Anti-Oedipus

Desiring-machines are machines, no metaphor.

Desiring-machines are machines, no metaphor.

Not exchanging, but marking and being marked.

The destructive task of schizoanalysis, cleansing the unconscious: a malevolent activity.

One had to be on familiar terms with Marx, not let one's dreams stray too far from Freud.

How do we ferret out the fascism that is ingrained in our behavior?

The traps of Anti-Oedipus are those of humor: so many invitations to let oneself be put out, to take one's leave of the text and slam the door shut.

The man who looks for security, even in the mind, is like a man who would chop off his limbs in order to have artificial ones which will give him no pain or trouble.

For, they affirm, 'a schizophrenic out for a walk is a better model than a neurotic lying on the analyst's couch. . . .'

Extending thought to the point of madness and action to the point of revolution, theirs is indeed a politics of experience.

Oedipus is the figurehead of imperialism, 'colonization pursued by other means, it is the interior colony, and we shall see that even here at home ... it is our intimate colonial education.'

To be cured we must rise from our graves and throw off the cerements of the dead.

For to be bogged down in arrangements from which escape is possible is to be neurotic, seeing an irresolvable crisis where alternatives in fact exist.

It breathes, it heats, it eats. It shits and fucks. What a mistake to have ever said the id.

Judge Schreber has sunbeams in his ass.

Under the skin the body is an over-heated factory, and outside, the invalid shines, glows, from every burst pore.

Not man as the king of creation, but rather as the being who is in intimate contact with the profound life of all forms or all types of beings, who is responsible for even the stars and animal life, and who ceaselessly plugs an organ-machine into an energy-machine, a tree into his body, a breast into his mouth, the sun into his asshole: the eternal custodian of the machines of the universe.

Desire constantly couples continuous flows and partial objects that are by nature fragmentary and fragmented.

A table which lent itself to no function, self-protective, denying itself to service and communication alike.

Everything stops dead for a moment, everything freezes in place—and then the whole process will begin all over again.

Desiring-machines work only when they break down, and by continually breaking down.

The body is the body/it is all by itself/and has no need of organs/the body is never an organism/ organisms are the enemies of the body.

But a perverted, bewitched world quickly comes into being, as capital increasingly plays the role of a recording surface that falls back on all of production.

Capital thus becomes a very mystic being since all of labour's social productive forces appear to be due to capital, rather than labour as such, and seem to issue from the womb of capital itself.

The 'either ... or . . . or' of the schizophrenic takes over from the 'and then': no matter what two organs are involved, the way in which they are attached to the body without organs must be such that all the disjunctive syntheses between the two amount to the same on the slippery surface.

Is it not more likely that Oedipus is a requirement or a consequence of social reproduction, insofar as this latter aims at domesticating a genealogical form and content that are in every way intractable?

The code of delirium or of desire proves to have an extraordinary fluidity.

The surface of this uncreated body swarms with them, as a lion's mane swarms with fleas.

I am sometimes to be found, standing before the mirror or elsewhere, with the upper portion of my body partly bared, and wearing sundry feminine adornments, such as ribbons, trumpery necklaces, and the like.

A genuine consummation is achieved by the new machine, a pleasure that can rightly be called autoerotic, or rather automatic: the nuptial celebration of a new alliance, a new birth, a radiant ecstasy, as though the eroticism of the machine liberated other unlimited forces.

One's entire soul flows into this emotion that makes the mind aware of the terribly disturbing sound of matter, and passes through its white-hot flame.

This subject itself is not at the center, which is occupied by the machine, but on the periphery, with no fixed identity, forever decentered, defined by the states through which it passes.

The subject spreads itself out along the entire circumference of the circle, the center of which has been abandoned by the ego.

All of which the schizo sums up by saying: they're fucking me over again.

A classical theater was substituted for the unconscious as a factory; representation was substituted for the units of production of the unconscious.

From the moment that we place desire on the side of acquisition, we make desire an idealistic (dialectical, nihilistic) conception, which causes us to look upon it as primarily a lack: a lack of an object, a lack of the real object.

Desire does not lack anything; it does not lack its object. It is, rather, the subject that is missing in desire, or desire that lacks a fixed subject; there is no fixed subject unless there is repression.

Lack (manque) is created, planned, and organized in and through social production.

To move forward clinging to the past is like dragging a ball and chain.

Why do men fight for their servitude as stubbornly as though it were their salvation?

Desiring-machines are not fantasy-machines or dream-machines, which supposedly can be distinguished from technical and social machines.

Desiring-machines, on the contrary, continually break down as they run, and in fact run only when they are not functioning properly.

The artist stores up his treasures so as to create an immediate explosion, and that is why, to his way of thinking, destructions can never take place as rapidly as they ought to.

It tends, with all the strength at its command, to produce the schizo as the subject of the decoded flows on the body without organs—more capitalist than the capitalist and more proletarian than the proletariat.

Everything returns or recurs: States, nations, families. That is what makes the ideology of capitalism 'a motley painting of everything that has ever been believed.'

He scrambles all the codes and is the transmitter of the decoded flows of desire.

Each associative flow must be seen as an ideal thing, an endless flux, flowing from something not unlike the immense thigh of a pig.

There are very few examples that cast as much light on the regime of desiring-production, and the way in which breaking down constitutes an integral part of the functioning.

No chain is homogeneous; all of them resemble, rather, a succession of characters from different alphabets in which an ideogram, a pictogram, a tiny image of an elephant passing by, or a rising sun may suddenly make its appearance.

We must conceive of each brick as having been launched from a distance and as being composed of heterogeneous elements: containing within it not only an inscription with signs from different alphabets, but also various figures, plus one or several straws, and perhaps a corpse.

In this case, only after the subject has partitioned itself does it proceed to its parturition.

We live today in the age of partial objects, bricks that have been shattered to bits, and leftovers.

It is a schizoid work par excellence: it is almost as though the author's guilt, his confessions of guilt are merely a sort of joke.

Melanie Klein was responsible for the marvelous discovery of partial objects, that world of explosions, rotations, vibrations.

The psychoanalyst no longer says to the patient: 'Tell me a little bit about your desiring-machines, won't you?' Instead he screams: 'Answer daddy-and-mommy when I speak to you!'

The train is not necessarily daddy, nor is the train station necessarily mommy.

It exists, rather, as a part of a desiring-machine connected to the baby's mouth, and is experienced as an object providing a nonpersonal flow of milk, be it copious or scanty.

