Book: Journey to the end of the night

The war between us and those in front of us sparked, and now she flared. It is like a current between the two carbons in an arc lamp.

When you have no imagination, dying is a small thing; when you have it, death is already too much.

I assure you, our life is just a giant mockery of life.

The selfishness of beings faced with our lives when you think about them, old, is irrefutable, as it were, steel, platinum and even more long lasting than time itself.

The strength and the happiness of fatherhood, his poetry lies in the fact to squeeze a family in arms, and not to consider it.

There is no worse tyrant than the brain.

To love is nothing, to get along together - there's the RUB.

Kissing - how to scratch herself: I want, come what may.

To give up love is harder than from life. In this world it just so happened: so, kill you love - all at once.

Your memories - just an old lantern hanging on the street corner where almost nobody goes.

Once you begin to talk less about the things that was most valued, and if say through force. You are fed up with their own conversations. Struggling to reduce them. Then it just stopped. You say for thirty years. You don't even try to be right. You have no desire to maintain even a modicum of the joy that you managed to find yourself. Everything becomes disgusting. Now on the path that leads to nowhere, you only need a little to eat, keep warm and as tight as possible to sleep. To revive his interest in life should be to invent new faces that you will pose in front of others. But you have no power to change the repertoire. You mumble something unintelligible, coming up with different excuses and tricks to remain among their own, but next to you, not departing a single step, is already stinking of death, simple as the game of belote. You have roads only meager sadnesses are, for example, that you have not found the time to visit while he was still alive, old uncle in Bois-Colombes, domessage his song evening in February. This is all that remained of life. It's a little remorse brutally tortured you, everything else you efforts and flour more or less vomited on the road.

Whatever you say, whatever you preach, and the world leaves us much earlier than we go away from the world.

People pity cripples, the blind, and we can say that they have the same reserve of love. I felt it myself. And the stock is huge - this is not going to deny it. One problem - people and such store of love remain bitches. They are not allowed to use it, that's all. Hide themselves, where he is kept without any use. Now this love and erodes them from the inside.

Sunday nights raspolagetsya all the passion, anxiety, impatience. On Sunday watch the ego intrudes, but still drunk. After a whole day of alcoholic freedom of the slaves begins to shake, hard to keep in check, they snort, snore and clanking chains.