A Question (n.) is where every thing begins — but one cannot say that the question itself begins.
A Question (n.) is an order-word, like a promise: every act tied to a statement by social obligation.
A Question (n.) of the unconscious is not 'why?' but 'what difference is there?' and 'repeat a little'.
Question (n.) is only a suspended proposition, the bloodless double of the statement meant to answer it.
A Question (n.) is not a provisional sign of ignorance but a living act of the unconscious, destined to outlive its answers.
A Question (n.) changes form with Nietzsche: "what is...?" becomes "which one is...?" — not what a proposition means, but who is capable of uttering it.
A Question (n.) is an imperative — ask the police: 'I'm asking the questions.' Yet it is already the dissolved self of the one questioned that speaks through his torturer.
A Question (n.) does not vanish in its answer: it silences every answer that would suppress it, forcing the one response that keeps it going — Job's demand, Oedipus never finished with the Sphinx, Ulysses answering 'No one'.
A Question (n.) is never really a question: answers are all one ever answers — cross-examination, competition, and plebiscite already contain the answer, so reply with questions from another answer.
A Question (n.) has something mad in it, in its transcendence over answers and its insistence through every solution; posed with enough force — by Dostoevsky or Shestov — it quells rather than incites a response.