ferdinand celine journey to the end of the night

The mechanical effort of conversation is nastier and more complicated than defecation.

“When you stop to examine the way in which our words are formed and uttered, our sentences are hard-put to it to survive the disaster of their slobbery origins. The grimace a man would need to express his true soul without losing any of it is so heavy and complicated that he doesn't always succeed in completing it.” That's all a man is good for, that and no more, a grimace that he takes a whole lifetime to compose. In the end your features are marked with that hideous grimace that takes twenty, thrity years or more to climb form your belly to your face. Since at the little game you get uglier and more repulsive as you grow older, you can't hope to hide your unhappiness, your bankruptcy, any longer. 'You're very pretty, Mademoiselle.'Īnd in between they boast that they've succeeded in getting rid of their unhappiness, but everyone knows it's not true and they've simply kept it all to themselves. And life takes hold of them again until the next time, and then they try the same little gimmick. They try to unload their unhappiness on someone else when making love, they do their damnedest, but it doesn't work, they keep it all, and then they start all over again, trying to find a place for it. Each man for himself, the earth for us all. “Why kid ourselves, people have nothing to say to one another, they all talk about their own troubles and nothing else.

Ferdinand celine journey to the end of the night