Writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.

The capacity for fear and for happiness are the same, the unrestricted openness to experience amounting to self-abandonment in which the vanquished rediscovers himself.

The lie has long since lost its honest function of misrepresenting reality. Nobody believes anybody, everyone is in the know. Lies are told only to convey to someone that one has no need either of him or his good opinion.

There is no right life in the wrong one.

Writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.

Art is magic delivered from the lie of being truth.

Domination delegates the physical violence on which it rests to the dominated.