Abstract

What is it that is ruined, what is it that is destroyed in us, each time we become an image? It is our ruin that awakens after our death, living no longer as a man; without humanity. In being loved we give up our most human guise: we let it die little by little, until nothing remains but its corpse. More precisely, its image. For this reason, it is only insofar as we are loved--as images--that we are completely individual. Only in love is a life made truly singular, taking leave of its common nature. An individual's most authentic substance exists, in fact, only as an image. This is why no-one will ever be able to love a people, a race, a community. If what is loved is, demonically, this absolute haecceity without species, then love love liberates us from every resemblance. Without love, every life again becomes generic, resuming obvious, universal characteristics, losing its demonic nature and becoming human