Scandal (n.) of the modern sort — Sade and Nietzsche reheated for the thousandth time — is the Romantics' old follies recycled; the real new scandal is that the Gospels were right.
Scandal (n.) is always a relation of doubles: the line between the one who gives it and the one who takes it keeps vanishing, and its passive object becomes its agent and spreads it further.
Scandal (n.) always comes through human beings and always falls on human beings; as fixed barriers fall, people become ever more fascinating obstacles for one another.
Scandal (n.) hides in subtle forms too — even in the language of non-violence and in concern for those who suffer.
Scandal (n.) comes from skandalon, a limp: the obstacle that attracts and repels at once, so fascinating that one keeps returning.
Scandal (n.) is a rigorous definition of the mimetic process: desire makes a rival of its model, and instead of giving up, builds the obstacle into its idea of the desirable.
Scandal (n.) ends by investing and absorbing what most successfully eluded it, whether a prophet or a child.
Scandal (n.) is what prevents us from dancing: the tangle of desire that ties us to the ground, each of us obsessed by some John the Baptist.
Scandal (n.) is the unobtainable thing that desire wants to have, the utterly unavailable made absolutely available.
Scandal (n.) is contagious: the scandalised drag you along their path and become your model-obstacle, so every barred way in the Gospels alludes to this system.