Even the loveliest dream bears like a blemish its difference from reality, the awareness that what it grants is mere illusion.

There is no right life in the wrong one.

Intelligence is a moral category.

And how comfortless is the thought that the sickness of the normal does not necessarily imply as its opposite the health of the sick, but that the latter usually only present, in a different way, the same disastrous pattern.

In many people it is already an impertinence to say 'I'.

He who stands aloof runs the risk of believing himself better than others and misusing his critique of society as an ideology for his private interest. While he gropingly forms his own life in the frail image of a true existence, he should never forget its frailty, nor how little the image is a substitute for true life. Against such awareness, however, pulls the momentum of the bourgeois within him.

Only a humanity to whom death has become as indifferent as its members, that has itself died, can inflict it administratively on innumerable people.