In the end indignation over kitsch is anger at tis shameless revelling in the joy of imitation.

But he who dies in despair has lived his whole life in vain.

The body's habituation to walking as normal stems from the good olddays. It was the bourgeois form of locomotion: physicaldemythologization, free of the spell of hieratic pacing, rooflesswandering, breathless flight. Human dignity insisted on the right towalk, a rhythm not extorted from the body by command or terror. Thewalk, the stroll, were private ways of passing time, the heritage ofthe feudal promenade in the nineteenth century.

The man for whom time stretches out painfully is one waiting in vain, disappointed at not finding tomorrow already continuing yesterday.

Life has changed into a timeless succession of shocks, interspaced with empty, paralysed intervals.

There is no right life in the wrong one.

The poor are prevented from thinking by the discipline of others, the rich by their own.