The Logos (n.) is first imprinted, and that imprint is the writing-resource of language; it is not a creative activity.
The Logos (n.) resembles the sun, the king and the father, and writing is what threatens that analogy at its center.
A Logos (n.) that belongs to no one, the verb of no one, must overflow the speaker who utters it.
The Logos (n.) wakes to its own mortality only when the totally other breaks into it.
The Logos (n.) is nothing outside history and Being, since it is infinite discursiveness, not an actual infinity.
The Logos (n.) hears itself speak: an invisible ideality, as close to itself as it can be in the unity of concept and consciousness.
The Logos (n.) is a son, and without his living father he would be nothing but writing.
The Logos (n.) is a zoon, a living creature that is born and grows, so a speech must have a head and feet or it is nothing.
The Logos (n.) cannot be asked whether it has a father; the father can only be father of what already needs logos.
The Logos (n.) is a resource: one turns to it when the sun withdraws into eclipse, and the hidden star is then more dangerous than ever.