Violence (n.) is a sovereignty, but also a solitude.
Violence (n.) in an intimate society offends but does not wound; injustice lives in works, not in thoughts.
Violence (n.) lies less in wounding people than in breaking their continuity — making them play parts in which they no longer know themselves.
Violence (n.) today is not mere barbarism or egoism: it presents itself as the path to grace and the soul's cure.
Violence (n.) consists in avoiding the gaze — finding the angle from which the 'no' written on every face turns into a hostile or submissive force.
Violence (n.) seems the most direct contact, yet denies a being all its individuality, treating it as a particular case of a concept.
Violence (n.) that is true preserves the freedom it coerces: its instrument is gold, not the sword; violence is corruption.
Violence (n.) can aim only at a face: discourse subtends war itself, and violence proceeds already from an unlimited negation at the edge of murder.
Violence (n.) is first the neutralization of desire: the solitude of a mute glance, a face that does not speak.
Violence (n.) bears only on a being both graspable and escaping every hold; without that living contradiction, violent force would reduce to labor.
Violence (n.) hides even in poetic delirium, in the fear and trembling of being wrenched out of ourselves by the Sacred, in the love that wounds our side with a treacherous arrow.
Violence (n.) poses Westerners a problem that is not so much to refuse it as to struggle against it without blanching into non-resistance to evil, and without instituting violence out of that very struggle.
Violence (n.) is any act in which one behaves as though one alone were acting, as if the rest of the universe existed only to receive it — and also any act we suffer without taking part in it.