Art is magic delivered from the lie of being truth.

Rampant technolgy eliminates luxury, but not by declaring privilege a human right; rather, it does so by both raising the general standard of living and cutting off the possibility of fulfilment.

Indeed, happiness is nothing other than being encompassed, an after-image of the original shelter within the mother. But for this reason no one who is happy can know that he is so. To see happiness, he would have to pass out of it: to be as if already born. He who says he is happy lies, and in invoking happiness, sins against it. He alone keeps faith who says: I was happy.

The specific is not exclusive: it lacks the aspiration to totality.

Art is the social antithesis of society, not directly deducible from it.

Wrong life cannot be lived rightly.

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