Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.
Love points the way. Desire is its ignorant advisor.
Seek and you shall find the repulsive things you secretly hope to find.
Every day, a piece of music, a short story, or a poem dies because its existence is no longer justified in our time. And things that were once considered immortal have become mortal again, no one knows them anymore. Even though they deserve to survive.
Very few women wait for Mr. Right. Most women take the first and worst Mr. Wrong.
I do not fight against men, but against the system that is sexist.
Art and order, the relatives that refuse to relate.
Only he who loves and is loved for his own sake can be happy, and what produces that happiness is not so much the sense of sexual communion as of two people being together ... the sexual act viewed as a whole probably affords less happiness than a totally ordinary kiss or often indeed one simple word from the one you love.
Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist.
Trust is fine, but control is better.
After all, when you take a walk you're after solitude, and if the solitude won't come to you, you must go to it.
It is not enough ... simply to surrender oneself brainlessly to love, when it knocks at the door, one must also calculate because of later life, which does sometimes follow.
Eroding solidarity paradoxically makes a society more susceptible to the construction of substitute collectives and fascisms of all kinds.
Women age early, and their mistake is not knowing where to hide all the time that lies behind them so that no one sees it. What are they to do, devour it like the umbilical cords of their children? Hell and damnation!
The first thing a proprietor learns, and painfully at that, is: Trust is fine, but control is better.
Vice is basically the love of failure.
My plays are made up of long monologues, which is similar to prose working with the language
Characters on stage should be flat, like clothes in a fashion show: what you get should be no more than what you see. Psychological realism is repulsive, because it allows us to escape unpalatable reality by taking shelter in the “luxuriousness” of personality, losing ourselves in the depth of individual character. The writer's task is to block this manoeuvre, to chase us off to a point from which we can view the horror with a dispassionate eye.
It could draw from a greater reservoir of freedom. The irony could develop an even greater ease.
As is said about most writers: on the one hand all I ever did from when I was a child was read, and I was a loner, which was furthered by my parents and my upbringing.
I think isolation is one of the greatest problems, an ever-growing obstacle to political solidarity.
Literature that keeps employing new linguistic and formal modes of expression to draft a panorama of society as a whole while at the same time exposing it, tearing the masks from its face - for me that would be deserving of an award.
Anna despises two classes of people: first, those who own their own homes and have cars and families, and second, everybody else. Constantly she is on the verge of exploding. With rage. A pool of pure red. The pool is filled with speechlessness that talks away at her nonstop.
Work restores humankind and all its attributes to the savage animal condition that was its original intended state.
you have often seen in the cinema, erich, haven't you, that between extraordinary people extraordinary things like for example extraordinary love can arise. so we only have to be extraordinary and see what happens.
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