Oblivion is like a pair of scissors, with which one cuts away what is not useful, yet under the utmost attention of memory. Thus oblivion and memory are identical, and one's identity, ever so artificially procurred, is that kind of Point of Archimedes whereby one lifts up the whole World. The very love which one remembers is the only really felicious love, a writer once said. And he is perfectly right, yet we must remember, that even long before the same love has made a person unfelicious. To be bourgeois is to be without spirit, yet being without spirit is also a kind of despair.
Life is a stream and so on, people say.
Thus all the plans that I cast out, return directly onto myself, so when I spit, I actually hit my own face.