The Wall

Antes de alguém viver, a vida, em si mesma, não é nada; é quem é a vive que deve dar-lhe um sentido; e o valor nada mais que constatar-se, assim, que é possível criar uma comunidade humana.

Before beginning this treatise, he wanted the advice of The Baboon, his philosophy prof. “Excuse me, sir,” he said at the end of a class, “could anyone claim that we don’t exist?” The Baboon said no. “Goghito,” he said, “ergo zum. You exist because you doubt your existence.

He loves me, he doesn't love my bowels, if they showed him my appendix in a glass he wouldn't recognize it, he's always feeling me, but if they put the glass in his hands he wouldn't touch it, he wouldn't think, "that's hers," you ought to love all of somebody, the esophagus, the liver, the intestines. Maybe we don't love them because we aren't used to them, but if we saw them the way we saw our hands and arms maybe we'd love them; the starfish must love each other better than we do.

I clung to nothing, in a way I was calm. But it was a horrible calm—because of my body; my body, I saw with its eyes, I heard with its ears, but it was no longer me; it sweated and trembled by itself and I didn’t recognize it any more.

I consented to die in his place; his life had no more value than mine; no life had value. They were going to slap a man up against a wall and shoot at him till he died, whether it was I or Gris or somebody else made no difference. I knew he was more useful than I to the cause of Spain but I thought to hell with Spain and anarchy; nothing was important.

I had spent my time
counterfeiting eternity.

I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity, I had understood nothing.

In the state I was in, if someone had come and told me I could go home quietly, that they would leave me my life whole, it would have left me cold: several hours or several years of waiting is all the same when you have lost the illusion of being eternal.

I said to myself, 'I want to die decently'.

I wanted my own words. But the ones I use have been dragged through I don't know how many consciences.

je prenais tout au sérieux, comme si j'avais été immortel.

Lucien thought with bitter pleasure that his parents found him looking fine. “I don’t exist.” He closed his eyes and let himself drift: existence is an illusion because I know I don t exist, all I have to do is plug my ears and not think about anything and I’ll become nothingness.

? žmones reikia ži?r?ti iš aukštai. B?davo, užgesinu švies? ir atsistoju prie lango: jie n? ne?taria, kad juos galima steb?ti ir iš viršaus. Jie r?pinasi savo priekiu, kartais užpakaliu, bet visi j? triukai skirti metro setyniasdešimties centimetr? ?gio ži?rovui. O ar kas nors kada pagalvojo, kaip atrodo katiliuko formos kepur? žvelgiant iš septinto aukšto? <...> Vien? vakar? man toptel?jo mintis pašaudyti ? žmones.

No, my child, these things are impossible. It would have been better if she had recognize the truth courageously. She would have suffered once, then time would have erased with its sponge. There is nothing like looking things in the face, believe me.