The Other (n.) is the one who looks at me. I find myself at the end of the other's look.
The Other (n.) soils every sound that reaches me, because he has intercepted it on its way, and he has even stolen my face.
Other (n.) is indispensable to my existence: I cannot be spiritual, wicked or jealous unless others recognise me as such.
The Other (n.) is me in every Other and every Other in me at the level of the series, a unity ever present but always elsewhere, the unity of a flight.
The Other (n.) holds the secret of my being: he knows what I am, so the profound meaning of my being is outside me, imprisoned in an absence.
Other (n.) is revealed in the very act of discovering myself, as a freedom that confronts mine and cannot think or will without doing so for or against me.
The Other (n.) is discovered in the very cogito: when I say "I think" I find myself in the presence of the other, as certain of him as of myself.
Other (n.) are, for the for-itself, only opportunities and chances — which is why its responsibility extends to the entire world as a peopled world.
The Other (n.) denies that he is I as I deny that I am he — this reciprocity is why I can never grasp our relation whole; the thing, by contrast, never apprehends me back.
The Other (n.) in Peter has nothing impenetrable except his consciousness — and that is impenetrable even to thought, since a consciousness can conceive of no consciousness but itself.