Very Evil People Cannot Really Be Imagined

The Idea That After This War Life Will Continue 'normally' Or Even That Culture Might Be 'rebuilt' - As If The Rebuilding Of Culture Were Not Already Its Negation - Is Idiotic.

It Is Proust's Courtesy To Spare The Reader The Embarrassment Of Believing Himself Cleverer Than The Author.

There Is Something Embarrassing In... The Way In Which, ... Turning Suffering Into Images, Harsh And Uncompromising Though They Are, ... Wounds The Shame We Feel In The Presence Of The Victims. For These Victims Are Used To Create Something, Works Of Art, That Are Thrown To The Consumption Of A World Which Destroyed Them.

Indeed, Happiness Is Nothing Other Than Being Encompassed, An After-image Of The Original Shelter Within The Mother. But For This Reason No One Who Is Happy Can Know That He Is So. To See Happiness, He Would Have To Pass Out Of It: To Be As If Already Born. He Who Says He Is Happy Lies, And In Invoking Happiness, Sins Against It. He Alone Keeps Faith Who Says: I Was Happy.

Love Is The Ability To Discover Similarities In The Dis-similar. The Audience Has A Right Not To Be Fooled - Even If It Insists On Being Fooled.