Man is that night, that empty Nothingness, which contains everything in its undivided simplicity: the wealth of an infinite number of representations, of images, not one of which comes precisely to mind, or which [moreover], are not [there] insofar as they are really present. It is the night, the interiority—or—the intimacy of Nature which exists here: [the] pure personal-Ego. In phantasmagorical representations it is the night on all sides: here suddenly surges up a blood-spattered head; there, another, white, apparition, and they disappear just as abruptly. That is the night that one perceives if one looks a man in the eyes: then one is delving into that night which becomes terrible; it is the night of the world which then presents itself to us.