"You did not believe in the reality of the world. You believed in a thousand little things, but not in the world. These thousand little things were symptoms of the great void. You were superstitious. The kind and cruel refuge of children rebellious and faithful to their rebellion to the day of their death: you worshipped a stamp, a glove, a revolver. A tree conveyed nothing to you, but a match was loaded with power (…) In your suicide’s cell, when I went in, your table had not moved. It was laden with amulets and gods. Gods of wretchedness, like those of tribes who do not have enough to eat, who are tired and afraid. One can only write about death, about the past. I can only understand you the day you are finished."