In The End, The Writer Is Not

In Psycho-analysis Nothing Is True Except The Exaggerations.

All The World's Not A Stage.

The Culture Industry Perpetually Cheats Its Consumers Of What It Perpetually Promises. The Promissory Note Which, With Its Plots And Staging, It Draws On Pleasure Is Endlessly Prolonged; The Promise, Which Is Actually All The Spectacle Consists Of, Is Illusory: All It Actually Confirms Is That The Real Point Will Never Be Reached, That The Diner Must Be Satisfied With The Menu.

Freedom Would Be Not To Choose Between Black And White But To Abjure Such Prescribed Choices.

The Expression If History In Things Is No Other Than That Of Past Torment.