That's How We Stay Young These Days:

The Universe Seems To Me Infinitely Strange And Foreign. At Such A Moment I Gaze Upon It With A Mixture Of Anguish And Euphoria; Separate From The Universe, As Though Placed At A Certain Distance Outside It; I Look And I See Pictures, Creatures That Move In A Kind Of Timeless Time And Spaceless Space, Emitting Sounds That Are A Kind Of Language I No Longer Understand Or Ever Register.

A Man With A Soul Is Not Like Every Other Man.

We Have Not The Time To Take Our Time.

A Person Who Has Not Completely Lost The Memory Of Paradise, Even Though It Is A Faint One, Will Suffer Endlessly. He Will Feel The Call Of The Essential World, Will Hear The Voice That Comes From So Far Away That One Cannot Find Out Where It Comes From, A Voice That Cannot Guide Him.

Every Work Of Art (unless It Is A Psuedo-intellectualist Work, A Work Already Comprised In Some Ideology That It Merely Illustrates, As With Brecht) Is Outside Ideology, Is Not Reducible To Ideology. Ideology Circumscribes Without Penetrating It. The Absence Of Ideology In A Work Does Not Mean An Absence Of Ideas; On The Contrary It Fertilizes Them.