Honore de Balzac. Pebbled leather (№ 291006)

As if buried under the rubble of so many universes, we inquire ourselves: what is our glory, our hatred, our love? If we are to become in the future an intangible point of whether or not to accept the burden of existence? And now, torn from the soil of our time, we cease to live until the footman and say, "the Countess told me to say that she is waiting for you."