Resemblance (n.) is both the most obvious and the most hidden of things — a likeness seen and not seen, until a mark makes it certain.
Resemblance (n.) fell from the hinge of the whole world in the sixteenth century to the simplest form in which what is furthest from knowledge appears.
Resemblance (n.) measured, in classificatory medicine, the distance between diseases; once dense enough, it crossed over from kinship into sameness of essence.
Resemblance (n.) by convenientia: things that touch come to resemble each other — moss grows on shells, grass on the faces of men.
Resemblance (n.) built knowledge until the end of the sixteenth century: the earth echoed the sky, faces saw themselves in the stars, and plants hid in their stems the secrets of man.
Resemblance (n.) from the seventeenth century on is no longer the form of knowledge but the occasion of error — the danger one runs by not examining the obscure region of confusions.
Resemblance (n.) in the Classical age is a spent force outside knowledge — yet still its indispensable border, for nothing can be measured or ordered unless resemblance has first prompted the comparison.
Resemblance (n.) was split down the middle in the Classical age: on one side it became signs — keys for a taxonomy — and on the other the murmuring, unreacting similitude beneath thought that supplies raw material for divisions.
Resemblance (n.) is a link made in the 16th century between signs and what they indicate through which knowledge condemned itself to never knowing anything but the same thing, which could be discovered only at the unattainable end of an endless journey.