For the unconscious is an orphan, and produces itself within the identity of nature and man.

In Lawrence's case, at least, his reservations with regard to psychoanalysis did not stem from terror at having discovered what real sexuality was.

Wouldn't the real difference be between Oedipus, structural as well as imaginary, and something else that all the Oedipuses crush and repress: desiring-production—the machines of desire?

Wouldn't it be better to schizophrenize—to schizophrenize the domain of the unconscious as well as the sociohistorical domain, so as to shatter the iron collar of Oedipus and rediscover everywhere the force of desiring-production?

The desiring-machines pound away and throb in the depths of the unconscious: Irma's injection, the Wolf Man's ticktock, Anna's coughing machine.

The unconscious ceases to be what it is—a factory, a workshop—to become a theater, a scene and its staging.

Over the consulting-room door is written, 'Leave your desiring-machines at the door, give up your orphan and celibate machines, your tape recorder and your little bike, enter and allow yourself to be oedipalized.'

It should be noted that Judge Schreber's destiny was not merely that of being sodomized, while still alive, by the rays from heaven, but also that of being posthumously oedipalized by Freud.

But to render religion unconscious, or the unconscious religious, still amounts to injecting something religious into the unconscious.

It is a construction of analysis, but it is no less a necessity on that account.

Castration designates the operation by which psychoanalysis castrates the unconscious, injects castration into the unconscious.

We must speak of "castration" in the same way we speak of oedipalization, whose crowning moment it is: castration designates the operation by which psychoanalysis castrates the unconscious, injects castration into the unconscious.

The terms of Oedipus do not form a triangle, but exist shattered into all corners of the social field—the mother on the instructor's knees, the father next to the colonel.

As Nietzsche says; churches, armies, States—which of all these dogs wants to die?

How can we ward off, in the practice of the cure, this abject desire that makes us bend our knees, lays us on the couch, and makes us remain there?

It would seem that certain subjects have such a viscous libido, or on the contrary such a liquid one, that nothing succeeds in 'taking hold.'

Against the walls of the triangle, toward the outside, flows exert the irresistible pressure of lava or the invincible oozing of water.

But in any case the harm has been done, the treatment has chosen the path of oedipalization, all cluttered with refuse, instead of the schizophrenization that must cure us of the cure.

If schizophrenia is the universal, the great artist is indeed the one who scales the schizophrenic wall and reaches the land of the unknown, where he no longer belongs to any time, any milieu, any school.

In reality, global persons—even the very form of persons—do not exist prior to the prohibitions that weigh on them and constitute them.

Kant draws upon centuries of Roman juridical reflection when he defines marriage as the tie that makes a person the owner of the sexual organs of another person.

The only subject is desire itself on the body without organs, inasmuch as it machines partial objects and flows, selecting and cutting the one with the other, passing from one body to another, following connections and appropriations that each time destroy the factitious unity of a possessive or proprietary ego.

It is as if the so-called signifying chain, made up of elements that are themselves nonsignifying—of polyvocal writing and detachable fragments—were the object of a special treatment, a crushing operation that extracted a detached object from the chain.

Everywhere, in this reversion, the innocence of flowers instead of the guilt of conversion.

Commit incest and you'll be a zombie and a hermaphrodite.

I was then no longer this closed box to which I owed being so well preserved, but a partition came crashing down.

I am the letter and the pen and the paper. It was in this fashion that Nijinsky kept his diary: yes, I was my father and I was my son.

Oedipus is like the labyrinth, you only get out by re-entering it—or by making someone else enter it.

The police on our side!—never did psychoanalysis better display its taste for supporting the movement of social repression, and for participating in it with enthusiasm.

Oedipus is one of those things that becomes all the more dangerous the less people believe in it; then the cops are there to replace the high priests.

A double pincer action that crushes the unconscious caught in its exclusive disjunction.

A double pincer action that crushes the unconscious caught in its exclusive disjunction.

I am becoming God, I am becoming woman, I was Joan of Arc and I am Heliogabalus and the Great Mongol, I am a Chinaman, a redskin, a Templar, I was my father and I was my son.

The unpleasant thing, and one that nags at my modesty, is that at root every name in history is I.

The point where the copy ceases to be a copy in order to become the Real and its artifice.

With respect to their experiencing of life, the neurotic patient and the perverted individual are to the schizophrenic as the petty thief is to the daring safecracker.

All delirium possesses a world-historical, political, and racial content, mixing and sweeping along races, cultures, continents, and kingdoms; some wonder whether this long drift merely constitutes a derivative of Oedipus.

Not one trace of it remains; everything is ground, squashed, triangulated into Oedipus; everything is reduced to the father.

Is the schizophrenic sick and cut off from reality because he lacks Oedipus, because he 'is lacking' in something only to be found in Oedipus—or on the contrary is he sick by virtue of the oedipalization he is unable to bear?

There we have it—the incurable familialism of psychoanalysis, enclosing the unconscious within Oedipus, cutting off all vital flows, crushing desiring-production, conditioning the patient to respond daddy-mommy, and to always consume daddy-mommy.

Psychoanalysis can unravel some of the forms of madness; it remains a stranger to the sovereign enterprise of unreason.

He did deliver the patient from the existence of the asylum within which his 'liberators' had alienated him; but he did not deliver him from what was essential in this existence.

These metaphysical men from outer space are the literal mother, father, and sibling who sit around the breakfast table with the so-called psychotic patient.

It is strange that we had to wait for the dreams of colonized peoples in order to see that, on the vertices of the pseudo triangle, mommy was dancing with the missionary, daddy was being fucked by the tax collector, while the self was being beaten by a white man.

The family is by nature eccentric, decentered.

There is no signifying chain without a Chinaman, an Arab, and a black who drop in to trouble the night of a white paranoiac.

The Freudian blackmail is this: either you recognize the Oedipal character of infantile sexuality, or you abandon all positions of sexuality.

In this sense every child is a little scientist, a little Cantor.

In the aggregate of departure there is the social formation, or rather the social formations: the races, the classes, the continents, the peoples, the kingdoms, the sovereignties; Joan of Arc and the Great Mongol, Luther and the Aztec Serpent. In the aggregate of destination, there remains only daddy, mommy, and me.

One then claims to make history with these two entities, these two puppets, the Great Crustacean and the Crazy Invertebrate.

It is not a question of ideology. There is an unconscious libidinal investment of the social field that coexists, but does not necessarily coincide, with the preconscious investments.

