Paradox is the poisonous flower of quietism, the iridescent surface of the rotting mind, the greatest… — Thomas Mann

Asia surrounds us — wherever one's glance rests, a Tartar physiognomy.

Rough translation of this passage written in French: The body, love, death, these three are just one. For the body, this is the disease and exquisite delight, and this that does die, yes, they are carnal both of them, love and death, and thus their terror and their great magic!

Translation: What we call mourning for our dead is perhaps not so much grief at not being able to call them back as it is grief at not being able to want to do so.