Outside, there is danger. Inside, there is boredom. The claustrophobia of security inters us. These neatly aligned houses--on pristine boulevards that woven together have become the great city--are tombstones. Monoliths. They sleep surrounded by fresh-clipped grass. They wait in long, regular lines, soldiers, citadels. Their white faces are tasting the morning sun. Under the influence of the idea that safety is a kind of heaven, the people here are drugged by doubts and fears and the protection of the wall.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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