In other words, the unique value of the "authentic" work of art has its basis in ritual, the location of its original use value. This ritualistic basis, however remote, is still recognizable as secularized ritual even in the most profane forms of the cult of beauty.

Ideas are to objects as constellations are to stars [translated from Trauerspiel, 1928].

All human knowledge takes the form of interpretation.

The only way of knowing a person is to love them without hope.

Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. A rustling in the leaves drives him away.

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.

To the lover the loved one always appears as solitary.