Frågan om kapitalismens framtid beror på om kapitalismen i obegränsad omfattning kan fortsätta att föregripa framtida värde, eller om detta tvärtom har karaktären av en ändlig resurs. Det hela känns som tautologi eller rekursion: kapitalistisk framtid är en oändlig resurs så länge det finns en förhoppning om en oändlig kapitalism. Här kollapsar subjekt och objekt.

Rasmus Fleischer, 'Krisen, del 75: Ernst Lohoff om det fiktiva kapitalets historia' at Copyriot (http://copyriot.se/ 2012-12-22)

'If only our paltry minds,' he said, 'were able to embalm our memories! But memories keep badly. The most delicate fade and shrivel; the most voluptuous decay; the most delicious are the most dangerous in the end. The things one repents of were at first delicious.'
Again a long silence; and then he went on:
'Regrets, remorse, repentance, are past joys seen from behind. I don't like looking backwards and I leave my past behind me as the bird leaves his shade to fly away. Oh, Michel! every joy is always awaiting us, but it must always be the only one; it insists on finding the bed empty and demands from us a widower's welcome. Oh, Michel! every joy is like the manna of the desert which corrupts from one day to the next; it is like the fountains of Ameles, whose waters, says Plato, could never be kept in any vase... Let every moment carry away with it all that it brought.'

André Gide, The Immoralist (Penguin Books, 1960) p. 107

I depicted artistic culture as welling up in a whole people, like a secretion, which is at first a sign of plethora, of a superabundance of health, but which afterwards stiffens, hardens, forbids the perfect contact of the mind with nature, hides under the persistent appearance of life a diminution of life, turns into an outside sheath, in which the cramped mind languishes and pines, in which at last it dies. Finally, pushing my thought to its logical conclusion, I showed Culture, born of life, as the destroyer of life.

André Gide, The Immoralist (Penguin Books, 1960) p. 90

I believe that happiness wears out in the effort made to recapture it; that nothing is more fatal to happiness than the remembrance of happiness.

André Gide, The Immoralist (Penguin Books, 1960) p. 62

Well, surely there is something as irreducible about the material world as there is about subjectivity. Maybe we never fathom either. A piece of earth can seem as incomprehensible as the fact of memory.

Robert Morris, From Mnemosyne to Clio: The Mirror to the Labyrinth (Musée d'Art contemporain, Lyon, 2000) p. 173