It is the task of the translator to release in his own language that pure language that is under the spell of another, to liberate the language imprisoned in a work in his re-creation of that work.

Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector's passion borders on the chaos of memories.

We collect books in the belief that we are preserving them when in fact it is the books that preserve their collector.

Books, too, begin like the week – with a day of rest in memory of their creation. The preface is their Sunday.

Not to find one’s way around a city does not mean much. But to lose one’s way in a city, as one loses one’s way in a forest, requires some schooling.

To the lover the loved one always appears as solitary.

Kitsch offers instantaneous emotional gratification without intellectual effort, without the requirement of distance, wihtout sublimation.