The mysterious does not spell itself out in capital letters, as many writers believe, but is always between, an interstice.
Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are.
Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.
We no longer believe because it is absurd: it is absurd because we must believe.
The modern story begun, one might say, with Edgar Allan Poe, which proceeds inexorably, like a machine destined to accomplish its mission with the maximum economy of means.
And do you accept the idea that there is no explanation?