Other (n.) are the possible stubbornly passing itself off as the real.
The Other (n.) is neither an object in my field nor a subject looking at me but a structure of the perceptual field — the structure of the possible.
The Other (n.) is no one: the concrete Other is always someone — I for you, you for me — but the structure it actualizes is no one.
The Other (n.) is the expression of a possible world: a terrified face, whose cause I cannot see, does not resemble what terrifies it — it envelops a terrifying world.
The Other (n.) is the grand leveler: he imprisons the elements in bodies and bodies in the earth — the earth is earth only as far as it is peopled by Others.
The Other (n.) is an odd detour: it lowers my desires to objects and my love to worlds; the difference of the sexes is founded first in and through the Other.
The Other (n.) brings the joyful message that I may be an other, that something else thinks in us — we are sure of living again, without resurrection, because so many beings think in us.
Other (n.) distract us powerfully — not only by interrupting, but because the bare chance that they might lights up a world of concerns at the edge of consciousness.
The Other (n.) is the sweetness of contiguities and resemblances: he assures the margins of the world, prevents assaults from behind, fills it with a benevolent murmuring.
The Other (n.) is not anyone — neither you nor I — but a structure filled by variable terms, me for you in yours, you for me in mine; it is what makes individuals perceptible at all.
The Other (n.) is best not explicated too much: keep its implicit values and populate your own world with expressions that exist nowhere apart from it — for it is not the other who is another I, but the I which is an other.