Modernity is a qualitative, not a chronological, category.

The hardest hit, as everywhere, are those who have no choice.

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.

A German is someone who cannot tell a lie without believing it himself.

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

Thus is order ensured: some have to play the game because they cannot otherwise live, and those who could live otherwise are kept out because they do not want to play the game. It is as if the class from which independent intellectuals have defected takes its revenge, by pressing its demands home in the very domain where the deserter seeks refuge.

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