The joke of our time is the suicide of intention.

Writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.

The new human type cannot be properly understood without awareness of what he is continuously exposed to from the world of things about him, even in his most secret innervations.

Love is the ability to discover similarities in the dis-similar. The audience has a right not to be fooled - even if it insists on being fooled.

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

It is barbaric to write poetry after Auschwitz.

When all actions are mathematically calculated, they also take on a stupid quality.