Our image of happiness is indissolubly bound up with the image of the past.
The only way of knowing a person is to love them without hope.
In the convulsions of the commodity economy, we begin to recognize the monuments of the bourgeoisie as ruins even before they have crumbled.
The destructive character lives from the feeling, not that life is worth living, but that suicide is not worth the trouble.
It is only for those without hope that hope is given.
Marx says that revolutions are the locomotives of world history. But the situation may be quite different. Perhaps revolutions are not the train ride, but the human race grabbing for the emergency brake.