He who has loved and who betrays love does harm not only to the image of the past, but to the past itself.
Every work of art is an uncommitted crime.
There is no love that is not an echo.
Talent is perhaps nothing other than successfully sublimated rage.
In the end, glorification of splendid underdogs is nothing other than glorification of the splendid system that makes them so.
It would be advisable to think of progress in the crudest, most basic terms: that no one should go hungry anymore, that there should be no more torture, no more Auschwitz. Only then will the idea of progress be free from lies.