The man for whom time stretches out painfully is one waiting in vain, disappointed at not finding tomorrow already continuing yesterday.
The bourgeois. . . is tolerant. His love for people as they are stems from his hatred of what they might be.
The power of the culture industry's ideology is such that conformity has replaced consciousness
In the abstract conception of universal wrong, all concrete responsibility vanishes.
Auschwitz begins wherever someone looks at a slaughterhouse and thinks: they’re only animals.
It is not the office of art to spotlight alternatives, but to resist by its form alone the course of the world, which permanently puts a pistol to men's heads.
The splinter in your eye is the best magnifying-glass available.
Education should aim at destroying free will so that after pupils are thus schooled they will be incapable throughout the rest of their lives of thinking or acting otherwise than as their school masters would have wished
The dreary flies, lazy and casual, Stick to the ceiling, buzz along the wall. O heart, the spider shuffles from the mould Weaving, between the pinks and grapes, his pall.
what was the right level of prosperity, the level that banished dire need but did not satiate, the level that did not threaten the artist in the individual? And how did one stop when one arrived at it?
What interests me very much as a writer is the ability for writing to have our lives to be occupied so vividly by others. I think that's what we long for as writers.