In The Convulsions Of The Commodity Economy,

Each Morning The Day Lies Like A Fresh Shirt On Our Bed; This Incomparably Fine, Incomparably Tightly Woven Tissue Of Pure Prediction Fits Us Perfectly. The Happiness Of The Next Twenty-four Hours Depends On Our Ability, On Waking, To Pick It Up.

For Me, It Was Like This: Pronounced Antipathy To Conversing About Matters Of Practical Life, The Future, Dates, Politics. You Are Fixated On The Intellectual Sphere As A Man Possessed May Be Fixated On The Sexual: Under Its Spell, Sucked Into It.

It Is Only For Those Without Hope That Hope Is Given.

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.

For Every Second Of Time Was The Strait Gate Through Which The Messiah Might Enter.