Detective Story

Of course, living is another way of killing oneself: its drawback is that it takes so horribly long.

Nonexistence. The society of the nonexistent. In the street yesterday a nonexistent person trod on my foot with his nonexistent foot.

I took a stroll in the city. It was infernally hot. The usual evening hubbub around me. Lovers on the pavements, hurrying to cinemas and other places of amusement as if nothing had happened, nothing. Living their nonexistent lives. Or do they exit, and it’s me who doesn’t.

"But there are times when being happy — just happy, nothing else — is simply vile."

"Why?" Jill inquired.

"Because," Enrique reasoned, "one cant be happy in a place where everybody is unhappy."

If a person resolves to fight, he ought to know what he is fighting for. Otherwise it makes no sense. A person usually fights against a power in order to gain power himself. Or else because the power in question is threatening his life.

Talking is not enough; words don’t clarify anything. I’ll have to hit upon something, but what?

Anyone who wants something else is Jewish.

I am sick of atrocities, though these are now the natural order of our world. And I would still like to act!

"You mustn’t forget about your future, Enrique."

"I’m living for the present, Dad."

"Ah!" he waved that aside. "The present is just temporary."

‘ I boiled up. "I know," I burst out. ‘It only has to be accepted temporarily — temporarily, but every day afresh. And every day ever more. Temporarily. Until we have lived to the end of our temporary lives, and one fine day we temporarily die.

I exist. Is this a life still? No, just vegetating. It seems that only one philosophy can succeed the philosophy of existentialism: nonexistentialism, the philosophy of nonexistent existence.

There’s just one revolution that I can take seriously, and that’s a police revolution.

There was truth in Diaz’s logic, yes: our line of work is like that. Once you have started, the only way back is to go forward.