Advice to intellectuals: let no-one represent you.
Writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.
There is no love that is not an echo.
Horror is beyond the reach of psychology.
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.
Auschwitz begins wherever someone looks at a slaughterhouse and thinks: they’re only animals.