Love That’s it: The cashless commerce. The blanket always too short. The loose connexion. To search behind the horizon. To brush fallen leaves with four shoes and in one’s mind to rub bare feet. To let and rent hearts; or in a room with shower and mirror, in a hired car, bonnet facing the moon, wherever innocence stops and burns its programme, the word in falsetto sounds different and new each time. Today, in front of a box office not yet open, hand in hand crackled the hangdog old man and the dainty old woman. The film promised love.

What makes books - and with them writers - so dangerous that church and state, politburos and the mass media feel the need to oppose them?

Can it be that action is active resignation? Something is trying to develop; it moves ever so slightly, and there comes your man of action and bashes in the hothouse windows.

I shall speak of how melancholy and utopia preclude one another. How they fertilize one another... of the revulsion that follows one insight and precedes the next... of superabundance and surfeit. Of stasis in progress. And of myself, for whom melancholy and utopia are heads and tails of the same coin.

I belonged to the generation that grew up under National Socialism, and was blinded and led astray - and allowed itself to be led astray.

If Jesus had been a hunchback, they could hardly have nailed him to the cross.

An empty bus hurtles through the starry night Perhaps the driver is singing and happy because he sings.