Life (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠this very impossibility of experiencing oneself, of making one's existing and one's being coincide — the secret of Henry James's novels: we can live only because we have missed our life.

Life (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the West is not a medical concept but a philosophical-political one: the Hippocratic writings fill ten volumes and use the word zoe just eight times.

Life (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠general has become a 'scientific fact' so generic it can mean a sperm cell or a bear — and it is this blank that the Church made sacred and bioethics made its key term.

Life (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never defined as such in our culture, only split — bios and zoe, public and private, vegetative and relational — and perhaps its very undecidability is why it must be decided politically each time.

Use (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠always first a use of oneself: to use anything I must be affected by it and constitute myself as its user, so that in using something it is my own being that is at stake.

Use (n.) for ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Lucretius invents its own function: the hand gesturing again and again finds its pleasure, the eyes fall in love with seeing, the legs bending in rhythm invent walking.

Use (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Greek covered almost anything: 'to use the god' meant to consult an oracle, 'to use a woman' to have sex, 'to use snow' to be caught in a storm, 'to use Plato' to be his friend.

Use (n.) goes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠back to frui, to enjoy: to take joy in something and so have it in use — only later did enjoying come to mean consuming and gobbling up, Heidegger said.

Slave (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the repressed of Western culture; his reappearance in the modern worker is a return of the repressed in pathological form.

Slave (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a not-quite-human life that makes a truly human, political life possible for others — and so, like bare life, stands on the threshold between nature and law.

Slave (n.) to ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a Greek played the part of machinery rather than worker — a peculiar machine aimed not at producing anything but only at use.

Slave (n.) whose ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only work is the use of the body belongs with seeing, contemplating and living: activities that produce nothing outside themselves.

Human being (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the only creature whose living always puts happiness at stake — a life irredeemably and painfully consigned to happiness.

Human being (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an animal that, by getting bored, woke up to its own captivation — a moth that, while the flame consumes it, notices the flame and itself for the first time.

Human being (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠our tradition finds itself only by first presupposing the not-quite-human — just as free political action is founded by excluding, and including, the slave's idle use of the body.

Human being (n.) mystery ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠is not how a living thing got joined to language but the practical and political mystery of how they come apart.

Being (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its original form may be not substance but use of oneself: the One, Plotinus said, does not make itself into a substance but uses itself as what it is.

Being (n.) splits, ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠whenever you try to grasp it, into a 'before' when you thought you understood it and a 'now' when it has become a puzzle.

Being (n.) like ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠life has always been questioned in the West starting from the division that runs through it.

Being (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a modal ontology uses itself: it constitutes, expresses and loves itself in the way its own modifications affect it.

Care of the self (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Foucault has no substance of its own: the self one cares for is nothing but the relationship itself.

Care of the self (n.) risks ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠dissolving into governing oneself and others, just as Plato's soul that 'uses' the body ends up simply commanding it.

Care of the self (n.) for ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the Greeks was not ethical because it was care for others; it was ethical in itself.

Care of the self (n.) sounds ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠like moral dandyism to modern ears, Foucault noted, yet it is the root of the strictest moralities the West has known.

Existence (n.) for ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the Neoplatonists was never the starting point but something 'taken' — the material remainder left behind by a One that withdraws beyond being.

Existence (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠itself exist, Aquinas noted, any more than running itself runs.

Existence (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Leibniz's formula is a demand of essence — not a mode of it, not a mere distinction of reason.

Existence (n.) for ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the living simply means to live, said Aristotle; and Nietzsche added that we have no other picture of being than living.

Habit (n.) wears ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠equipment down, Heidegger wrote: use itself falls into disuse and becomes merely habitual, until nothing but bare serviceability remains.

Habit (n.) rather ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠than freedom guided the souls in Plato's myth: Orpheus chose to be a swan, Ajax a lion, Agamemnon an eagle — each picking a new life out of the grudges of the old.

A Habit (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the form in which potential exists: it turns a baby's vague 'could become a writer' into the real power of someone who writes.

A Habit (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠itself be had, Aristotle warned, or there would be an infinite regress — and it is precisely in this place that modern thought set its subject.

Politics (n.) treats ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a human life as if its thinking and feeling could be split off from its vegetative life — and so, since that is impossible in mortals, as something that may legitimately be killed.

Politics (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠art are not tasks or works but the dimension where works are idled and contemplated, freeing the inoperativity locked up in them.

Politics (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠above all a special qualification of life, made by cuts through the living body — and that qualification has no content but the cut itself.

Politics (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠ontology need each other: if being is divided by language yet not torn apart, then a city, and not just a pasture for animals, can be founded on it.

Landscape (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the inoperativity of inoperativity: we see the hills and lakes as clearly as ever, yet no longer see them, happily lost in the whole; to the one who contemplates it, there is only landscape.

Landscape (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠where the human being is finally at home, after being thrown and lost in the world — 'country' began as the greeting of people from the same village.

Landscape (n.) was ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not invented by Petrarch on Mont Ventoux or by Dutch painters: the ancients painted it, and goats, vicuñas and primates climb heights just to gaze at it.