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

In his state of complete powerlessness the individual perceives the time he has left to live as a brief reprieve.

Thinking no longer means anymore than checking at each moment whether one can indeed think.

Only thought which does violence to itself is hard enough to shatter myth.

Art is permitted to survive only if it renounces the right to be different, and integrates itself into the omnipotent realm of the profane.

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.

People at the top are closing ranks so tightly that all possibility of subjective deviation has gone, and difference can be sought only in the more distinguished cut of an evening dress.