We enter here . . . into an unknown realm, into a foreign realm, the realm of joy. A hundred times less known, a hundred times more foreign, a hundred times less ourselves, than the kingdoms of sorrow. A hundred times more profound, I believe, and a hundred times more fecund. Happy the man who may one day have some idea of it. . . .

A ritual joy all its own incommunicable to the others.

A joy of uselessness, of gratuitousness, of superfluousness.

The only joy.

And all the others are only negotiations.