give, and apologize because can't give more. So: the blank wait while I bite my tongue and simultaneously vomit tears... Close your eyes for a bit, and God will give you a taste of His Hell, of the world without His simple love, and this is more terrible than any nightmare dispersed by day which you record. --If I pull it out and am ever happy and efficient again, I want to always try to take care of everyone. Spare no effort. Bully them until they come out and lose themselves in something engaging and confraternal: not try to get them to see their folly, but just browbeat them into taking some pleasure in their experience. Drink this nectar. --It takes real courage for a joyful man to deny the Creator."

"My heart is full of itching sand. You dream about sliding clean for eternity across frictionless glass."

"God is Love, love is not ludic--Love is what is. Play is torture and power. God cannot tease, God cannot flirt. Only Zeus could fuck. God, no slave, cannot be enraptured."

'Leaves of Grass': "The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer." --When I die (of pussyitis) there will be in my nostrils the human smell of my armpits, mixed with the chemical-nostalgic smell of my deodorant, in a little piece of last music.

• "Must I pray for the strength to keep from checking my ex-girlfriend's blog?"