"The more dubious and uncertain an instrument violence has become in international relations, the mor..." — Hannah Arendt

Poets are the only people to whom love is not only a crucial, but an indispensable experience, which entitles them to mistake it for a universal one.

These are the fifties, you know. The disgusting, posturing fifties.

Economic growth may one day turn out to be a curse rather than a good, and under no conditions can it either lead into freedom or constitute a proof for its existence.

In order to go on living one must try to escape the death involved in perfectionism.