Love Without Risk Is An Impossibility, Like

It Is Thus Quite Simply False That Whereof One Cannot Speak (in The Sense Of 'there Is Nothing To Say About It That Specifies It And Grants It Separating Properties'), Thereof One Must Be Silent. It Must On The Contrary Be Named.

There Is A Kind Of Serenity In Love Which Is Almost A Paradise.

Emancipatory Politics Always Consists In Making Seem Possible Precisely That Which, From Within The Situation, Is Declared To Be Impossible.

We Must Point Out That In What Concerns Its Material The Event Is Not A Miracle. What I Mean Is That What Composes An Event Is Always Extracted From A Situation, Always Related Back To A Singular Multiplicity, To Its State, To The Language That Is Connected To It, Etc. In Fact, So As Not To Succumb To An Obscurantist Theory Of Creation Ex Nihilo, We Must Accept That An Event Is Nothing But A Part Of A Given Situation, Nothing But A Fragment Of Being.

Let Us Say In Passing That Since (philosophical) Remedies Are Often Worse Than The Malady, Our Age, In Order To Be Cured Of The Plato Sickness, Has Swallowed Such Doses Of A Relativist, Vaguely Skeptical, Lightly Spiritualist And Insipidly Moralist Medicine, That It Is In The Process Of Gently Dying, In The Small Bed Of Its Supposed Democratic Comfort.