The task of art today is to bring chaos into order. Artistic productivity is the capacity for being voluntarily involuntary.

When I made my theoretical model, I could not have guessed that people would try to realise it with Molotov cocktails.

Modernity is a qualitative, not a chronological, category.

Talent is perhaps nothing other than successfully sublimated rage.

The very people who burst with proofs of exuberant vitality could easily be taken for prepared corpses, from whom the news of their not-quite-successful decease has been withheld for reasons of population policy. Underlying the prevalent health is death. All the movements of health resemble the reflex-movements of beings whose hearts have stopped beating.

It is barbaric to write poetry after Auschwitz.

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