For me, it is as though at every moment the actual world had completely lost its actuality. As though there was nothing there; asthough there were no foundations for anything or as though it escaped us. Only one thing, however, is vividly present: the constant tearing of the veil of appearances; the constant destruction of everything in construction. Nothing holds together, everything falls apart.

Shakespeare was the great one before us. His place was between God and despair.

Everything that has been will be, everything that will be is, everything that will be has been.

All cats die. Socrates is dead. Therefore Socrates is a cat.

The more I try to explain myself, the less I understand myself.

A work of art is above all an adventure of the mind.

It's when I am fully conscious that I ask questions.