One must conform to the baseness of an age or become neurotic.

The thought came to me that all one loves in art becomes beautiful. Beauty is nothing but the expression of the fact that something is being loved. Only thus could she be defined.

Have we not huddled in bunkers, while some premonition of tomorrow hung in the air and a comrade started singing? Oh, it felt so melancholy! And it was kitsch.

One does what one is; one becomes what one does.

The thoughts of my emotionally so disturbed days must be found again, shifted and developed further. Here and there something of the loose remarks I make must be used, but only when it finds my attention again.

[...] a number of flawed individuals can often add up to a brilliant social unit.

... all professional ideologies are high-minded. Hunters, for instance, would not dream of calling themselves the butchers of the woods.