A Word (n.) of Scripture is like the hammer striking the rock and causing countless sparks to fly.
Word (n.) are deceptive — products of history, society and the unconscious, hiding their lies even from the liar himself.
A Word (n.) refers not first to a content but sideways to other words; each word-meaning stands at the confluence of innumerable semantic rivers.
A Word (n.) from God that is not incarnate ensures a living God among us, the link being an education in the Torah rather than emotional communion with a God made flesh.
A Word (n.) in a poem loses itself in its own sound: thought penetrates the meaning but also gets lost in a musicality that has nothing to do with objects.
A Word (n.) that remains and is not made flesh can, in its dignity, put up with stone or parchment — freedom engraved on a stone! It is for the heart to beat.
A Word (n.) is a window; if it forms a screen it must be rejected — yet with Heidegger these esperantist words take on the color and weight of a historical reality.
A Word (n.) is a nomination as much as a denomination — an obedience in the midst of the will ("I hear this said"), a kerygma at the bottom of a fiat.
A Word (n.) seems indispensable to the trial even when it lies and dissimulates: as though speech alone could render the accused present and sort the silent twilight of symbols into truth.
Word (n.) have become symptoms or superstructures: psychoanalysis and sociology lie in wait for the speaker, so even conscious cries form part of the nightmare they meant to interrupt.