Hence the goal of schizoanalysis: to analyze the specific nature of the libidinal investments in the economic and political spheres, and thereby to show how, in the subject who desires, desire can be made to desire its own repression.

No, I am not of your kind, I am the outsider and the deterritorialized, 'I am of a race inferior for all eternity. ... I am a beast, a Negro.'

The fruits of this news are not the consequences brought about by the death of God, but this other news that the death of God is of no consequence.

Indeed, in this sense we must say the unconscious has always been an orphan—that is, it has engendered itself in the identity of nature and man, of the world and man.

It represents nothing, but it produces. It means nothing, but it works.

In any case, the double bind is not the schizophrenic process; on the contrary, the double bind is Oedipus insofar as it arrests the motion of the process, or forces it to spin around in the void.

It is not the slumber of reason that engenders monsters, but vigilant and insomniac rationality.

It is not the slumber of reason that engenders monsters, but vigilant and insomniac rationality.

We didn't want the train to be daddy, or the station mommy. We only wanted peace and innocence, and to be left alone to machine our little machines, O desiring-production.

And we docile subjects say to ourselves: so that's what I wanted!

Desire is revolutionary in its essence—desire, not left-wing holidays!—and no society can tolerate a position of real desire without its structures of exploitation, servitude, and hierarchy being compromised.

Desire does not "want" revolution, it is revolutionary in its own right, as though involuntarily, by wanting what it wants.

All these elements were present in Freud, a fantastic Christopher Columbus, a brilliant bourgeois reader of Goethe, Shakespeare, and Sophocles, a masked Al Capone.

By placing the distorting mirror of incest before desire (that's what you wanted, isn't it?), desire is shamed, stupefied, it is placed in a situation without exit.

The family slips into and interferes with the network of desiring-genealogy; it assumes the task of alienating the entire genealogy; it confiscates the Numen (but see here, God is daddy).

What they do is merely to make the unconscious speak according to the transcendent uses of synthesis imposed on it by other forces: Global Persons, the Complete Object, the Great Phallus, the Terrible Undifferentiated of the Imaginary, Symbolic Differentiations, Segregation.

Oedipus simultaneously invades consciousness and dissolves into itself, testifying to its incapacity to be an 'organizer.'

As though one were constantly bringing back home the person capable of setting whole continents and cultures adrift.

The family is at the same time an anus that retains, a voice that resounds, and a mouth that consumes: its very own three syntheses, since it is a matter of connecting desire to the ready-made objects of social production.

The Oedipal triangle vibrates and trembles, but is this in terms of the hold over the machines of desire that it constantly guarantees itself, or in terms of these machines that escape the Oedipal imprint and cause the triangle to release its grip?

Oedipus, the fountainhead where the psychoanalyst washes his hands of the world's iniquities.

Oedipus, the fountainhead where the psychoanalyst washes his hands of the world's iniquities.

It is like a Cartesian devil; the regressions and progressions are made only within the artificially closed vessel of Oedipus.

For here is the desert propagated by our world, and also the new earth, and the machine that hums, around which the schizos revolve, planets for a new sun.

Madness need not be all breakdown. It may also be breakthrough.

The canvas is truly broken, sundered by what penetrates it.

For literature is like schizophrenia: a process and not a goal, a production and not an expression.

The only literature is that which places an explosive device in its package, fabricating a counterfeit currency, causing the superego and its form of expression to explode.

These catatonic bodies have fallen into the river like lead weights, immense transfixed hippopotamuses who will not come back up to the surface.

Schizophrenia is at once the wall, the breaking through this wall, and the failures of this breakthrough.

In a sense, capitalism has haunted all forms of society,but it haunts them as their terrifying nightmare, it is the dread they feel of a flow that would elude their codes.

Flows of women and children, flows of herds and of seed, sperm flows, flows of shit, menstrual flows: nothing must escape coding.

It is not the anal that presents itself for sublimation, it is sublimation in its entirety that is anal; moreover, the simplest critique of sublimation is the fact that it does not by any means rescue us from the shit (only the mind is capable of shitting).

Artaud expresses it well: this 'dead rat's ass suspended from the ceiling of the sky,' whence issues the daddy-mommy-me triangle.

Man could never do without blood, torture, and sacrifices when he felt the need to create a memory for himself; the most dreadful sacrifices and pledges (...), the most repulsive mutilations (...), the cruelest rites of all the religious cults.

The full body is no longer that of the earth, it is the full body of the Despot, the Unengendered, which now takes charge of the fertility of the soil as well as the rain from the sky.

A kinship system is not a structure but a practice, a praxis, a method, and even a strategy.

Me, me, me, 'I am a powerful nature, a nature incensed and aggressive!'

Far from being a pathological consequence, the disequilibrium is functional and fundamental.

But here too it seems that the correct interpretation would be, above all, actual and functional: it is in order to function that a social machine must not function well.

The social machine's limit is not attrition, but rather its misfirings; it can operate only by fits and starts, by grinding and breaking down, in spasms of minor explosions.

It would appear that social formations experienced a morbid and mournful foreboding of things to come, although what comes to them always comes from without, rushing in through their opening.

It cannot be said that the previous formations did not foresee this Thing that only came from without by rising from within, and that at all costs had to be prevented from rising.

Once this occurs, there is a dismembering of the full body, a canceling of twinness (la gemelleite), a separation of the sexes marked by circumcision, but also a recomposition of the body according to a new model of connection or conjugation.

On the contrary, as intensive filiations they become the object of a separate memory, nocturnal and biocosmic—the memory that indeed must suffer repression in order for the new extended memory to be established.

In the physical system in extension, something passes through that is of the nature of an energy flow (+- or -+), something does not pass or remains blocked (+ + or —), and something blocks, or on the contrary causes, passage.

I am the son, and also my mother's brother and my sister's husband and my own father.

The subject does not reproach the uncle for having done what he himself wanted to do; he reproaches him for not having done what he the son could not do.

It is the great nocturnal memory of the intensive germinal filiation that is repressed for the sake of an extensive somatic memory.

In short, the limit is neither a this-side-of nor a beyond: it is the boundary line between the two— Incest, that slandered shallow stream —always crossed already or not yet crossed.

Our mothers and our sisters melt in our arms; their names slide on their persons like a stamp that is too wet.

The extensive Oedipal figure is its displaced represented, the lure or fake image, born of repression, that comes to conceal desire.

