The joke of our time is the suicide of intention.

The need to let suffering speak is a condition of all truth. For suffering is objectivity that weighs upon the subject

So the experience of death is turned into that of the exchange of functionaries, and anything in the natural relationship to death that is not wholly absorbed into the social one is turned over to hygiene. In being seen as no more than the exit of a living creature from the social combine, death has been domesticated: dying merely confirms the absolute irrelevance of the natural organism in face of the social absolute.

Estrangement shows itself precisely in the elimination of distance between people.

None of the abstract concepts comes closer to fulfilled utopia than that of eternal peace.

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.

Death is imposed only on creatures, not their creations, and has therefore always appeared in art in a broken form: as allegory.