Culture (n.) draws all its rules from one normative event: the whole community banding together against a single victim.
Culture (n.) grows more refined only by growing more mystified — an effacing of bloody tracks, an expulsion of the expulsion itself.
Culture (n.) is a word so loaded it means nothing in accounts of human origins: it situates the problem more often than it solves it.
Culture (n.) born of violence must return to violence: Cain's line builds towns and invents arts, until his sevenfold vengeance becomes Lamech's seventy-sevenfold.
Culture (n.) is built over the founding murder the way a tomb is built over a corpse — to honour it and to make sure no one sees it.
Culture (n.) is the bond that stands against us: a terrifying mirror of our own violence, testifying against us without our noticing.
Culture (n.) lets even its narrowest field feel inexhaustible from inside, and whatever punctures that illusion stirs up the urge to persecute.
Culture (n.) is predisposed to the permanent concealment of its origins in collective violence.
Culture (n.) is identified in modern times by such scandalous, striking signs as the dish: its coarseness contributes to its subtlety.