To create by remembering; to unbury the corpses whose ghosts have long since ceased to scare even the children; to more or less systematically deny that anything has been in vain, and that, therefore, everything has been in vain; to drag out the glory of old swords and old testaments while exposing them to the corrosion of daylight; to pull out the roots thought already rotten, and thus destabilize the increasingly weak foundations of the tree of knowledge, pretending that its poisonous grapes are thereby vindicated; to entice that shade of laughter which threatens without giving an impression that all has been and will be well; to compel the words back into their pre-established grooves in the magic formulae, making them fragile, brittle, and yet unavoidable, unforgettable; to nourish the myths already beaten into the pulp of history and aesthetics, and poetry; in short, to concoct all of humanity into one shapeless heap of throbbing flesh, bones, nerves, hair, and lard, creeping anywhere and nowhere, destined to vegetate rhythmically forever—that is the task of the illustrious artificers, the priests of continuity, the priests of dead and deadly change, of mobile immobility, of the standard according to which all the movement may be measured and ridiculed…

My tired hand is twitching. It refuses to obey, to execute. For I am not only aware that my note does not make any difference, but also that my testimony may be my own indictment, and that in my individual case it may indeed be significant. And yet, all this may be secondary. I am simply not sure, not sure…