Art As A Whole Is

Exuberant Health Is Always, As Such, Sickness Also.

What Has Become Alien To Men Is The Human Component Of Culture, Its Closest Part, Which Upholds Them Against The World. They Make Common Cause With The World Against Themselves, And The Most Alienated Condition Of All, The Omnipresence Of Commodities, Their Own Conversion Into Appendages Of Machinery, Is For Them A Mirage Of Closeness.

Modernity Is A Qualitative, Not A Chronological, Category.

Thus Is Order Ensured: Some Have To Play The Game Because They Cannot Otherwise Live, And Those Who Could Live Otherwise Are Kept Out Because They Do Not Want To Play The Game. It Is As If The Class From Which Independent Intellectuals Have Defected Takes Its Revenge, By Pressing Its Demands Home In The Very Domain Where The Deserter Seeks Refuge.

Indeed, Happiness Is Nothing Other Than Being Encompassed, An After-image Of The Original Shelter Within The Mother. But For This Reason No One Who Is Happy Can Know That He Is So. To See Happiness, He Would Have To Pass Out Of It: To Be As If Already Born. He Who Says He Is Happy Lies, And In Invoking Happiness, Sins Against It. He Alone Keeps Faith Who Says: I Was Happy.