The Gaze That Sees Is The Gaze

I Think I Have In Fact Been Situated In Most Of The Squares On The Political Checkerboard, One After Another And Sometimes Simultaneously: As Anarchist, Leftist, Ostentatious Or Disguised Marxist, Nihilist, Explicit Or Secret Anti-marxist, Technocrat In The Service Of Gaullism, New Liberal And So On.

Politics And The Economy Are Not Things That Exist, Or Illusions, Or Ideologies. They Are Things That Do Not Exist And Yet Which Are Inscribed In Reality And Fall Under A Regime Of Truth Dividing The True And The False.

Confined On The Ship, From Which There Is No Escape, The Madman Is Delivered To The River With Its Thousand Arms, The Sea With Its Thousand Roads, To That Great Uncertainty External To Everything. He Is A Prisoner In The Midst Of What Is The Freest, The Openest Of Routes: Bound Fast At The Infinite Crossroads. He Is The Passenger Par Excellence: That Is, The Prisoner Of The Passage. And The Land He Will Come To Is Unknown—as Is, Once He Disembarks, The Land From Which He Comes. He Has His Truth And His Homeland Only In That Fruitless Expanse Between Two Countries That Cannot Belong To Him.

Perhaps [transgression] Is Like A Flash Of Lightning In The Night Which, From The Beginning Of Time, Gives A Dense And Black Intensity To The Night It Denies, Which Lights Up The Night From The Inside, From Top To Bottom, Yet Owes To The Dark The Stark Clarity Of Its Manifestation, Its Harrowing And Poised Singularity.

Why Should The Lamp Or The House Be An Art Object But Not Our Life?