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.

It is only for those without hope that hope is given.

Opinions are to the vast apparatus of social existence what oil is to machines: one does not go up to a turbine and pour machine oil over it; one applies a little to hidden spindles and joints that one has to know.

Only he who can view his own past as an abortion sprung from compulsion and need can use it to full advantage in the present.

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

For what is the program of the bourgeois parties? A bad poem on springtime, filled to bursting with metaphors.

To the lover the loved one always appears as solitary.