In the realm of totalitarian kitsch, all answers are given in advance and preclude any questions.

Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time is not far off), we are in for an age of universal deafness and lack of understanding.

Isn't beer the holy libation of sincerity? The potion that dispels all hypocrisy, any charade of fine manners? The drink that does nothing worse than incite its fans to urinate in all innocence, to gain weight in all frankness?

If our planet has seen some eighty billion people it is difficult to suppose hat every individual has had his or her own repertory of gestures. Arithmetically, it is simply impossible. Without the slightest doubt, there are far fewer gestures in the world than there are individuals. That finding leads us to a shocking conclusion: a gesture is more individual than an individual. We could put it in the form of an aphorism: many people, few gestures.

Nothing is more repugnant to me than brotherly feelings grounded in the common baseness people see in one another.

Let us consider the critic, therefore, as a discoverer of discoveries.

In the love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man's body.