Death (n.) would name whatever suspends all experience of giving and of taking.
Death (n.) stays mine even when someone kills me; it is the one thing I cannot receive from anyone else.
Death (n.) is differance itself, the movement that is necessarily finite.
Death (n.) by writing also inaugurates life: Rousseau never began to live until he looked upon himself as a dead man.
Death (n.) is known only to man: the knowledge of death and its terror is among the first acquisitions made in leaving the animal state.
Death (n.) is the master-name of the supplementary series, though death is nothing in itself; what counts is the relationship to it.
Death (n.) strolls between letters: to write is to have the courage to lose one's life.
Death (n.) cannot be reconciled with God as positive presence: infinite alterity as death and as presence cannot be one.
Death (n.) is an articulated form of our relation to the other: I die only of the other, through him, for him, in him.
Death (n.) is already at the origin of a life that defends itself against death only through an economy of death.
Death (n.) is not something we risk in playing with machines; it is the origin of machines.
Death (n.) reveals nothing, because by the time it could reveal man to himself, the human being has ceased to exist.
Death (n.) is the domain Thoth presides over, counting out the days of life before he records the dead.
Death (n.) is truth as the absolute form of blindness: any full presence of what is would be death.
Death (n.) can be the rallying cry of an insurrection: “Long live death! Let us all stay!”