The Law (n.) after Kant is itself the absolute excess — the shattering force that breaks into our pleasure-oriented lives.
Law (n.) may only rule by relying on a subterranean interplay of cheatings and deceptions — the marriage asserted through an affair.
Law (n.) that nobody knows, as in Kafka's 'The Problem of Our Laws', ends as simply whatever the nobles decide — the only visible law is their will.
Law (n.) exists not to keep us close to the neighbor but to keep the neighbor at a proper distance — a protective wall against his monstrosity.
Law (n.) at the moment it emerges as pure, neutral and universal gives birth to its obscene superego underside, because the old life-world support, once opposed to the pure law, suddenly looks obscene.
Law (n.) at its most tyrannical is not lawless but over-full: with enough mutually contradicting laws, power lies in choosing which one to enforce.
The Law (n.) feels alien not for lacking love but for having too much: it stops crushing me once I drop the treasure I think can only be loved, never ruled.
The Law (n.) is the absolute transgression in Hegel's matrix: the war of law against crime becomes the war of all petty crimes against one universal crime.
Law (n.) relies on its own inherent transgression, so that when we suspend the transgression, the Law itself disintegrates.
The Law (n.) in Kafka's parable was never just the Thing the man stared at; the door was there for him alone — the Law had been looking back at him all along.
Law (n.) rules not through its prohibitions but through their violation: it quietly lets us transgress, then shows the guilty how to transgress in a regulated way.
Law (n.) is the (inherently unruly) principles upon which society is based, designating a mode of collective conduct based upon a set of prohibitions.
Law (n.) in Kafka's parable keeps a door meant only for you; an analyst at that door would calmly tell the furious man that beyond it lies only what his desire puts there.
Law (n.) is not the opposite of crime but crime universalized — crime raised to an unconditional principle; Javert, pure law, cannot endure goodness.
Law (n.) need not be accepted as true, only as necessary — 'a melancholy conclusion,' says Kafka's K., 'it turns lying into a universal principle'; what is repressed is that its authority is without truth.
Law (n.) must be obeyed not because it is just or good but simply because it is the law; its authority rests on mere acceptance, and whoever traces it to its first principle destroys it.
Law (n.) after Kant no longer depends on the Good; the Good depends on the law — self-grounded, its object unknowable, it defines a realm where one is already guilty without knowing the bounds, as with Oedipus.
Law (n.) is asserted for the first time in philosophy as unconscious: form without content is always the index of a repressed content, and the harder one clings to the empty form, the more traumatic the repressed.