For it is less a question of abundance or scarcity, of a spring or the exhaustion of a spring (even the drying up of a spring is a flow), than of what is codable or noncodable.

Wherever men meet and assemble to take wives for themselves, to negotiate for them, to share them, etc., one recognizes the perverse tie of a primary homosexuality between local groups.

Oedipus is the baited image with which desire allows itself to be caught (That's what you wanted! The decoded flows were incest!).

Divination becomes a form of social analysis in the course of which hidden struggles between individuals and factions are brought to light, in such a way that they can be treated by traditional ritual methods.

Instead of everything being projected onto a grotesque hiatus of castration, everything was scattered in the thousand breaks-flows of the chieftainships, the lineages, the relations of colonization.

Oedipus is something like euthanasia within ethnocide.

There or here, it's the same thing: Oedipus is always colonization pursued by other means, it is the interior colony, and we shall see that even here at home, where we Europeans are concerned, it is our intimate colonial education.

It was he who said in all seriousness that the Oedipus complex was not to be found if it wasn't looked for.

What is repressed is desiring-production. It is the part of this production that does not enter into social production or reproduction. It is what would introduce disorder and revolution into the socius, the noncoded flows of desire.

As for Oedipus, it is another way of coding the uncodable, of codifying what eludes the codes, or of displacing desire and its object, a way of entrapping them.

The same holds for the endless debates on 'Is it daddy? Is it mommy?' (You are neglecting the mother! No, you're the one who fails to see the father off to the side, as the empty position!)

The body without organs is the deterritorialized socius, the wilderness where the decoded flows run free, the end of the world, the apocalypse.

How can this nightmare be imagined: the invasion of the socius by noncoded flows that move like lava?

The capitalist style has been described by D. H. Lawrence: 'our democratic, industrial order of things whose style is my-dear-little-lamb-I-want-to-see-mommy.'

Oedipus is never a cause: it depends on a previous social investment of a certain type, capable of falling back on (se rabattre sur) family determinations.

And to what use could the phallus be put, since it is inseparable from the castration that deprives us of its use?

The unconscious does not speak, it engineers.

As Leach says, hair as a partial object or as a separable part of the body does not represent an aggressive and separate phallus; hair is a thing in its own right, a material part in an aggressing apparatus, in a separating machine.

In this sense, there is only desire and the social.

In this sense, there is only desire and the social.

Nietzsche described as humanity's prehistoric labor: the use of the cruelist mnemotechnics, in naked flesh, to impose a memory of words founded on the ancient biocosmic memory.

Desire knows nothing of exchange, it knows only theft and gift, at times the one within the other under the effect of a primary homosexuality.

For if it is true that the unconscious has no material or content, this is assuredly not because it is an empty form, but rather because it is always and already a functioning machine, a desiring-machine and not an anorexic structure.

The soft structure would never function, would never cause a circulation, without the hard machinic element that presides over inscriptions.

And what is his pain if not a pleasure for the eye that regards it, the collective or divine eye that is not motivated by any idea of revenge, but is alone capable of grasping the subtle relationship between the sign engraved in the body and the voice issuing from a face—between the mark and the mask.

All the stupidity and the arbitrariness of the laws, all the pain of the initiations, the whole perverse apparatus of repression and education, the red-hot irons, and the atrocious procedures have only this meaning: to breed man, to mark him in his flesh.

They come like fate, without reason, consideration, or pretext; they appear as lightning appears, too terrible, too convincing, too sudden, too different even to be hated.

The aim now is to preclude pessimistically, once and for all, the prospect of a final discharge; the aim now is to make the glance recoil disconsolately from an iron impossibility.

The subject leaps outside the intersections of alliance-filiation, installs himself at the limit, at the horizon, in the desert, the subject of a deterritorialized knowledge that links him directly to God and connects him to the people.

In place of flow selections, all the flows converge into a great river that constitutes the sovereign's consumption: a radical change of regimes in the fetish or the symbol.

The old inscription remains, but is bricked over by and in the inscription of the State.

The pseudo territoriality is the product of an effective deterritorialization that substitutes abstract signs for the signs of the earth.

A time will come when the creditor has not yet lent while the debtor never quits repaying, for repaying is a duty but lending is an option.

It is overcoding that impoverishes the earth for the benefit of the deterritorialized full body, and that on this full body renders the movement of debt infinite.

The wilderness, land of betrothal. All the flows converge on a man such as this, all the alliances find themselves countersected by this new alliance that overcodes them.

The purpose of this double incest is not to produce a flow, not even a magic flow, but to overcode all the existing flows, and to ensure that no intrinsic code, no underlying flow escapes the overcoding of the despotic machine; hence it is by virtue of his sterility that he guarantees the general fecundity.

In short, graphism in one and the same movement begins to depend on the voice, and induces a mute voice from on high or from the beyond, a voice that begins to depend on graphism.

The gap between the two elements is bridged by the eye, which 'sees' the word without reading it, inasmuch as it appraises the pain emanating from the graphism applied to the flesh itself: the eye jumps.

The gap between the two elements is bridged by the eye, which 'sees' the word without reading it, inasmuch as it appraises the pain emanating from the graphism applied to the flesh itself: the eye jumps.

The voice no longer sings but dictates, decrees; the graphy no longer dances, it ceases to animate bodies, but is set into writing on tablets, stones, and books; the eye sets itself to reading.

The mouth no longer speaks, it drinks the letter.

Alphabetical writing is not for illiterates, but by illiterates.

O signifier, terrible archaism of the despot where they still look for the empty tomb, the dead father, and the mystery of the name!

In incest it is the signifier that makes love with its signifieds.

Suddenly the despot sees rising up before him, against him, the enemy who brings death—an eye with too steady a look, a mouth with too unfamiliar a smile; each organ is a possible protest.

The despot is nothing more than this 'dead rat's ass suspended from the ceiling of the sky.'

As in the machine of 'In the Penal Colony,' it is the penalty that writes both the verdict and the rule that has been broken.

Better not a sole survivor than for a single organ to flow outside this apparatus or slip away from the body of the despot.

How could designation subsist when the sign has ceased to be a position of desire, in order to become this imperial sign, a universal castration that welds desire to the law?

Turning against itself, it produces suffering.

Desire is by no means an interplay between a son, a mother, and a father. Desire institutes a libidinal investment of a State machine that overcodes the territorial machine and, with an additional turn of the screw, represses the desiring-machines.

