Only For The Sake Of The Hopeless

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.

Death Is The Sanction Of Everything That The Storyteller Can Tell. He Has Borrowed His Authority From Death.

Every Image Of The Past That Is Not Recognised By The Present As One Of Its Own Threatens To Disappear Irretrievably.

The Good Tidings Which The Historian Of The Past Brings With Throbbing Heart May Be Lost In A Void The Very Moment He Opens His Mouth.

The Only Way Of Knowing A Person Is To Love Them Without Hope.