Because thought has by now been perverted into the solving of assigned problems, even what is not assigned is processed like a problem.

To hate destructiveness, one must hate life as well: only death is an image of undistorted life ... organic life is an illness peculiar to our unlovely planet.

As a constellation, theoretical thought circles the concept it would like to unseal, hoping that it may fly open like the lock of a well-guarded safe-deposit box: in response, not to a single key or a single number, but to a combination of numbers

Even the loveliest dream bears like a blemish its difference from reality, the awareness that what it grants is mere illusion.

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

He who has laughter on his side has no need of proof.

Talent is perhaps nothing other than successfully sublimated rage.