Hence desire, having completed its migration, will have to experience this extreme affliction of being turned against itself: the turning back against itself, bad conscience, the guilt that attaches it to the most decoded of social fields as well as to the sickest interiority, the trap for desire, its ugly growth.

Under every Black and every Jew there is an Egyptian, and a Mycenaean under the Greeks, an Etruscan under the Romans.

Of all the institutions, it is perhaps the only one to appear fully armed in the brain of those who institute it, 'the artists with a look of bronze.'

As for democracies, how could one fail to recognize in them the despot who has become colder and more hypocritical, more calculating, since he must himself count and code instead of overcoding the accounts?

The State is desire that passes from the head of the despot to the hearts of his subjects, and from the intellectual law to the entire physical system that disengages or liberates itself from the law.

What strange machines those were that cropped up on columns and in tree trunks!

For the founders of the State come like lightning; the despotic machine is synchronic while the capitalist machine's time is diachronic.

The only universal history is the history of contingency.

It is no longer the age of cruelty or the age of terror, but the age of cynicism, accompanied by a strange piety.

But capitalism doesn't begin, the capitalist machine is not assembled, until capital directly appropriates production, and until financial capital and merchant capital are no longer anything but specific functions.

It differentiates itself as original value from itself as surplus-value; as the father differentiates himself qua the son, yet both are one and of one age.

This is no longer the cruelty of life, the terror of one life brought to bear against another life, but a post-mortem despotism, the despot become anus and vampire.

Measuring the two orders of magnitude in terms of the same analytical unit is a pure fiction, a cosmic swindle, as if one were to measure intergalactic or intra-atomic distances in meters and centimeters.

Measuring the two orders of magnitude in terms of the same analytical unit is a pure fiction, a cosmic swindle, as if one were to measure intergalactic or intra-atomic distances in meters and centimeters.

So true is it that primitive accumulation is not produced just once at the dawn of capitalism, but is continually reproducing itself.

In this sense, it is not machines that have created capitalism, but capitalism that creates machines, and that is constantly introducing breaks and cleavages through which it revolutionizes its technical modes of production.

Leave the scientists alone to a certain point, let them create their own axiomatic, but when the time comes for serious things . . .

The State, its police, and its army form a gigantic enterprise of antiproduction, but at the heart of production itself, and conditioning this production.

Not only lack amid overabundance, but stupidity in the midst of knowledge and science; it will be seen in particular how it is at the level of the State and the military that the most progressive sectors of scientific or technical knowledge combine with those feeble archaisms bearing the greatest burden of current functions.

An economist of the caliber of Bernard Schmitt finds strangely lyrical words to characterize this flow of infinite debt: an instantaneous creative flow that the banks create spontaneously as a debt owing to themselves, a creation ex nihilo.

How much flexibility there is in the axiomatic of capitalism, always ready to widen its own limits so as to add a new axiom to a previously saturated system!

Not to withdraw from the process, but to go further, to 'accelerate the process,' as Nietzsche put it: in this matter, the truth is that we haven't seen anything yet.

Three million points per second transmitted by television, only a few of which are retained.

A topological knot where everything is connected without confusion, where everything flows together and is distributed.

In short, Hjelmslev's very special position in linguistics, and the reactions he provokes, seem to be explained by the following: that he tends to fashion a purely immanent theory of language that shatters the double game of the voice-graphism domination.

The pure figural element—the 'figure-matrix'—Lyotard correctly names desire, which carries us to the gates of schizophrenia as a process.

Our society produces schizos the same way it produces Prell shampoo or Ford cars, the only difference being that the schizos are not salable.

It axiomatizes with one hand what it decodes with the other.

It is with the thing, capitalism, that the unavowable begins: there is not a single economic or financial operation that, assuming it is translated in terms of a code, would not lay bare its own unavowable nature, that is, its intrinsic perversion or essential cynicism.

The introduction of money as an equivalent—which makes it possible to begin and end with money, therefore never to end at all—is enough to disturb the circuits of qualified flows, to decompose the finite blocks of debt, and to destroy the very basis of codes.

With the advent of capitalism the full body becomes truly naked, as does the worker himself who is attached to this full body.

Memory has become a bad thing. Above all, there is no longer any need of belief, and the capitalist is merely striking a pose when he bemoans the fact that nowadays no one believes in anything any more.

Capitalism's originality resides rather in the fact that the social machine has for its parts technical machines as constant capital attached to the full body of the socius, and no longer men, the latter having become adjacent to the technical machines.

Never before has a State lost so much of its power in order to enter with so much force into the service of the signs of economic power.

There are no longer even any masters, but only slaves commanding other slaves; there is no longer any need to burden the animal from the outside, it shoulders its own burden.

Not that man is ever the slave of technical machines; he is rather the slave of the social machine.

Thus the only choice left was between the new terroristic and rigid axiomatic—quickly saturated—of the socialist State, and the old cynical axiomatic—all the more dangerous for being flexible and never saturated—of the capitalist State.

Whence Reich's cry: no, the masses were not deceived, they desired fascism, and that is what has to be explained.

One sometimes has the impression that the flows of capital would willingly dispatch themselves to the moon if the capitalist State were not there to bring them back to earth.

One is better able to understand why capitalism is continually reterritorializing with one hand what it was deterritorializing with the other.

They are torn in two directions: archaism and futurism, neoarchaism and ex-futurism, paranoia and schizophrenia.

Democracy, fascism, or socialism, which of these is not haunted by the Urstaat as a model without equal?

Antiproduction has spread throughout all of production, instead of remaining localized in the system, and has freed a fantastic death instinct that now permeates and crushes desire.

Individual persons are social persons first of all, i.e., functions derived from the abstract quantities; they become concrete in the becoming-related or the axiomatic of these quantities, in their conjunction.

It is our intimate colonial formation that corresponds to the form of social sovereignty. We are all little colonies and it is Oedipus that colonizes us.

To every man, to every woman, the universe is just a setting to the absolute little picture of himself, herself.

It is not via a flow of shit or a wave of incest that Oedipus arrives, but via the decoded flows of capital-money.

O ignoble contagion of the depressives, neurosis as the only illness consisting in making others ill; the permissive structure: let me deceive, rob, slaughter, kill!

The father is dead, it's my fault, who killed him? it's your fault, it's the Jews, the Arabs, the Chinese, all the resources of racism and segregation.

The dirty little secret, in place of the wide open spaces glimpsed for a moment.

