Quite like this:
Tropic of Cancer
“In that moment I lost completely the illusion of time and space: the world unfurled its drama stimutaneously along a meridean which had no axis. In this sort of hair-trigger eternity I felt that everything was justified; I felt the wars inside me that had left behind this pulp and wrack; I felt the crimes that were seething here to emerge tomorrow in blatant screamers; I felt the misery that was grinding itself out with pestle and mortar, the long dull misery that dribbles away in dirty hankercheifs. On the meridian of time there is no injustice: there is only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and drama. If at any moment anywhere one comes face to face with the absolute, that great sympathy which makes men like Guatama and Jesus seem divine freezes away;
the monstrous thing is not that the men have created roses out of this dung heap, but that, for some reason or another, they should want roses. For some reason or other man looks for the miracle, and to accomplish it he will wade through blood. HE will dubauch himself with ideas, he will reduce himself to a shadow if for only one secont of his life he can close his eyes to the hideousness of reality. Everything is endured-disgrace, humiliation, poverty, war, crime, ennui- in the belief that overnight something will occur, a miracle, which will render life tolerable. And all the while a meter is running inside and there is no hand that can reach it and shut it off. all the while someone is eating the bread of life and drinking the wine, some dirty fat cockroach of a priest who hides away in the cellar guzzling it, while up above in the light of the street a phantom host touches the lips and the blood is as pale as water. And out of the endless torment and misery no miracle comes forth, no microscopic vestige even of relief. Only ideas, pale, attenutated ideas which have to be fattened by slaughter; ideas which come forth like bile, like the guts of a pig when the carcass is ripped open.
And so I think what a miricale it would be if this miracle which man attends eternally should turn out to be nothing more than two enormous turds which the faithful disciple dropped in the bidet. What if at the last moment, when the banquet table is sety and the cymbals clash, there should appear suddenly, and wholly without warning, a silver platter on which even the blind could see that there is mothing more, nothing less, than two enormous lumps of shit. That, I believe, would be more miraculous that anything which man has looked forward to. IT would be miraculous because it would be undreamed of. IT would be more miraculous than even the wildest dream because anybody could imagine the possibility but nobody ever has, and probably nobody ever again will”