Any order is a balancing act of extreme precariousness.

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.

Books, too, begin like the week – with a day of rest in memory of their creation. The preface is their Sunday.

In the world's structure dream loosens individuality like a bad tooth.

To be happy is to be able to become aware of oneself without fright.

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

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.