Historical materialism has every reason to distinguish itself sharply from bourgeois habits of thought. Its founding concept is not progress but actualization.

Eros harrows my heart:<br>wild gales sweeping desolate mountains$$$<br>uprooting oaks.

True translation is transparent: it does not obscure the original$$$ does not stand in its light$$$ but rather allows pure language$$$ as if strengthened by its own medium$$$ to shine even more fully on the original.

What draws the reader to the novel is the hope of warming his shivering life with a death he reads about.

Solitude appeared to me as the only fit state of man.

As long as there is still one beggar around$$$ there will still be myth.

The film is the first art form capable of demonstrating how matter plays tricks on man.

Let no thought pass incognito$$$ and keep your notebook as strictly as the authorities keep their register of aliens.

You do all you can to humanize and familiarize the world$$$ and suddenly it becomes more strange than ever.

Well$$$ don't build me up so$$$ and you won't have to tear me down.