As Hegel put it, only when it is dark does the owl of Minerva begin its flight. Only in extinction is the collector comprehend.

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

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. Street names must speak to the urban wanderer like the snapping of dry twigs, and little streets in the heart of the city must reflect the times of day, for him, as clearly as a mountain valley. This art I acquired rather late in life; it fulfilled a dream, of which the first traces were labyrinths on the blotting papers in my school notebooks.

All efforts to render politics aesthetic culminate in one thing: war.

To a book collector, you see, the true freedom of all books is somewhere on his shelves.

I am unpacking my library. Yes I am. The books are not yet on the shelves, not yet touched by the mild boredom of order.

He who observes etiquette but objects to lying is like someone who dresses fashionably but wears no vest.