The Thought That Murders The Wish That

The Recent Past Always Presents Itself As If Destroyed By Catastrophes.

Every Work Of Art Is An Uncommitted Crime.

The Very People Who Burst With Proofs Of Exuberant Vitality Could Easily Be Taken For Prepared Corpses, From Whom The News Of Their Not-quite-successful Decease Has Been Withheld For Reasons Of Population Policy. Underlying The Prevalent Health Is Death. All The Movements Of Health Resemble The Reflex-movements Of Beings Whose Hearts Have Stopped Beating.

Life Has Changed Into A Timeless Succession Of Shocks, Interspaced With Empty, Paralysed Intervals.

One Must Have Tradition In Oneself, To Hate It Properly.