Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.

Any translation which intends to perform a transmitting function cannot transmit anything but information-hence, something inessential. This is the hallmark of bad translations.

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.

Only for the sake of the hopeless ones have we been given hope.

All the decisive blows are struck left-handed.

As long as there is still one beggar around, there will still be myth.

All disgust is originally disgust at touching.