«Whether I like it or not, everything that isn't my soul is no more for me than scenery and decoration.
Through rational thought I can recognize that a person is a living being just like me, but for my true, involuntary self one has always had less importance than a tree, if the tree is more beautiful.
That's why I've always seen human events - the great collective tragedies of history or of what we make of history - as colourful friezes, with no soul in the figures that appear there.
I've never thought twice about anything tragic that has happened in China or anywhere else.
It's just scenery in the distance, even if painted with misery, blood or disease.
(...)
about those who passed by my outsider's indifference shouting various things, I instantly felt disgusted. (...) What a pathetic group! (...) They were real and therefore unbelievable. No one could ever use them for the scene of a novel or a descriptive backdrop. They went by like rubbish in a river, in the river of life, and to see them go by made me borred and profoundly sleepy. »
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