My rewritten books: La collaboration entre André Gide et Eugène Atget.

LA FAUX TO GRAPHIE.

My rewritten books: Cocteau vs. MacLuhan.

La Belle est la Bête.

My rewritten books: Paradises Never Gone.

According to Milton,
Hopelessness begets Fearless nature;
and having no Fear, one abandons Remorse:
hélas!, flourishingly are the doors of the horizon open
to all Evil. Hell is loose. Good is no more.
But Milton was blind and Milton's God nothing but a poor literary character.
Yet, this blindman did unroot the following truth:
morality is such a fiction, as religions' broad, unbound tales.

My rewritten books.Finnegans Wake.

"quirk begets quark"

My rewritten books. Sidereus Logico-Philosophicus Nuncius

Up in the black horizon, arisen are the twelve tribal beasts, tinted are the nightskies in its diadema of fangs and blood and expression, to wit: the fox and the war horse and the bull and the tamed lion and the whale and the ass and the snake and the hungry ram and the lamb and the stag and the onager and the wolf.
(Image: scribble by L. Wittgenstein)

My rewritten Books. The Unbearable Lightness of Being Earnest.

We tend trying to escape our own obligations towards ourselves, by wearing masks and bestowing blame upon all others, and making up excuses after excuses for not being ourselves. There is no escape, though, in the end. In the end, we will be visited by Azrael, and what is supposed to happen, will happen, despite our unfaithfulness towards Faite itself, as she bears her double real name. 
It is said that only if you live in the shadow of the angel of death you may pass over the valley of death and not be called upon your own death. To live in the shadow of the angel of death is not to be alive, not to be dead. As you escape death, you escape yourself, you escape life and all it entails. One must come to terms with oneself, and one’s own death, in order to truly live, while one’s living. Peeling yourself of all masks, a human onion as it were, would you reveal your true self? Or yet another persona, devoid of trickstery, to be sure, but yet a white paper mask that begs to be colored? Is there death to those who are truly themselves? Or only a truer, more complete death?

My Rewritten Books. Waiting for Godot in the Human Voice.

- Hello?
- Yes.
- Hello. Is Godot there?
- Godot?
- Yes, is he there?
- Godot.
- Yes. May I speak to him?
- Yes. You may speak to him.
- …
- …
- Aren’t you going to call him?
- Call him?
- Is it you? Are you Godot?
- Who’s asking?
- Oh. I just… Godot? Is it really you? Can I talk to you for a second?
- Yes...?
(The sound of rain pours through the holes of the phone’s earpiece)

My Rewritten Books. The Holymen

The partridge may disguise the secret; the stag may hide the secret; the dog may guard the secret. We fear no partridge, no stag, no dog: we’ve come to unveil the secret.
In the shadowlands, I am the edge-cutting sunbeam. In the dreamseas, I am a darkship’s prow. In the greendale, the ox’s plow. We’ve come to end the old mahamanvantara and put the asaka asunder.

My Rewritten Books. Ulysses reductio

My basilisk eyes upinwards Penelope’s unweaved tapestry. There’s no use for the vibroarthro-aberrascope on this one. A lesson in hamstringing the mandrakes as quickly and painfully as possible. paperbuttonpushing up against a slidingdoor.

My Rewritten Books. Lucifer

Yes, I strive for power. But nothing as base as national, political, influential or gold-cast powers. My actions are averted from these understates of being.
My thirst is for better drives, more life; not immortality, please understand, but a life that is more lived.
I would also like to walk on a perpetual morning, to be a satellite-lover of the sun, living in a never-ending trajectory of fullbright splendor.

My Rewritten Books. The Metamorphosis

In the morning, looking at himself at the mirror, and stretching the skin of his face to check if he should or not shave, Lumbrin noticed a dark spot in his cheek that was not there the night before.
As he washed his teeth, and he pulled the toothbrush under the running tap water, he noticed a very small winged insect stuck between the brush hairs. As far as he knew, it came from within his mouth. How distinctively awestruck and disgusted he was at the same time!

My Rewritten Books. Leviticus

Nothing could emcumber Death from riding down these skies and smite every single one of you.

My Rewritten Books. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

He wanted his whole body to obey simple automatisms, as it happens to smaller parts of the body: as when the mouth yawns, cold raises goosebumps in the skin, hairs on the back of the neck stand on end with fear, the stomach rumbles with hunger, the retina dilates or contracts to adjust to light… the greater body knots such as the head, the trunk, the members, are all too deeply immersed in reason.
He wanted to strip off of reason, to free his body of the intellect to become only body, pure body automatisms: his drive, as powerful and occult as the riptide, was to become Hyde