The fundamental problem of political philosophy is still precisely the one that Spinoza saw so clearly (and that Wilhelm Reich rediscovered): Why do men fight for their servitude as stubbornly as though it were their salvation?

Things never pass where you think, nor along the paths you think

A concept is a brick. It can be used to build a courthouse of reason. Or it can be thrown through the window.

In order for music to free itself, it will have to pass over to the other side - there where territories tremble, where the structures collapse, where the ethoses get mixed up, where a powerful song of the earth is unleashed, the great ritornelles that transmutes all the airs it carries away and makes return.

The self is only a threshold, a door, a becoming between two multiplicities

The shadow escapes from the body like an animal we had been sheltering.

The shame of being a man - is there any better reason to write?