To perceive the aura of an object we look at means to invest it with the ability to look at us in return.

The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out.

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

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.

The idea that happiness could have a share in beauty would be too much of a good thing.

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 order is a balancing act of extreme precariousness.