Freud is the Luther and the Adam Smith of psychiatry. He mobilizes all the resources of myth, of tragedy, of dreams, in order to re-enslave desire, this time from within: an intimate theater.

What the film shows so well, to the shame of psychiatrists, is that every delirium is first of all the investment of a field that is social, economic, political, cultural, racial and racist, pedagogical, and religious.

The paranoiac father Oedipalizes the son. Guilt is an idea projected by the father before it is an inner feeling experienced by the son.

But the revolutionary knows that escape is revolutionary—withdrawal, freaks, etc.

I may take flight, but all the while I am fleeing, I will be looking for a weapon!

What a muddle, what an emulsion the family is, agitated by backwashes, pulled in one direction or another, in such a way that the Oedipal bacillus takes or doesn't take, imposes its mold or doesn't succeed in imposing it.

He juggled with them ceaselessly, but only succeeded in increasing one at the expense of another.

The body without organs is like the cosmic egg, the giant molecule swarming with worms, bacilli, Lilliputian figures, animalcules, and homunculi.

In the unconscious there are only populations, groups, and machines.

The lower animals keep all their limbs at home in their bodies, but many of man's are loose, and lie about detached, now here and now there, in various parts of the world.

Desire is not in the subject, but the machine in desire—with the residual subject off to the side, alongside the machine, around the entire periphery, a parasite of machines, an accessory of vertebro-machinate desire.

Desiring-machines are the following: formative machines, whose very misfirings are functional, and whose functioning is indiscernible from their formation.

The desiring-machines on the contrary represent nothing, signify nothing, mean nothing, and are exactly what one makes of them, what is made with them, what they make in themselves.

At man's most basic stratum, the Id: the schizophrenic cell, the schizo molecules, their chains and their jargons.

A whole alphabet, an entire axiomatic done with photos of mad people; this has to be tried, testing 'the need for paternal feeling' against a series of portraits of assassins.

What drives your own desiring-machines? What is their functioning? What are the syntheses into which they enter and operate?

It is not the neurotic stretched out on the couch who speaks to us of love, of its force and its despair, but the mute stroll of the schizo, Lenz's outing in the mountains and under the stars, the immobile voyage in intensities on the body without organs.

The truth is that sexuality is everywhere: the way a bureaucrat fondles his records, a judge administers justice, a businessman causes money to circulate; the way the bourgeoisie fucks the proletariat; and so on.

But we always make love with worlds.

Castration is the universal belief that brings together and disperses both men and women under the yoke of one and the same illusion of consciousness, and makes them adore this yoke.

Making love is not just becoming as one, or even two, but becoming as a hundred thousand.

Schreber's father invented and fabricated astonishing little machines, sadistico-paranoiac machines—for example head straps with a metallic shank and leather bands, for restrictive use on children, for making them straighten up and behave.

The psychoanalyst parks his circus in the dumbfounded unconscious, a real P. T. Barnum in the fields and in the factory.

Production can be that of labor or that of desire, it can be social or desiring, it calls forth forces that no longer permit themselves to be contained in representation.

The fact remains that a conflict cuts across the whole of psychoanalysis, the conflict between mythic and tragic familial representation and social and desiring-production.

The psychoanalytic interest in myth is an essentially critical interest, since the specificity of myth must melt under the rays of the subjective libido.

Capitalism is inseparable from the movement of deterritorialization, but this movement is exorcised through factitious and artificial reterritorializations.

Oedipus is the fallen despot—banished, deterritorialized—but a reterritorialization is engineered, using the Oedipus complex conceived of as the daddy-mommy-me of today's everyman.

What is left in the end is an intimate familial theater, the theater of private man, which is no longer either desiring-production or objective representation.

Why the theater? How bizarre, this theatrical and pasteboard unconscious: the theater taken as the model of production.

From the structure there arises the most austere song in honor of castration— yes, yes, we enter the order of desire through the gates of castration.

The earth is dead, the desert is growing: the old father is dead, the territorial father, and the son too, the despot Oedipus. We are alone with our bad conscience and our boredom, our life where nothing happens; nothing left but images that revolve within the infinite subjective representation.

It is this entire reverse side of the structure that Lacan discovers, with the 'o' as machine, and the 'O' as nonhuman sex: schizophrenizing the analytic field, instead of oedipalizing the psychotic field.

The signs of desire, being nonsignifying, become signifying in representation only in terms of a signifier of absence or lack.

The unconscious of schizoanalysis is unaware of persons, aggregates, and laws, and of images, structures, and symbols. It is an orphan, just as it is an anarchist and an atheist.

What is latency, this pure fable, if not the silence imposed on desiring-machines so that Oedipus can develop, be fortified in us, so that it can accumulate its poisonous sperm and gain the time necessary for propagating itself?

Oedipus as the last word of capitalist consumption—sucking away at daddy-mommy, being blocked and triangulated on the couch; 'So it's . . .'

Causing Oedipus and castration to explode, brutally intervening each time the subject strikes up the song of myth or intones tragic lines, carrying him back to the factory.

We are all little dogs, we need circuits, and we need to be taken for walks.

The machine is always infernal in the family dream.

After having suppressed the spectator as such, Chaplin perverts the laughter, which comes to be like so many short-circuits of a disconnected piece of machinery.

But the narrator-spider never ceases undoing webs and planes, resuming the journey, watching for the signs or the indices that operate like machines and that will cause him to go on further.

We will witness a new race of sick people implore by reaction that they be given back an asylum, or a little Beckettian land, a garbage can, so they can become catatonic in a corner.

It is merely its unwarranted privilege, a privilege beyond its capacities, that renders it mad.

The schizoanalyst is a mechanic, and schizoanalysis is solely functional.

Partial objects define the working machine or the working parts, but in a state of dispersion such that one part is continually referring to a part from an entirely different machine, like the red clover and the bumble bee, the wasp and the orchid, the bicycle horn and the dead rat's ass.

Such is the case in the schizoid sequences of Beckett: stones, pockets, mouth; a shoe, a pipe bowl, a small limp bundle that is undefined, a cover for a bicycle bell, half a crutch.

A permutation involving 2, 3, n organs; deformable abstract polygons that make game of the figurative Oedipal triangle, and never cease to undo it.

Desire indeed passes through the body, and through the organs, but not through the organism.

The others no longer have to do with a simple person, but with a man to the x+y+z power whose life has been immeasurably increased, dispersed while being united with other natural forces.

