It is clear that the world is purely parodic, in other words, that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in a deceptive form... all things would be visibly connected if one could discover at a single glance and in its totality the tracings of an Ariadne’s thread leading thought into its own labyrinth... They can very well try to find each other; they will never find anything but parodic images, and they will fall asleep as empty as mirrors.

[...]

The planetary systems that turn in space like rigid disks, and whose centres also move, describing an infinitely larger circle, only move away continuously from their own position in order to return to it, completing their rotation. Movement is the figure of love, incapable of stopping at a particular being, and rapidly passing from one to another. But the forgetting that determines it in this way is only a subterfuge of memory.

The interest of philosophy resides in the fact that, in opposition to science or common sense, it must positively envisage the waste products of intellectual; appropriation. Nevertheless, it most often envisages these waste products only in abstract forms of totality (nothingness, infinity, the absolute), to which it itself cannot give a positive content; it can thus freely proceed in speculations that more or less have as a goal, all things considered, the sufficient identification of an endless world with a finite world, and unknowable (noumenal) world with the known world.... God rapidly and almost entirely loses his terrifying features, his appearance as a decomposing cadaver, in order to become, at the final stages of degradation, the simple (paternal) sign of universal homogeneity.

MEN ACT IN ORDER TO BE. This must not be understood in the negative sense of conservation (conserving in order not to be thrown out of existence by death), but in the positive sense of tragic and incessant combat for a satisfaction that is almost beyond reach... Being in the world is so uncertain that I can project it where I want – outside of me. It is a clumsy man, still incapable of eluding the intrigues of nature, who locks being in the me. Being in fact is found NOWHERE and it was an easy game for a sickly malice to discover it to be divine, which has at its base the immensity of the simplest matter... Being attains the blinding flash in tragic annihilation. Laughter only assumes its fullest impact on being at the moment when, in the fall it unleashes, a representation of death is cynically recognised. It is not only the composition of elements that constitutes the incandescence of being, but its decomposition in its mortal form.

Human life is exhausted from serving as the head of, or the reason for, the universe. To the extent that it becomes this head and this reason, to the extent that it becomes empty or neutral and, if it is free, it is in play.

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