Today, it feels like someone just pulled a big, heavy coat off my shoulders. I keep polishing myself between ages and different ranks of individuals. Out of the answers arise new questions, probabilities, beliefs, presumptions, to shape my own blooming world, like a secret garden, just as we were born: unbreakable, tense, ready for something new, for something even more difficult, like a bow which all trouble only serves to pull tighter. Deep down, I like to believe that my dreams are real; I love to have a little conversation with the people I love the most, to make sure everything is all right wherever they are. I also know how cruel reality often can be, and I wonder if delusion is not more comforting. Because of a quirk in my own nature, I like doing things that go against my nature, a quirk which came into my life early, in such contradiction to my age, to my surroundings, the examples around me. Because of this, I don’t settle too many habits at once. I question the value of what I’m doing and doubt the accepted ways of doing it. I am always ready to take fresh paths, to venture into fields where I am by no means an expert. Marx was not an expert in interpreting history in economic terms. Neither was Freud an expert psychoanalyst; before Freud wrote, there was no such thing. He created the standards by which psychoanalysts are judged experts, nor was Darwin an expert in evolutionary biology. If we were meant, simply and purely, to be experts and contented in a particular task, we wouldn’t be able to innovate. Marx would have remained a philosopher, Freud an anatomist, and Darwin a field naturalist. That’s why classical Utopias, and the modern dystopias which ironically incorporate their ideals, are static.

I am skeptical in some areas but fortunately not in others. War is a man's game, for many years they have been trying to transform this wonderful planet into a cemetery, that condition which has more than two thousand year old history behind it and which we no longer notice because it has triumphed. War rends, war tears, war rips open, eviscerates, war dismembers, war ruins, this is what war does. What do the meanings of “morality” as manifested in different languages really mean? I found that all of them lead back to the same fundamental idea out of which “good” necessarily establish a process which always runs in parallel with that other one that ultimately renders “mediocre,” “vulgar,” and “low” into the concept “bad.” Part of what I mean (or what I think I mean) is something intrinsically unnecessary and superfluous and thereby cruel. I was given a hint of the right direction by some questions: Love for what? Hope for what? Belief in what?