It is a chain of escape, and no longer a code.

The signifying chain of the unconscious, Numen, is not used to discover or decipher codes of desire, but to cause absolutely decoded flows of desire, Libido, to circulate.

Death is not desired, there is only death that desires, by virtue of the body without organs or the immobile motor, and there is also life that desires, by virtue of the working organs.

Every intensity controls within its own life the experience of death, and envelops it.

Psychoanalysis ought to be a song of life, or else be worth nothing at all. It ought, practically, to teach us to sing life. And see how the most defeated, sad song of death emanates from it: eiapopeia.

It is Oedipus, the marshy earth, that gives off a powerful odor of decay and death; and it is castration, the pious ascetic wound, the signifier, that makes of this death a conservatory.

A maudlin crying to be loved, which makes your knees go all ricky.

The only modern myth is the myth of zombies—mortified schizos, good for work, brought back to reason.

In man's game of chance the death instinct, the silent instinct is decidedly well placed, perhaps next to egoism. It takes the place of zero in roulette. The house always wins.

Death comes all the more from without as it is coded from within.

The schizoanalyst is not an interpreter, even less a theater director; he is a mechanic, a micromechanic.

In the unconscious it is not the lines of pressure that matter, but on the contrary the lines of escape.

There are no desiring-machines that exist outside the social machines that they form on a large scale; and no social machines without the desiring-machines that inhabit them on a small scale.

The schizo is not revolutionary, but the schizophrenic process—in terms of which the schizo is merely the interruption, or the continuation in the void—is the potential for revolution.

There is no society that does not arrange lack in its midst, by variable means peculiar to it.

The form or quality of the socius is therefore itself produced, but as the unengendered—that is, as the natural or divine precondition of production.

Revolutionaries often forget, or do not like to recognize, that one wants and makes revolution out of desire, not duty.

The officer of 'In the Penal Colony' demonstrates what an intense libidinal investment of a machine can be, a machine that is not only technical but social, and through which desire desires its own repression.

Repressing desire, not only for others but in oneself, being the cop for others and for oneself—that is what arouses, and it is not ideology, it is economy.

It is understandable, therefore, that a group can be revolutionary from the standpoint of class interest and its preconscious investments, but not be so—and even remain fascist and police-like—from the standpoint of its libidinal investments.

And what revolution is not tempted to turn against its subject-groups, stigmatized as anarchistic or irresponsible, and to liquidate them?

It is in vain that the secret is published, that one demands one's right to be heard; it can even be disinfected, treated in a psychoanalytic or scientific manner, yet thereby one stands a greater chance of killing desire, or of inventing forms of liberation for it drearier than the most repressive prison.

A woman is a strange soft vibration on the air, going forth unknown and unconscious, and seeking a vibration of response.

In delirium the libido is continually re-creating History, continents, kingdoms, races, and cultures.

The Wolf Man demonstrates a marked taste for the poor woman: the peasant girl on all fours washing some clothes, or the servant scrubbing the floor.

Oedipus: the touchstone of the pure psychoanalyst, on which to sharpen the sacred blade of a successful castration.

The mother herself functions as rich woman or poor woman, maid or princess, pretty girl or old lady, animal or Blessed Virgin, and all at once.

We dream of entering their offices, opening the windows and saying, 'It smells stuffy in here—some relation with the outside, if you please.'

We dream of entering their offices, opening the windows and saying, 'It smells stuffy in here—some relation with the outside, if you please.'

4, 3, 2, 1, 0—Oedipus is a race for death.

In so-called schizophrenic familial monographs everyone easily recognizes his own daddy, his own mommy.

One has therefore glossed over what is essential: that society is schizophrenizing at the level of its infrastructure, its mode of production, its most precise capitalist economic circuits.

For the schizo is the one who escapes all Oedipal, familial, and personological references—I'll no longer say me, I'll no longer say daddy-mommy—and he keeps his word.

Catatonia rather than neurosis, catatonia rather than Oedipus and castration—but it is still an effect of neuroticization, a countereffect of one and the same illness.

Listen to the great paranoiac din beneath the discourse of reason that speaks for others, in the name of the silent majority.

Only one way to spend time on the couch: schizoanalyze the psychoanalyst.

Nonfigurative loves, indices of a revolutionary investment of the social field, and which are neither Oedipal nor pre-oedipa! since it all amounts to the same thing, but innocently anoedipal, and which give the revolutionary the right to say, 'Oedipus? Never heard of it.'

Even the most overt fascism speaks the language of goals, of law, order, and reason.

Christ's body is engineered on all sides and in all fashions, pulled in all directions, playing the role of a full body without organs, a locus of connection for all the machines of desire.

But at least something arose whose force fractured the codes, undid the signifiers, passed under the structures, set the flows in motion, and effected breaks at the limits of desire: a breakthrough.

This style of painting flourishes today, under the usurped name of modern painting—a poisonous flower.

O schizophrenic mathematics, uncontrollable and mad desiring-machines!

The capitalist machine does not run the risk of becoming mad, it is mad from one end to the other and from the beginning, and this is the source of its rationality.

There is no metaphor here: the factories are prisons, they do not resemble prisons, they are prisons.

Everything begins with Marx, continues on with Lenin, and ends with the refrain, 'Welcome, Mister Brezhnev.'

Capitalism, which is always ready to expand its interior limits, remains threatened by an exterior limit that stands a greater chance of coming to it and cleaving it from within, in proportion as the interior limits expand.

Desire is an exile, desire is a desert that traverses the body without organs and makes us pass from one of its faces to the other.

It will be a decoded flow, a deterritorialized flow that runs too far and cuts too sharply, thereby escaping from the axiomatic of capitalism.

We believe in desire as in the irrational of every form of rationality, and not because it is a lack, a thirst, or an aspiration, but because it is the production of desire: desire that produces—real-desire, or the real in itself.

We are still too competent; we would like to speak in the name of an absolute incompetence.

We have seen how the negative task of schizoanalysis must be violent, brutal: defamiliarizing, de-oedipalizing, decastrating; undoing theater, dream, and fantasy; decoding, deterritorializing—a terrible curettage, a malevolent activity.

For the new earth ("In truth, the earth will one day become a place of healing") is not to be found in the neurotic or perverse reterritorializations that arrest the process or assign it goals.

This title stresses the notion of search and voyage.

On the existence of a little machine in the 'primal fantasy,' an existence nevertheless always in the wings, see Sigmund Freud.

