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

Love is the power to see similarity in the dissimilar.

For a man who no longer has a homeland, writing becomes a place to live.

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

Today self-consciousness no longer means anything but reflection on the ego as embarrassment, as realization of impotence: knowing that one is nothing.

If time is money, it seems moral to save time, above all one's own, and such parsimony is excused by consideration for others. One is straight-forward.

Lies are told only to convey to someone that one has no need either of him or his good opinion.