Oh Words, What Crimes Are Committed In

God Is Dead. Marx Is Dead. And I Don't Feel So Well Myself.

Dreams Are Reality At Its Most Profound, And What You Invent Is Truth Because Invention, By Its Nature, Can't Be A Lie.

The Light Of Memory, Or Rather The Light That Memory Lends To Things, Is The Palest Light Of All. I Am Not Quite Sure Whether I Am Dreaming Or Remembering, Whether I Have Lived My Life Or Dreamed It. Just As Dreams Do, Memory Makes Me Profoundly Aware Of The Unreality, The Evanescence Of The World, A Fleeting Image In The Moving Water.

Logic Is A Very Beautiful Thing. As Long As It Is Not Abused.

I Believe That In The History Of Art And Of Thought There Has Always Been At Every Living Moment Of Culture A Will To Renewal. This Is Not The Prerogative Of The Last Decade Only. All History Is Nothing But A Succession Of Crises - Of Rupture, Repudiation And Resistance. When There Is No Crisis, There Is Stagnation, Petrifaction And Death. All Thought, All Art Is Aggressive.