The whole first part of this book describes the schizo's stroll in the city; the second part, 'Legendes folles,' progresses to the hallucinations or deliriums of historical episodes.

But these authors indulge in a strange gymnastics to maintain the existence of an Oedipal problem or complex, despite all the reasons they advance to the contrary, and although they say this complex is not 'clinically accessible.'

Leach, in Rethinking Anthropology, analyzes the different between ideology and practice apropos of the Kachin marriage (pp. 81-82) he greatly advances the critique of conceptions of kinship as a closed system (pp. 89-90).

Regarding imperial formations founded on the control of commerce rather than control over public works—in black Africa, for example—see the comments of Maurice Godelier and J. Suret-Canale.

In this historical field (constituted by the previous mode of production), the elements whose genealogy is being traced have precisely only a marginal situation, i.e., a non-determinate one.

On the 'reality' of modern man as a composite and motley image, see Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathustra, II, 'Of the Land of Culture.'

the psychotic use that treats it as a molecular multiplicity of stitches, and the neurotic use that treats it as a global object and molar lack.

The opposition between aggregates of gregariousness and multiplicities of singularities is developed throughout this book.

Freud, Sigmund, In, 13, 14, 17, 23, 28, 46, 51, 53-68, 72, 74, 76, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 89, 92, 93n, 96, 100, 106, 113, 114, 115, 117, 118, 119, 121, 122, 123, 128, 128n, 172, 216, 270, 271, 275, 276, 278, 280, 289, 290, 291, 291n, 292, 293n, 294, 297, 299-300, 301n, 304n, 314, 331, 332-33, 335, 349, 351-57

Nietzsche, Friedrich W., 20-21, 63, 86, 106-107, 111, 121, 144, 166, 185, 190, 191, 192, 196, 199, 207rc, 213, 214«, 215, 216, 217n, 268, 299, 342, 343, 345, 368

Desiring-machines are machines, no metaphor.

How do we ferret out the fascism that is ingrained in our behavior?

Not man as the king of creation, but rather as the being who is in intimate contact with the profound life of all forms or all types of beings, who is responsible for even the stars and animal life, and who ceaselessly plugs an organ-machine into an energy-machine, a tree into his body, a breast into his mouth, the sun into his asshole: the eternal custodian of the machines of the universe.

Desiring-machines work only when they break down, and by continually breaking down.

But a perverted, bewitched world quickly comes into being, as capital increasingly plays the role of a recording surface that falls back on all of production.

Desire does not lack anything; it does not lack its object. It is, rather, the subject that is missing in desire, or desire that lacks a fixed subject; there is no fixed subject unless there is repression.

Why do men fight for their servitude as stubbornly as though it were their salvation?

It tends, with all the strength at its command, to produce the schizo as the subject of the decoded flows on the body without organs—more capitalist than the capitalist and more proletarian than the proletariat.

The psychoanalyst no longer says to the patient: 'Tell me a little bit about your desiring-machines, won't you?' Instead he screams: 'Answer daddy-and-mommy when I speak to you!'

Wouldn't it be better to schizophrenize—to schizophrenize the domain of the unconscious as well as the sociohistorical domain, so as to shatter the iron collar of Oedipus and rediscover everywhere the force of desiring-production?

The terms of Oedipus do not form a triangle, but exist shattered into all corners of the social field—the mother on the instructor's knees, the father next to the colonel.

I am becoming God, I am becoming woman, I was Joan of Arc and I am Heliogabalus and the Great Mongol, I am a Chinaman, a redskin, a Templar, I was my father and I was my son.

It is strange that we had to wait for the dreams of colonized peoples in order to see that, on the vertices of the pseudo triangle, mommy was dancing with the missionary, daddy was being fucked by the tax collector, while the self was being beaten by a white man.

It represents nothing, but it produces. It means nothing, but it works.

Desire is revolutionary in its essence—desire, not left-wing holidays!—and no society can tolerate a position of real desire without its structures of exploitation, servitude, and hierarchy being compromised.

Schizophrenia is at once the wall, the breaking through this wall, and the failures of this breakthrough.

Man could never do without blood, torture, and sacrifices when he felt the need to create a memory for himself; the most dreadful sacrifices and pledges (...), the most repulsive mutilations (...), the cruelest rites of all the religious cults.

The social machine's limit is not attrition, but rather its misfirings; it can operate only by fits and starts, by grinding and breaking down, in spasms of minor explosions.

Oedipus is something like euthanasia within ethnocide.

The unconscious does not speak, it engineers.

The aim now is to preclude pessimistically, once and for all, the prospect of a final discharge; the aim now is to make the glance recoil disconsolately from an iron impossibility.

The pseudo territoriality is the product of an effective deterritorialization that substitutes abstract signs for the signs of the earth.

The only universal history is the history of contingency.

This is no longer the cruelty of life, the terror of one life brought to bear against another life, but a post-mortem despotism, the despot become anus and vampire.

The State, its police, and its army form a gigantic enterprise of antiproduction, but at the heart of production itself, and conditioning this production.

It axiomatizes with one hand what it decodes with the other.

There are no longer even any masters, but only slaves commanding other slaves; there is no longer any need to burden the animal from the outside, it shoulders its own burden.

Whence Reich's cry: no, the masses were not deceived, they desired fascism, and that is what has to be explained.

Antiproduction has spread throughout all of production, instead of remaining localized in the system, and has freed a fantastic death instinct that now permeates and crushes desire.

It is our intimate colonial formation that corresponds to the form of social sovereignty. We are all little colonies and it is Oedipus that colonizes us.

In the unconscious there are only populations, groups, and machines.

The truth is that sexuality is everywhere: the way a bureaucrat fondles his records, a judge administers justice, a businessman causes money to circulate; the way the bourgeoisie fucks the proletariat; and so on.

The unconscious of schizoanalysis is unaware of persons, aggregates, and laws, and of images, structures, and symbols. It is an orphan, just as it is an anarchist and an atheist.

The schizoanalyst is a mechanic, and schizoanalysis is solely functional.

The schizo is not revolutionary, but the schizophrenic process—in terms of which the schizo is merely the interruption, or the continuation in the void—is the potential for revolution.

Revolutionaries often forget, or do not like to recognize, that one wants and makes revolution out of desire, not duty.

We believe in desire as in the irrational of every form of rationality, and not because it is a lack, a thirst, or an aspiration, but because it is the production of desire: desire that produces—real-desire, or the real in itself.