Our Image Of Happiness Is Indissolubly Bound

All Efforts To Render Politics Aesthetic Culminate In One Thing: War.

Language Has Unmistakably Made Plain That Memory Is Not An Instrument For Exploring The Past But Its Theater. It Is The Medium Of Past Experience, Just As The Earth Is The Medium In Which Dead Cities Lie Buried.

Work On Good Prose Has Three Steps: A Musical Stage When It Is Composed, An Architectonic One When It Is Built, And A Textile One When It Is Woven.

Melancholy Betrays The World For The Sake Of Knowledge. But In Its Tenacious Self-absorption It Embraces Dead Objects In Its Contemplation, In Order To Redeem Them

The More Circumspectly You Delay Writing Down An Idea, The More Maturely Developed It Will Be On Surrendering Itself.