Resumo de There Is No More True Left In Europe (il N'y A Plus De Vraie Gauche En Europe)

Duration and the infinite one. At the dumb hour of the
night, whereas all sommeille, that our vision is conscious,
We think of the swift escape of the time which takes along
our short life. Our spirit does not rely on any hour! It
ignores when the life breaks, it leads us by the short way
of the duration towards long continuity. One day has its
limit by the race of the sun; however which will not
measure this long day which is followed of no decline? It
is not year which lasts when the twelve months are
disappeared. When comes the year which will be the last of
all. We know the width of the ground, the hollow of the
oceans; however which will be able to tell what has
neither beginning nor end? We find gold, the money and the
crystal in the obscure centre of the mounts or the rivers.
Our spirit, does not rely on the lunatic who would engage
it for a long existence. The way of this life is short, it
leads to abyssal infinite. It is necessary to be like us
to generate the intention inouï forming only one State for
all the people of planet. The force of our invention does
not go until - there. Let us invent that we are the wise
astonishing ones, that we can, by means of a small
fantastic rod, to carry out all our concepts; that we have
at our disposal an enough full uninhabited island to
contain and nourish several million men with women and
children. We prejudge, moreover, that this island...
voyons what we must forecast..... If for example our
future inhabitants are still to appear, or if we take them
already born, gold still in childhood or already adults or
savages or if they will be also civilized, also skilful, as
cultivated and as enlightened as we were it yesterday.
This deserves reflexion. Does O instability of the things,
futility continual in the circle of the ages, have T-it
there nothing which appears fixed and true? T-it does not
have there which falls and maintenance, bay-trees and
prisons? Between would altitudes and the hollows be there
one to lay down sun? Interminably momentary chance, do you
respect the phantoms, is not there nothing in this world
which can escape your traps? Precarious, is the life other
thing that a disconcerted dream? What work and sweat
provided disappears like foam from the waves. That towards
which oil runs in abundance, that to which it Euphrate and
the Tiger offers their treasures, often, before the end of
the day, begs a piece of bread. Beautiful, these flights
which involve the hearts, this great splendour of the face
disappear with the breath from a disastrous hyperthermia.
Build de luxe hotels? Build? Copy your image by the
hardest alabaster. Alas! Nothing can face time; it is
nothing, nothing which dice today cannot be destroyed; and
us amblyopes that we are we let us wait to remain
perpetually balance. Whereas we are only the toy of the
error, its control! Play of futilities, a resolution
without realization; its spirit... An emanation of air
which reflects, works, hopes.

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