An Image (n.) seeks ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the person as a synthesis of all their aspects — the way children draw two eyes on a face in profile: what is successive in perception is simultaneous in the image.

An Image (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a person contracts a duration, even contradictory aspects — which is why some images keep the power to move us long after the person of flesh and blood has lost it.

An Image (n.) carries ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a spurious persuasive power: there is no image without inner contradiction, and it is in and by that contradiction that the feeling of evidence is made.

An Image (n.) holds ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an object that is visible and I cannot see it, tangible and I cannot touch it, audible and I cannot hear it.

A Dream (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not made of mental images but of sensations taken for something else: the red sunlight through the curtain is grasped as blood; Proust woke saying 'stag, stag, Francis Jammes, fork' — words that stood for other words.

A Dream (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not fiction taken for reality but the odyssey of a consciousness bound, by itself and in spite of itself, to build only an irreal world — like Midas turning all he touches to gold, it turns all it grasps into the imaginary.

A Dream (n.) differs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠from the half-sleep vision by having a world: if the Aga Khan's face simply appears, it is hypnagogic; if behind it I sense a world laden with threats and promises, it is a dream.

A Dream (n.) allows ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no 'trial runs': every foresight becomes an episode of the story; the dreamer does not think 'I could have had a revolver' but suddenly has one — and if the thought comes 'what if it jams?', it jams.

Perception (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠image exclude each other: as long as I look at this table I cannot imagine Pierre, and if the irreal Pierre surges up, the table under my eyes leaves the scene.

Perception (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠full of empty intentions, not hidden images: I see the ashtray's upper face as the kind of face that has an underneath, the tapestry as continuing behind the cupboard, the man's back as one that has a front.

Perception (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠index sui, like Spinoza's truth, and the dream is like Spinozist error: it can pass for truth, but possessing the truth is enough to dissipate it.

Perception (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not, as Alain says, dreaming and waking up immediately — a grave error, for Sartre: a false perception is not a dream, and correcting a perception is not waking up.

Imagination (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a magical act, an incantation to make the thing one desires appear so one can take possession of it — imperious and infantile, refusing distance and difficulty, like the child acting on the world from his bed by orders and prayers.

Imagination (n.) inhabits ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a world where nothing happens — I can make a horse run or a plant grow, but there is never a second of surprise; the moving object never precedes the intention.

Imagination (n.) gives ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a world without freedom, contrary to what one might believe: not determined, but fatal, the inverse of freedom, because possibilities require a real world to be thought from.

Imagination (n.) changes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠by all or nothing: a turned-up nose leaves Pierre's face as it was, while a broken nose brings a boxer who is no longer Pierre, as in dreams.

Hallucination (n.) never ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠happens in front of the doctor: it does not take place in the real world but excludes it — the soldier in delirium ignored a rearranged room, yet docilely wiped his nose when shouted at.

Hallucination (n.) always ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠happens in the absence of the subject and can be experienced only by memory: consciousness wakes up in arms, ready to observe — and finds only the memory of an irreal object already gone.

Hallucination (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠located in the room only afterwards: 'I am here, me who just saw the devil' easily turns into 'I just saw the devil here.'

Hallucination (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠made of words one hears but cannot listen to, faces one sees but cannot look at — furtive by essence, which is why patients say 'it was a whispering voice', 'it spoke to me by telephone'.

An Irreal object (n.) stands ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠out as a cavity: a white wall as imaged is a white wall that lacks perception.

The Irreal object (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠intuitive-absent — the imagined person is not unseen, but given to intuition precisely as absent.

An Irreal object (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠isolated by defect, not excess: it acts on nothing and nothing acts on it — without consequence in the strong sense of the term.

The Irreal object (n.) turns ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠love, hate, desire and will before it into quasi-love and quasi-hate — as observing it is only quasi-observation.

A Mental image (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a certain way an object has of being absent within its very presence.

The Mental image (n.) when ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠vaguely conscious is a vague image — a hare vaguely perceived is still a determinate hare, but a hare vaguely imagined is an indeterminate hare.

The Mental image (n.) as ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠degraded knowledge has begun to sink toward the sensible — an opening that is an opening of nothing, two dissimilar objects with no qualities to differ by — and yet reported as images.

The Mental image (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠marked by essential poverty: its elements keep no relations with the rest of the world, and the relations you did not think of do not wait in secret — they do not exist at all.

Love (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a present person lives her very life: it constantly surprises me, I must remake it at each moment — there is always more to love in her than I in fact love, an inexhaustibility like an idea in the Kantian sense.

Love (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not, primarily, consciousness of itself: it is consciousness of the charms of the loved person.

Love (n.) for ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the absent undergoes an essential reversal: the feeling now produces its object, and the irreal Annie is no more than the strict correlate of my feelings — so the love is never more than what it is.

Love (n.) at ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a distance slowly loses its nuance and becomes love in general — the all-purpose feeling psychologists and novelists describe — until one writes: 'I have lost your image, I am more separated from you than ever.'

Reading (n.) when ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠engrossed has no mental images: they appear only with its stops and failures — a multitude of images is the mark of an inattentive, frequently interrupted reading.

Reading (n.) a ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠detective story is a kind of fascination: I believe what I read without ceasing to hold it imaginary — a world encloses me and I cannot disengage.

Reading (n.) a ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠novel gives its world complete existence in the irreal: we take sides, grow indignant, some even cry — verbal signs are the surface of contact between the imaginary world and us.

Reading (n.) never ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠fully reaches the personal dream, where an irreal me is at stake, suffers and risks an irreal death that would end it and its world at once, and I do not only see the slave flee but feel myself to be that slave.

A Hypnagogic image (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠this paradox: I really see something, but what I see is nothing — I am in the act of seeing a nonexistent cat.

A Hypnagogic image (n.) ignores ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠perspective: the small woman in the half-dream walks toward me without growing bigger — only the pink of her stockings becomes more lively.

A Hypnagogic image (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠radically false: it realizes on the plane of perception what is in fact only an empty intention — consciousness had to see forms because it was looking for some.

A Hypnagogic image (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠given as 'truer than nature', like a suggestive portrait truer than its model — yet it stands nowhere, occupying no place among other objects.