Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. A rustling in the leaves drives him away.

The good tidings which the historian of the past brings with throbbing heart may be lost in a void the very moment he opens his mouth.

The true picture of the past flits by. The past can be seized only as an image which flashes up at the instant when it can be recognized and is never seen again.

Uncleanness is so much the attribute of officials that one could almost regard them as enormous parasites...In the same way the fathers in Kafka's strange families batten on their sons, lying on top of them like giant parasites. They not only prey upon their strength, but gnaw away at the sons' right to exist. The fathers punish, but they are at the same time the accusers. The sin of which they accuse their sons seems to be a kind of original sin.

All human knowledge takes the form of interpretation.

No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the listener.

To perceive the aura of an object we look at means to invest it with the ability to look at us in return.