The joke of our time is the suicide of intention.

Art is magic delivered from the lie of being truth.

The body's habituation to walking as normal stems from the good olddays. It was the bourgeois form of locomotion: physicaldemythologization, free of the spell of hieratic pacing, rooflesswandering, breathless flight. Human dignity insisted on the right towalk, a rhythm not extorted from the body by command or terror. Thewalk, the stroll, were private ways of passing time, the heritage ofthe feudal promenade in the nineteenth century.

In his state of complete powerlessness the individual perceives the time he has left to live as a brief reprieve.

There is no true life within a false life.

Rampant technolgy eliminates luxury, but not by declaring privilege a human right; rather, it does so by both raising the general standard of living and cutting off the possibility of fulfilment.

The dialectic cannot stop short before the conceptsof health and sickness, nor indeed before their siblings reason and unreason.