My Own Words Take Me By Surprise

Like The Weaver, The Writer Works On The Wrong Side Of His Material. He Has Only To Do With The Language, And It Is Thus That He Suddenly Finds Himself Surrounded By Sense.

True Reflection Presents Me To Myself Not As Idle And Inaccessible Subjectivity, But As Identical With My Presence In The World And To Others, As I Am Now Realizing It: I Am All That I See, I Am An Intersubjective Field, Not Despite My Body And Historical Situation, But, On The Contrary, By Being This Body And This Situation, And Through Them, All The Rest.

Everyone Is Alone And Yet Nobody Can Do Without Other People, Not Just Because They Are Useful... But Also When It Comes To Happiness.

The World Is Nothing But 'world-as-meaning.

Thought Without Language, Says Lavelle, Would Not Be A Purer Thought; It Would Be No More Than The Intention To Think. And His Last Book Offers A Theory Of Expressiveness Which Makes Of Expression Not "a Faithful Image Of An Already Realized Interior Being, But The Very Means By Which It Is Realized.