Only a humanity to whom death has become as indifferent as its members, that has itself died, can inflict it administratively on innumerable people.

In the age of the individual's liquidation, the question of individuality must be raised anew.

Kitsch evokes a future utopia looking back at a past that is selectively (mis)remembered, thereby helping to stabilize the present toward which kitsch is otherwise deeply anatagonistic.

There is no right life in the wrong one.

Once the last trace of emotion has been eradicated, nothing remains of thought but absolute tautology.

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.

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