On a sacrifice in which everything is Victim:

"Pure and ultimate jesting of fever.In the cloudy silence of the heart and the melancholy of a grey day,in that expansive desert of oblivion which only presents to my fatigue a sick bed,soon a death bed,that hand which I,in a sign of distress,had let drop at my side,hanging with the sheets-a ray of light which slips towards me asks me gently to take it up again,to lift it before my eyes.And as if there awakened in me,dizzy,mad,emerging from a long fog in which they believed themselves dead,lives together like a crowd and as though jostling each other at the miraculous moment of a festival-my hand holds a flower and carries it to my lips."