Boredom's no longer my love. Rage, dissipation, insanity—I've known all their excitement and disasters—my whole burden's laid down. Let's coolly consider the extent of my innocence.
I wouldn't be able to ask for the comforts of a thrashing any more. I don't consider myself setting out on a wedding with Jesus Christ as father-in-law.
I'm not a prisoner of my reason. I said: God. I want freedom in salvation—how do I find it? I've lost my taste for the frivolous. No further need for devotion or divine love. I don't miss the century of feeding hearts. Each has its charms, contempt and charity. And I Serve my place at
the top of this angelic ladder of good sense.
As for conventional happiness, domestic or not. . . no, I just can't. I'm too worn out, too weak. Life flourishes only when you work, an old cliche! As for me, my life doesn't weigh enough, it flies off and floats high up above action that point so dear to the world.
Life's the joke each of us keeps on playing.
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