Each book is always only a book; that all words are always only words; they are never what they—with more or less success—try to describe.
There is a prison. In the cell there is a prisoner, on the watchtower there is a security guard. These two are one person. The prisoner is also his own guard, the guard is at the same time his own prisoner. But these two, prisoner and guard, they do not see that each of them is both one and the other. Even when sometimes it happens to the prisoner that he manages to escape from the cell and the prison building, he escapes with his invisible guard on his back and consequently what seemed to be freedom turns out to be just another form of prison. In the same way, the guard returning after service to his hometown, takes the invisible prisoner under the cap and wakes up at night, sweaty and scared, because he was dreaming what guards might dream up, namely, that the prisoner fled from prison. You’re the prisoner and the guard, the cell and the watchtower, the whole edifice of the prison, and all the so-called freedom.
The greatest mystery is that the there is no mistery. In fact, everything is open, everything is clear, everything is clean, everything is absolutely beautifully transparent. The night is just to die. The day is just to live. One day is a lifetime.
Before all journeys: to the Bieszczady Mountains, the Yucatan, Patagonia, around the world, to the North Pole, the South, the Moon, Mars, Venus, wherever, before all these trips – there is one true and absolute journey: into yourself.
Edward Stachura – Fabula Rasa (about egoism)