The Work Of Memory Collapses

We Do Not Always Proclaim Loudly The Most Important Thing We Have To Say. Nor Do We Always Privately Share It With Those Closest To Us, Our Intimate Friends, Those Who Have Been Most Devotedly Ready To Receive Our Confession.

For What Is The Program Of The Bourgeois Parties? A Bad Poem On Springtime, Filled To Bursting With Metaphors.

Less And Less Frequently Do We Encounter People With The Ability To Tell A Tale Properly. More And More Often There Is Embarrassment All Around When The Wish To Hear A Story Is Expressed. It Is As If Something That Seemed Inalienable To Us, The Securest Among Our Possessions, Were Taken From Us: The Ability To Exchange Our Experiences...experience Has Fallen In Value. And It Looks As If It Is Continuing To Fall Into Bottomlessness.

Ideas Are To Objects As Constellations Are To Stars [translated From Trauerspiel, 1928].

No Poem Is Intended For The Reader, No Picture For The Beholder, No Symphony For The Listener.