Writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.
The sublime is only a step removed from the ridiculous.
Exuberant health is always, as such, sickness also.
In the end indignation over kitsch is anger at tis shameless revelling in the joy of imitation.
A pencil and rubber are of more use to thought than a battalion of assistants. To happiness the same applies as to truth: one does not have it, but is in it.
No harm comes to man from outside alone: dumbness is the objective spirit.