Capitalism is a purely cultic religion, perhaps the most extreme that ever existed.

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.

In the fields with which we are concerned, knowledge comes only in flashes. The text is the thunder rolling long afterward.

Art teaches us to see into things. Folk art and kitsch allow us to see outward from within things.

Nothing is poorer than a truth expressed as it was thought. Committed to writing in such cases, it is not even a bad photograph. Truth wants to be startled abruptly, at one stroke, from her self-immersion, whether by uproar, music or cries for help.

Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven tissue of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up.

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