Antigone (n.) is inhuman: the Chorus calls her ōmos — raw, like an eater of raw flesh — because her desire aims at the beyond of Atē.
Antigone (n.) fascinates beyond all her arguments: an image so splendid it makes you shut your eyes the very moment you look — a terrible, self-willed victim.
Antigone (n.) chooses to be, purely and simply, the guardian of the criminal's being as such — sacrificing her own being to make the family Atē eternal.
Antigone (n.) is not a clash of family against state but a conflict internal to ethical desire itself — the passion that rushes by itself to its own destruction.
Antigone (n.) is the guardian of the being of the criminal as such — or, read otherwise, the assertion of an unconscious right on which the symbolic must founder.
Antigone (n.) is beautiful as the irresolvable coincidence of life and death: dying, yet alive, she signifies the limit that final death is.
Antigone (n.) buried alive is a life about to turn into certain death: a death lived in anticipation, a death that crosses into life, a life that moves into the realm of death.
Antigone (n.) will later say she is made for love rather than hate, yet she is introduced with the word enmity — rejecting her sister with calculated cruelty: "Go back to your Creon, since you love him so."