There is something embarrassing in... the way in which, ... turning suffering into images, harsh and uncompromising though they are, ... wounds the shame we feel in the presence of the victims. For these victims are used to create something, works of art, that are thrown to the consumption of a world which destroyed them.

To hate destructiveness, one must hate life as well: only death is an image of undistorted life ... organic life is an illness peculiar to our unlovely planet.

Auschwitz begins wherever someone looks at a slaughterhouse and thinks: they’re only animals.

In the innermost recesses of humanism, as its very soul, there rages a frantic prisoner who, as a Fascist, turns the world into a prison.

There is no right life in the wrong one.

Death is imposed only on creatures, not their creations, and has therefore always appeared in art in a broken form: as allegory.

Estrangement shows itself precisely in the elimination of distance between people.