Phenomenology (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no royal road, any more than philosophy has: there is only the one road, and its own essential nature must point it out.

Phenomenology (n.) demands ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a way of looking that contrasts at every point with the natural attitude — and then the hardest labour of all: learning to see what stands before our eyes.

Phenomenology (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the secret longing of all modern philosophy: Descartes's thought was already pressing towards it, Hume almost entered it but his eyes were dazzled, Kant was the first truly to see it.

Phenomenology (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠reason, carried out completely — every formation of reason and unreason, every constitution of every object — would coincide with phenomenology itself.

Consciousness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠conceivable without body — and, paradoxical as it sounds, even without soul or person: a stream in which no body, soul or empirical ego ever takes shape.

Consciousness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not bundles or streams of sensations, which, meaningless in themselves, could give forth no meaning however compactly massed; it is the source of all reason and unreason, right and wrong, reality and illusion, value and disvalue, deed and misdeed.

Consciousness (n.) would ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠outlast the annihilation of the world: annul all nature and there are no bodies, so no men — "as a man I should no longer be, and again I should have no neighbours" — yet my consciousness would remain an absolute stream.

Consciousness (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠real being are not two coordinate kinds of being living as friendly neighbours and now and then entering into relation — between their meanings yawns a veritable abyss.

The Thing (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠is physical can on principle show its shape only in one perspective at a time — and every property draws us into infinities of experience that never close.

A Thing (n.) may ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠always turn out not to exist, however bodily present: later experience can force us to say it was illusion, hallucination, a merely coherent dream — even reconstructing past perceptions posthumously.

A Thing (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠condemned to incompleteness: to remain for ever incomplete is an ineradicable essential of the correlation of Thing and Thing-perception — and what else could fix the meaning of "thing"?

The Thing (n.) the ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠physicist studies is the very thing he sees, handles, places on the scales and brings to the fusing-furnace; the sensed thing is no sign of something else — at most a sign for itself.

Perception (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a table never returns: I walk round it, close my eyes, open them — the perception is a ceaseless flux and never comes back individually the same; only the table is the same.

Perception (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠explode: the whole perceived thing breaks up into conflicting apprehensions, suppositions about the thing that annul one another — and earlier positings are cancelled together with their meaning.

Perception (n.) looks ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to the man in the street like an empty looking of an empty Ego at the thing itself, which comes into contact with it in some astonishing way.

Perception (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠reach the thing itself: it is a fundamental error to think that, behind appearances, the thing in itself is withheld from us.

Bracketing (n.) changes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠nothing in my conviction and yet changes everything: the thesis stays what it is, but I make "no use" of it — it remains there like the bracketed in the bracket, the disconnected outside the connexional system.

Bracketing (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not the ignorant man's failure to use a thesis, nor a turn to the negative, the presumptive or the doubtful — it is a unique transvaluing that lies wholly in our freedom.

Bracketing (n.) works ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an inverting change of signature: "tree," "blossoming," "plant" sound exactly as before, yet in inverted commas the words have undergone a radical modification of meaning.

Bracketing (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a change of indicator, not an erasure: the bracketed is not wiped off the phenomenological slate but carries its sign with it back into the inquiry — so there is still a phenomenology of nature, of man, of society.

Experience (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no perspectives: it does not shade itself off — where there is no being in space, it is senseless to speak of seeing from different sides.

Experience (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠something that flows: from the present moment we can swim after it with our gaze, while the stretches we leave in our wake are lost to perception.

Experience (n.) points ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠beyond itself, every actual one, to possible experiences, which point again to new ones, and so in infinitum — never arbitrarily, always motivated.

Experience (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in itself a flow of becoming: a constant flow of retentions and protentions around a primordial phase, itself in flux, in which the living now comes to consciousness against its before and after.

Philosophy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a misfortune to be in love with: amid the chaos of philosophies, the one in love realizes he has really no choice at all, since none has taken care to free itself from presuppositions.

Philosophy (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its true form is a promised land its founder sees spread before him and will never set foot on.

Philosophy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a "science" so contentious and contemptible that the phenomenologist presupposes nothing of it — not even its concept.

Philosophy (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠given us many systems and "directions" but never the one philosophy — because everyone hurried past the immense difficulty of beginning correctly.

A Noema (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the perceived as such, the remembered as such, the judged as such, the pleasing as such — the "meaning" that lies immanent in every act exactly as it is meant there.

A Noema (n.) with ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its "tree" in inverted commas is no more contained in the perception as a real part than the tree of nature is; it belongs to the perception's essence in a wholly different way.

A Noema (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠separated from all nature, physics and psychology by veritable abysses — and even that image, being naturalistic, is not strong enough for the difference.

A Noema (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its esse exclusively in its percipi — but in a sense as far as can be from Berkeley's, since the percipi does not contain the esse as a real part.

The World (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never be proved: not because reasons tell against the tremendous force of unanimous experience, but because its non-being is in principle never excluded — every empirical power, however great, can be gradually outweighed.

The World (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be thought annihilated: experience might swarm with conflicts that cannot be evened out, illusions that proclaim no deeper truth, rough fleeting formations that never hold together as things — "a world, in short, exists no longer."

The World (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠space and time, to which man and the human Ego claim to belong, is by its own meaning merely intentional being — a being for a consciousness, and beyond the harmony of its appearances "just nothing at all."

The World (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never a mere world of facts: with the same immediacy it is a world of values and goods — the glass to drink from, the piano, the friend and the foe are given before I think about them.

The Natural attitude (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠why phenomenology stayed unknown so long: from the natural standpoint nothing can be seen except the natural world.

The Natural attitude (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠living naively in our acts — carrying out the theses through which the world is there; the phenomenologist stops living in them and lives instead in acts of the second level, looking at them.

The Natural attitude (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the world I simply have: from the writing-table, through the unseen room behind my back, to the verandah, the garden and the children in the summer-house — all "known" to be there with nothing conceptual about it.

The Natural attitude (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a general thesis that survives every doubt — illusions and hallucinations get struck out of the world, but the world itself stays "out there," at most at odd points other than I supposed.