When the starry sky, a vista of open seas, or a stained-glass window shedding purple beams fascinate me, there is a cluster of meaning, of colors, of words, of caresses, there are light touches, scents, sighs, cadences that arise, shroud me, carry me away, and sweep me beyond the things I see, hear, or think, The "sublime" object dissolves in the raptures of a bottomless memory. It is such a memory, which, from stopping point to stopping point, remembrance to remembrance, love to love, transfers that object to the refulgent point of the dazzlement in which I stray in order to be.

Love is the time and space where "I" give myself the right to be extraordinary.

The depressed person is a radical, sullen atheist.

Naming suffering, exalting it, dissecting it into its smallest components – that is doubtless a way to curb mourning.

That faith be analyzable does not necessarily imply a method for getting by without it. . . .

Significance is inherent in the human body.

Abjection is above all ambiguity. Because, while releasing a hold, it does not radically cut off the subject from what threatens it --- on the contrary, abjection acknowledges it to be in perpetual danger.