Desire (n.) is mimesis grafted onto instinct — over-activating, aggravating and scrambling it.
Desire (n.) is distinctively but only relatively human: it appears once mimesis crosses a certain threshold — something animals approach but never reach.
Desire (n.) splits the modern world into friends and enemies: the enemies blame it for levelling natural hierarchies and wrecking every value worth respecting.
Desire (n.) is endemic, not epidemic: a mimetic crisis slowed down and stretched out over a lifetime, with no lynching to end it and no rite to bring catharsis.
Desire (n.) is what becomes of human relations when there is no longer any resolution through a victim.
Desire (n.) is the mimetic crisis itself, acute rivalry with the other in everything we call private, from eroticism to professional or intellectual ambition.
Desire (n.) properly speaking begins only when misread rivalry has given a mere appetite or need a metaphysical dimension.
Desire (n.) follows a gambler's logic: the worse the luck, the higher the stakes, until it finds the one obstacle it cannot pass — perhaps only the world's indifference — and breaks itself on it.
Desire (n.) is less interesting than it likes to think: its surprises are always the same, predictable and calculable, and they surprise only desire itself.
Desire (n.) climbs on differences like an insect in an antlion's pit: the sand gives way under its efforts, and it slides back among the doubles.
Desire (n.) knows itself better than any psychiatry, and uses that knowledge to deepen its own symptoms — putting the truth in the service of its own untruth.
Desire (n.) will accept every explanation of its endless rivals except the true one — that it imitates their desires — because that one would show it its own absurdity.
Desire (n.) decides that only objects which refuse to be possessed are worth desiring, and only invincible rivals are fit to guide its choices.
Desire (n.) is always reflection on desire: far from unconscious, it never stops thinking about what it observes, and steers by what it learns of itself.
Desire (n.) turns so humiliating once it is metaphysical that everyone wants to escape it, and the best escape is to impose it on others: nothing reassures us like being someone else's object of desire.
Desire (n.) has no interest in nurturing, whatever Freud's maternal theory says; it seeks a mirage that deepens its lack instead of curing it, heading toward dissociation and death.
Desire (n.) holds as contradictory as stepping into an Attic frieze the thought that the divine procession on the beach might ever take you in, beloved, among them.
Desire (n.) occupies the depressive position not because others persecute it but because it builds the persecution itself, projecting self-sufficiency onto contempt or mere indifference.
Desire (n.) sells the bear's skin — the sacrificial bear's — before catching it, dreaming of its conquest as already won.
Desire (n.) can be shown truthfully only from outside the Guermantes' box, barred from entering; it cares only for situations where it is the one dominated.