Shame (n.) is perhaps the hole from which the master signifier arises.
Shame (n.) is why you come in such numbers: I make you ashamed — not too much, but just enough.
Shame (n.) leaves you, if you don't die of it, with a life of shame by the bucketful, since it is not worth dying for.
Shame (n.) at our shit is not about smell: in it we expose our innermost intimacy — animals don't mind because they have no interior.
Shame (n.) under the gaze surprises not the annihilating subject of the world of objects but the subject sustaining himself in a function of desire — the voyeur.
Shame (n.) is the conflagration in which the gaze — object lost — is suddenly refound, when the other surprises the voyeur at the keyhole as entirely hidden gaze.
Shame (n.) is the one sign whose genealogy is certain: it descends from a signifier — and to die of shame is the only affect of death that deserves to die.
Shame (n.) of living is what psychoanalysis discovers under your vapid air — justified by the fact that you do not die of shame but uphold the university discourse with all your might.
Shame (n.) is not a tailed flight from being, but a flight into being, where being the being of surfaces, of social existence is viewed as that which protects us from the ravages of anxiety, which risk drowning us in its borderless enigma. This opacity now gives us that distance from ourselves and our world that allows us creatively to alter both... it gives us, in other words, a privacy, an interiority unbreachable even by ourselves.