In The Nineteenth Century The

They [the Critics] Deal With Schoenberg's Early Works And All Their Wealth By Classifying Them, With The Music-historical Cliché, As Late Romantic Post-wagnerian. One Might Just As Well Dispose Of Beethoven As A Late-classicist Post-haydnerian.

There Is No True Life Within A False Life.

It Would Be Advisable To Think Of Progress In The Crudest, Most Basic Terms: That No One Should Go Hungry Anymore, That There Should Be No More Torture, No More Auschwitz. Only Then Will The Idea Of Progress Be Free From Lies.

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.

Modernity Is A Qualitative, Not A Chronological, Category.