We have long forgotten the ritual by which the house of our life was erected. But when it is under assault and enemy bombs are already taking their toll, what enervated, perverse antiquities do they not lay bare in the foundations.

All the decisive blows are struck left-handed.

The destructive character lives from the feeling, not that life is worth living, but that suicide is not worth the trouble.

No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the listener.

Death is the sanction of everything that the storyteller can tell. He has borrowed his authority from death.

Opinions are a private matter. The public has an interest only in judgments.

Gifts must affect the receiver to the point of shock.