Nature (n.) became visible and was made to speak in the classical period through the discourse of both taxonomy and landscape.
Nature (n.) in the nineteenth century is discontinuous exactly in so far as it is alive.
Nature (n.) is everywhere uniform in her procedures and variable only in their results — miserly with her means, lavish with her effects.
Nature (n.) as the asylum's cure was nature mediated by morality: an immediate divided against itself, violence cut away from truth, savagery from liberty.
Nature (n.) does not ask to be known; it is not natural for nature to be known, and knowing it is a kind of violation.
Nature (n.) is posited only through the grid of names — mute and invisible without them — yet it glimmers far off beyond them, always present on the grid's far side.
Nature (n.) in the Renaissance was a vast open book bristling with blazons and ciphers; every herb a magic book waiting to be deciphered.
Nature (n.) in classical thought was not the domain of objective analysis but the region where the scandal of madness can always break out — man's ultimate truth and the form of his abolition.
Nature (n.) proved, as the medicine of species used the word, to be only a patchwork of uneven, artificial conditions; it is the hospital's 'artificial' diseases that make illness comparable.
Nature (n.) has the power of freeing man from his freedom: the rhythm of days and seasons and the calm need to eat and shelter bind the madman gently, from inside.
Nature (n.) in Classical thought is nothing but the impalpable confusion within representation that makes resemblance perceptible before order becomes visible.
Nature (n.) keeps a certain latitude in its movements — a regular liberty that never leaves order but gives them variety and grace — and that latitude is the exact measure of the art of medicine.
Nature (n.) as return to the immediate is the therapeutics par excellence because it refuses therapeutics: it cures insofar as it disregards all cures.
Nature (n.) is not malicious: the only things she makes hard to find are those whose discovery yields nothing but the discovery, and all that could make us better she leaves in plain sight.
Nature (n.) in the sixteenth century lived in the slight misalignment between things and their signs: were the two to coincide without parallax, there would be nothing left to know.
Nature (n.) had to be finite for the utilitarians and endlessly fecund for the Physiocrats: what one theory sees in relief, the other sees as its cast.
Nature (n.) vanishes after Cuvier — for in the Classical age it was never a theme, an idea or an endless source of knowledge, but a homogeneous space of orderable identities and differences.
Nature (n.) in the Classical age resides wholly between the fabric of the taxonomy and the line of revolutions: what we see are fragments of the surface of living species, burst open and frozen between two upheavals.
Nature (n.) in the origin of language juxtaposes differences and binds them by force; reflection discovers resemblances — so there is no resemblance in natural signs, and resemblance enters only by human agreement.