Even Hidden In The Most Squalid Parisian

The Art Of Living Has No History: It Does Not Evolve: The Pleasure Which Vanishes Vanishes For Good, There Is No Substitute For It. Other Pleasures Come, Which Replace Nothing. No Progress In Pleasures, Nothing But Mutations.

We Don't Forget, But Something Vacant Settles In Us.

What The Photograph Reproduces To Infinity Has Occurred Only Once: The Photograph Mechanically Repeats What Could Never Be Repeated Existentially.

There Are Two Kinds Of Liberalism. A Liberalism Which Is Always, Subterraneously Authoritative And Paternalistic, On The Side Of One's Good Conscience. And Then There Is A Liberalism Which Is More Ethical Than Political; One Would Have To Find Another Name For This. Something Like A Profound Suspension Of Judgment.

What Love Lays Bare In Me Is Energy.