An Object (n.) is pure non-being, a lack, that which escapes and by definition will never be given except in fleeting and successive profiles.
An Object (n.) is altogether in each aspect and altogether outside it: it shows itself whole in one profile, yet its full series will never appear.
An Object (n.) holds attention through a sort of personality: the door-knob in my hand, or else the fork now has a certain way of having itself picked up.
Object (n.) that surround us are all signs, because we live in a world of men, of work, and of conflicts — they indicate their use and scarcely mask the project of those who made them.
An Object (n.) should not touch, because it is not alive; you use it and put it back. But they touch me, and I fear them as though they were living beasts.
An Object (n.) in a story gets its density not from the length of its description but from how often the characters handle it, take it up, put it down — go beyond it toward their ends.
The Object (n.) is we presume, only to be used, put back in place, and lived among... objects ought not to 'touch' because they are not alive. And yet they touch me, and it is unbearable.
An Object (n.) dams up the future when it is squat and powerful like library shelves, and fixes the limits of probability: even Saint Denis carrying his head would have to enter to the right of the stove.
An Object (n.) is imbued with affect. Being dreadful is an inexhaustible and irreducible property of this Japanese mask it constitutes its very nature -not the sum of reactions.