Invention (n.) needs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a contradiction that has been condensed rather than solved: the image saturated with incompatible experiences is the precondition for a structural change.

Invention (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a detour through the past: a small, intense goal in the present reaches back and takes command of a large store of old, weakly charged images.

Invention (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠occasioned by a problem but is never limited to it: in a true invention there is a leap, an amplifying surplus that goes beyond simple finality and the search for a fit.

Invention (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠feedback from the finished result: the completed outcome reaches back and tells each part of the present effort how to line up.

An Image (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a sensation that would become a hallucination if nothing stopped it: the rest of the mind exists to talk it down.

An Image (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a bundle of features, not a thing, and so never has to choose: Shirley Temple could be baby and seductress at once.

An Image (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠perception's sketch: since the object is only given at the end of the act, every step before is guided by an image richer in possibilities than any object.

An Image (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a reserve of solutions, the way a roadmap is a reserve of routes: the more precise it is, the faster the detours hidden in it are found.

A Symbol (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the opacity of a real object: it is irreducible to any attitude of consciousness and partly resistant even to being understood, and it ties the subject to events of which it keeps a fragment.

A Symbol (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a supersaturated image: its coupling of incompatible things is a metastable state, the necessary condition for invention, a restructuring that restores compatibility in a new system.

A Symbol (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an object pointed two ways at once: a scepter that threatens the one who sees it and is also what he lifts against the world. It stores the energy of a spring held between two opposite pulls, ready to snap into a new arrangement.

A Symbol (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an image that has been pulled apart and kept whole: when later imprints contradict the first until the two are in symmetry, the memory-image couples incompatible qualities.

Memory (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not a darkroom that waits for the series to end: it is developed after each contribution, corrected and supercharged by each intense experience, so that new imprints may clash with old ones without erasing them.

Memory (n.) loses ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its past when it turns into symbol: succession becomes simultaneity, the particular goes universal, and what belonged to others starts to belong to me while what was mine slips away.

Memory (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a child keeps good images only of scenes that interest it: the eidetic image registers the significant objects and their significant traits, unlike the painter's interest in light and shadow.

A Memory (n.) counts ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠as an image only when it hits hard enough to organize the rest of the mind; most memories are only files, but an image is a sample of a situation.

The Mother (n.) as ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠breast becomes an imago when dependence is felt as a threat of absorption: she is resting place and nirvana, and the wish for independence appears as a death wish.

The Mother (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a derived shadow, the bad mother: she acquires meaning only as a branch of the original, who becomes the good mother explicitly only when later experiences reveal bad ones.

A Mother (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be a human who answers a gosling's cries correctly: it is not the species but the exchange of signals that makes the parent.

The Mother (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the psyche is both nurturing and possessive: source of life and threat of absorption, a coupling of incompatible qualities that makes an image into a symbol.

A Toy (n.) should ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠last a whole childhood, perhaps a whole life, with neither secrets nor weaknesses, because for the child it is the prototype of the world.

A Toy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the other half of a broken coin: like the symbolon, it is the ego's correlate in the world, and it fits the child as its twin.

A Toy (n.) like ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the toy soldier is the child to be protected and the virile hero at the front, in one figure.

A Toy (n.) only ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠needs to work on the store counter, as far as adults can tell; the child learns the difference when it breaks in his hands.

Imagination (n.) differs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠by type: the motor type does not hear or see its words but feels them in the mouth, and asked to imagine “bubble” or “mutter” with an open mouth he cannot.

Imagination (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠fake a coin: the subject still feels it on his forehead after the real one is removed and tries to make it fall, because the feeling of adhesion outlasts the thing.

Imagination (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a force that makes you a stranger to your own present: it leaves you indifferent to what you have, as if it were not really yours.

Imagination (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not only the making of images but the receiving of them: artworks, clothing, and machines are images waiting to be discovered.

The Road (n.) was ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠invented as a stable object by the Romans, which is why all roads lead to Rome: it gave shape to the image of power, a seat in Rome fed by the provinces through a constant flow of goods and people.

A Road (n.) ages ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in its own way: a Roman road dies one flagstone at a time, a modern one in long waves and buckles, because each formula of compatibility has its own way of falling apart.

A Road (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠is blocked already contains the team that will clear it: travellers stopped one by one by the same boulder pile up into a crowd, and that crowd is the push that moves the boulder.

The Road (n.) as ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a network outlived the empire that built it because it went beyond the purpose of every single trip and took in a piece of nature along the way.

Art (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a second birth: it reveals the desire of beings to exist, and to exist a second time in a meaningful world where every local thing speaks to the universal and each instant is the origin of an echo.

Art (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the merely aesthetic kind creates ruins: it consigns what it makes to the past, and that is the art Plato chased from the city.

Art (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an exorcism: instead of letting the swarm of symbols float between us and the world, it stills the swarm by representing it, ritualizing it and setting it among objects and social rules.

Art (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the analytical kind is the most hospitable because its unity is an image and not a surface: it can take a propane tank beside a chapel without losing its style.

An Imago (n.) puts ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠two successive moments into one simultaneous couple: the mother as source of life and the mother as the annihilation of the child's individuality, held in tension.

An Imago (n.) turns ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a discontinuous series of lived episodes into a continuous spectrum of possibilities between two opposed poles, so that experience becomes a universal mode of access to its object.

The Imago (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠experience packed like a large molecule: from outside it is nearly neutral, so a weak push can move it, but inside it holds a huge charge of past life, released when it is put to use.

An Imago (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠more than a summary of lived experience: it marks the start of reversibility toward action, from a record of the past to a means of dealing with the future.