The sublime is only a step removed from the ridiculous.
Tact is the discrimination of differences. It consists in conscious deviations.
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.
The task of art today is to bring chaos into order.
There is no love that is not an echo.
The capacity for fear and for happiness are the same, the unrestricted openness to experience amounting to self-abandonment in which the vanquished rediscovers himself.