Literature Tells Very Little To Those Who

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.

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

Ideas Are To Objects As Constellations Are To Stars [translated From Trauerspiel, 1928].

The Nourishing Fruit Of The Historically Understood Contains Time As A Precious But Tasteless Seed.

The Crowd Is The Veil Through Which The Familiar City Beckons To The Flâneur As Phantasmagoria-now A Landscape, Now A Room.