Africa, help me to go home, carry me like an aged child in your arms. Undress me and wash me. Strip me of all of these garments, strip me as a man strips off dreams when the dawn comes. . . .

Without desire there is stillness, and the world settles by itself.

A long war almost always places nations in this sad alternative: that their defeat delivers them to destruction and their triumph to despotism.

The philosopher creates, he doesn't reflect.

And when we look in through the windows, all we see are shadows. And when we try and listen, all we hear is a whispering. And we cannot understand the whispering, because our minds have been invaded by a war. A war that we have both won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. A war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves.

Capitalism has triumphed all over the world, but this triumph is only the prelude to the triumph of labour over capital.