More than its utilitarian and technocratic transparency, it is the opaque ambivalence of its oddities that makes the city livable.

An absence of meaning opens a gap in time.

Political organizations have slowly substituted themselves for the Churches as the places of believing practices, but for this very reason, they seem to have been haunted by the return of a very ancient (preChristian) and very “pagan” alliance between power and religion. It is as though now that religion has ceased to be an autonomous power (the “power of religion,” people used to say), politics has once again become religious.

It is as though the practices organizing a bustling city were characterized by [city practitioners', everyday citizens'] blindness. The neworks of these moving, intersecting writings compose a manifold story that has neither author nor spectator, shaped out of fragments of trajectories and alterations of spaces: in relation to representations, it remains daily and indefinitely other.

A memory is only a Prince Charming who stays just long enough to awaken the Sleeping Beauties of our wordless stories.

The sick man is taken away by the institution that takes charge not of the individual, but of his illness, an isolated object transformed or eliminated by technicians devoted to the defense of health the way others are attached to the defense of law and order or tidiness.

The created order is everywhere punched and torn open by ellipses, drifts, and leaks of meaning: it is a sieve-order.