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164 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 2007
Writing a play is like lacework—or something similar; you have to keep a million things in mind, shape them, present them, so that they are available when needed. Three times I reached the end of this play, and three times I realized I had failed to prepare the ending I was meant to arrive at.
I have not solved the problem of living and working at the same time. One must do both, that much is certain; but they seem to be at war with each other, and exhaustion is very real—moreover, it can appear in the most unexpected ways.
The worst of it is that I fear I am losing—not my reputation, but that immortal part of my soul: the appetite for adventure, the courage to risk the unknown and the impossible. Instead, I find myself weighing everything—whatever the matter—measuring pros and cons, risks and dangers. Once the mind enters this habit of comparison, you become either completely timid or recklessly bold. In both cases, the result is the same: inertia, immobility.
I wager that all that was needed was sea air. After all, the river flows into the ocean, and once you make peace with the sea, it tells you the whole story.
I began tormenting myself, wondering whether I had said something or done something wrong that made you decide to cut off contact with me. Once you start thinking like that, it becomes impossible to imagine why anyone would want to be your friend.
One of those moments when you feel your brain spinning on its axis inside your skull. When you are caught between two choices, you must do what comes from within. If you truly know what you want, then neither words nor principles should stand in the way.
Work is a magnificent consolation; it leaves you with too little free time to continue hating people.
“J’avais reculé pour mieux sauter.” You must first sink to the bottom in order to leap well.
I may be a miserable bastard, but if I love you, then I love you—that is all there is to it.
There are many ways to make promises—with words, with looks, with body language—and I no longer wish to make promises I cannot keep.
I miss you terribly. There are moments when I feel as though I might lose my mind. But perhaps one does not truly go mad until one absolutely has to.
For now, I cannot leave this city; and leaving cities again and again eventually means leaving this wretched world altogether. I know I will leave this world one day, but I will not allow myself to be chased out of it by the cowardly herd known as humanity.
To witness love—twice—end in disappointment, to see how the world destroys love or how a father is willing to destroy his own son, creates a feeling that demands reckoning. Those who reach this point become either saints, tyrants, or poets.