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61 " et les anciens sages instruisaient leurs disciples sur le bord des précipices... "
― René Daumal , Mount Analogue
62 " At least,' I said, 'she has the virtue of sincerity.''Some virtue! They've all got it. They show off quite shamelessly for everybody—except themselves, of course—to see. In our trade, we say a succulent abscess or a magnificent case of eczema; similarly, they proudly exhibit their sick organs under all manner of garbs. A man who makes a plate or a shirt or a loaf of bread or anything our great great ancestors called a work of art, has no need to try to be sincere; all he can do is practice his craft to the best of his ability. But once he starts making useless things, how can he not be sincere? I'm using the word in the somewhat weird sense that you yourself seem to understand it.) "
― René Daumal , A Night of Serious Drinking
63 " The Primecrat, when asked in his turn to demonstrate his ouroborism, cupped his hands and shouted through the trap door to his followers: 'Take up military sports! For the sportsman of today is the soldier of tomorrow. The soldier of tomorrow will repel the invader and at the same time open up new markets for the industries of his country. The industries will prosper, the country will become rich, and thus it will be able to support associations which encourage military preparations and from these will emerge the soldiers of the day after tomorrow, who will repel the invader and at the same time open up new markets...' The mechanical repeater was brought in. In somber mood, I recalled my whole life up to this day, and my head spun with the buzzing of a hundred and one ouroboristic worms. I remembered the drinking parties that made us thirsty and the thirst that made us drink; I thought back to Sidonius recounting his endless dream; to the people who worked to be able to eat and who ate to have the strength to work; to the black thoughts I drowned with such sadness in the cask and which were reborn in different hues. Between the vicious circles of the drinking party and those of the delusory paradises, I would never again be able to choose, I could no longer be part of their revolutions, I was from that moment no more than a wasteland. "
64 " I am dead because I lack desire; I lack desire because I think I possess;I think I possess because I do not try to give.In trying to give, you see that you have nothing; Seeing you have nothing, you try to give of yourself;Trying to give of yourself, you see that you are nothing;Seeing you are nothing, you desire to become;In desiring to become, you begin to live. "
65 " Я мертв, потому что у меня нет устремления; У меня нет устремления, потому что я думаю, что обладаю; Я думаю, что обладаю, потому что не пытаюсь дать. Пытаясь дать, понимаешь, что у тебя ничего нет; Поняв, что у тебя ничего нет, пытаешься отдать себя; Пытаясь отдать себя, понимаешь, что ты ничто; Поняв, что ты ничто, ты стремишься стать; Стремясь стать, ты начинаешь жить. "
66 " In somber mood, I re-called my whole life up to this day, and my head spun with the buzzing of a hundred and one ouroboristic worms. I remembered the drinking parties that made us thirsty and the thirst that made us drink; I thought back to Sidonius recounting his endless dream; to the people who worked to be able to eat and who ate to have the strength to work; to the black thoughts I drowned with such sadness in the cask and which were reborn in different hues. Between the vicious circles of the drinking party and those of the delusory paradises, I would never again be able to choose, I could no longer be part of their revolutions, I was from that moment no more than a wasteland. "
― René Daumal
67 " For a mountain to play the role of Mount Analogue, I concluded, its summit must be inaccessible but its base accessible to human beings as nature has made them... The door to the invisible must be visible. "
68 " A hope, which he thought long dead, glowed again in his heart. "
69 " et quant aux silences, comment raconter des silences au moyen de mots ? Seule la poésie pourrait le faire. "
70 " The angst of paramnesia—the sense of “deja vu”—is not purely and simply erased in poetic feeling; it is overcome by a contact made by consciousness with the universal, it becomes the feeling of a reminiscence of something that has existed for all eternity, that the poet has not created, but unveiled, and that we recognize immediately. "
