Only For The Sake Of The Hopeless

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

Less And Less Frequently Do We Encounter People With The Ability To Tell A Tale Properly. More And More Often There Is Embarrassment All Around When The Wish To Hear A Story Is Expressed. It Is As If Something That Seemed Inalienable To Us, The Securest Among Our Possessions, Were Taken From Us: The Ability To Exchange Our Experiences...experience Has Fallen In Value. And It Looks As If It Is Continuing To Fall Into Bottomlessness.

Our Image Of Happiness Is Indissolubly Bound Up With The Image Of The Past.

Man Is The Namer; By This We Recognize That Through Him Pure Language Speaks. All Nature, Insofar As It Communicates Itself, Communicates Itself In Language, And So Finally In Man. Hence, He Is The Lord Of Nature And Can Give Names To Things. Only Through The Linguistic Being Of Things Can He Get Beyond Himself And Attain Knowledge Of Them-in The Name. God's Creation Is Completed When Things Receive Their Names From Man, From Whom In Name Language Alone Speaks.

The Destructive Character Lives From The Feeling, Not That Life Is Worth Living, But That Suicide Is Not Worth The Trouble.