Thing (n.) are always more than what is strictly needed; they are the grace of life.
A Thing (n.) is always an opacity, a resistance, an ugliness; objects have no light of their own, only borrowed light.
Thing (n.) have no face; convertible, "realizable," they have a price — they can become money.
Thing (n.) give, but they do not offer a face; being faceless, they are what violence seizes and disposes of.
A Thing (n.) exists in the midst of its wastes: when the kindling becomes smoke and ashes, the identity of my table disappears.
A Thing (n.) is the element calmed by being shut between four walls — defined by tranquillity, as in a still life.
A Thing (n.) is a movable — whatever can be detached and carried off; it keeps a proportion to the human body that subjects it to the hand.
A Thing (n.) is always a volume whose surfaces hold back a depth and make it appear; we can penetrate it, but only by slipping over its form.
Thing (n.) are not, as in Heidegger, what one builds a site with, but what one gives; I recognize the widow and orphan only by giving or refusing.
Thing (n.) first obsess as relics, possessed by a neighbor — bearing the trace of a skin, an invisible face, which only reproduction fixes as an idol.
A Thing (n.) gets its first independence from not belonging to me — and it does not belong to me because I am related to the people it comes from.