The Nourishing Fruit Of The

Books And Harlots Have Their Quarrels In Public.

The Crowd Is The Veil Through Which The Familiar City Beckons To The Flâneur As Phantasmagoria-now A Landscape, Now A Room.

Melancholy Betrays The World For The Sake Of Knowledge. But In Its Tenacious Self-absorption It Embraces Dead Objects In Its Contemplation, In Order To Redeem Them

Things Are Only Mannequins And Even The Great World-historical Events Are Only Costumes Beneath Which They Exchange Glances With Nothingness.

Let No Thought Pass Incognito, And Keep Your Notebook As Strictly As The Authorities Keep Their Register Of Aliens.