It is in a small village in the Pyrenees where no one knows me 7that my life will come to a close.... There is not enough time remaining for me to write all the letters I would like to write.

Experience has taught me that the shallowest of communist platitudes contains more of a hierarchy of meaning than contemporary bourgeois profundity.

The more circumspectly you delay writing down an idea, the more maturely developed it will be on surrendering itself.

The work of memory collapses time.

The crowd is the veil through which the familiar city beckons to the flâneur as phantasmagoria-now a landscape, now a room.

Ideas are to objects as constellations are to stars [translated from Trauerspiel, 1928].

Books and harlots have their quarrels in public.