“Pleasure only starts once the worm has got into the fruit, to become delightful …” — Georges Bataille

Life has always taken place in a tumult without apparent cohesion, but it only finds its grandeur and its reality in ecstasy and in ecstatic love.

A judgment about life has no meaning except the truth of the one who speaks last, and the mind is at ease only at the moment when everyone is shouting at once and no one can hear a thing.

Sacrifice is nothing other than the production of sacred things.

Naturally, love's the most distant possibility.