Happiness (n.) belongs only to the phallus — not to its bearer.
Happiness (n.) is what man seeks, though nothing whatsoever is prepared for it, in the macrocosm or the microcosm.
Happiness (n.) defined sadly is to be like everyone else; otherwise nobody knows what it is.
Happiness (n.) understood as a life that stays pleasant without a break is refused to anyone who will not give up the path of desire.
Happiness (n.) in almost every language names a lucky meeting — bonheur, Glück, happen — a fortunate encounter rather than an achievement.
Happiness (n.) has become a political factor, as Saint-Just said — and it is a waste of time to look for the shirt of a happy man.
Happiness (n.) was always a factor in politics, and it will bring back throne and altar: scepter and censer get on with it splendidly.
Happiness (n.) as patients dream it always implies a place where miracles happen — in caricature, all women for a man and an ideal man for a woman.
Happiness (n.) of the couple — those moments of peace and fusion — is marked by a fundamental phallic alibi in which something beyond remains infinitely excluded.
Happiness (n.) costs the subject the courage of its desire: we stay happy by never facing the consequences of what we want.
Happiness (n.) must exist somewhere, we tell ourselves, since by some bizarre luck we meet only the unhappy — and until you drop that idea you have understood nothing of psychoanalysis.
Happiness (n.) comes with a margin — told that the others are happy, I become happy too, but with a little margin, a space in which I persisted in my non-happiness; that gap is where I differ from a planet.
Happiness (n.) is not the astonishing thing — the subject is happy without suspecting his dependence on the structure; what astonishes is that he forms an idea of beatitude strong enough to feel exiled from it.