All satire is blind to the forces liberated by decay. Which is why total decay has absorbed the forces of satire.

Thus is order ensured: some have to play the game because they cannot otherwise live, and those who could live otherwise are kept out because they do not want to play the game. It is as if the class from which independent intellectuals have defected takes its revenge, by pressing its demands home in the very domain where the deserter seeks refuge.

In the end indignation over kitsch is anger at tis shameless revelling in the joy of imitation.

In the abstract conception of universal wrong, all concrete responsibility vanishes.

Because thought has by now been perverted into the solving of assigned problems, even what is not assigned is processed like a problem.

The new human type cannot be properly understood without awareness of what he is continuously exposed to from the world of things about him, even in his most secret innervations.

Life has changed into a timeless succession of shocks, interspaced with empty, paralysed intervals.