Hanukkah is. . . the festival of lights, instead of one day of presents, we get eight crazy nights
We are all kitsch on our deathbeds.
The world somehow is always the same. The only thing that can improve is the individual life. One can live a good life. One can give life a meaning. Either by drinking oneself to death or by painting oneself to death or by loving oneself to death.
The point is that only one thing matters in this world, to prepare oneself for death. One can try to be as comfortable as possible until one dies. . . Because being comfortable does not have any meaning either. It just does not. Everything is only a big meaninglessness that one must bear.
Because modernism has conquered art, kitsch is the savior of talent and devotion.
Everything is a meaningless struggle against nothing and when people say that the world has become a better place that is a false development-optimism. Nothing exists which ever becomes better. Everything stays the same. Somehow, there is nothing. That is so sad. Nothing to come to. Everything is an illusion. A very sweet illusion.
Kitsch is deep in its superficiality. Art is superficially deep.
The Americans view the democratization of the Middle East as the route to peace.
When we die, these are the stories still on our lips. The stories we’ll only tell strangers, someplace private in the padded cell of midnight. These important stories, we rehearse them for years in our head but never tell. These stories are ghosts, bringing people back from the dead. Just for a moment. For a visit. Every story is a ghost.
Surround yourself with amazingly intelligent men and women. The people I work with not only are smarter than I am, possessing both intellectual and emotional intelligence, but also share my determination to succeed. I will not make an important decision without them.
I find I have, and a heart doesn’t suit me, Windermere. Somehow it doesn’t go with modern dress. It makes one look old.