In The Convulsions Of The

Every Passion Borders On The Chaotic, But The Collector's Passion Borders On The Chaos Of Memories.

This Is How One Pictures The Angel Of History. His Face Is Turned Toward The Past. Where We Perceived A Chain Of Events, He Sees One Single Catastrophe Which Keeps Piling Wreckage And Hurls It In Front Of His Feet. The Angel Would Like To Stay, Awaken The Dead, And Make Whole What Has Been Smashed. But A Storm Is Blowing From Paradise; It Has Got Caught In His Wings With Such Violence That The Angel Can No Longer Close Them. This Storm Irresistably Propels Him Into The Future To Which His Back Is Turned, While The Pile Of Debris Before Him Grows Skyward. The Storm Is What We Call Progress.

There Is No Muse Of Philosophy, Nor Is There One Of Translation.

All The Decisive Blows Are Struck Left-handed.

To A Book Collector, You See, The True Freedom Of All Books Is Somewhere On His Shelves.