The Lover's Fatal Identity Is Precisely This:

What The Photograph Reproduces To Infinity Has Occurred Only Once: The Photograph Mechanically Repeats What Could Never Be Repeated Existentially.

I Encounter Millions Of Bodies In My Life; Of These Millions, I May Desire Some Hundreds; But Of These Hundreds, I Love Only One.

Television Doomed Us To The Family, Whose Household Instrument It Has Become-what The Hearth Used To Be, Flanked By The Communal Kettle.

The Gesture Of The Amorous Embrace Seems To Fulfill, For A Time, The Subject's Dream Of Total Union With The Loved Being: The Longing For Consummation With The Other.

I Cannot Classify The Other, For The Other Is, Precisely, Unique, The Singular Image Which Has Miraculously Come To Correspond To The Speciality Of My Desire. The Other Is The Figure Of My Truth, And Cannot Be Imprisoned In Any Stereotype (which Is The Truth Of Others).