When a body “encounters” another body, or an idea another idea, it happens that the two relations sometimes combine to form a more powerful whole, and sometimes one decomposes the other, destroying the cohesion of its parts. And this is what is prodigious in the body and the mind alike, these sets of living parts that enter into composition with and decompose one another according to complex laws. The order of causes is therefore an order of composition and decomposition of relations, which infinitely affects all of nature. But as conscious beings, we never apprehend anything but the effects of these compositions and decompositions: we experience joy when a body encounters ours and enters into composition with it, and sadness when, on the contrary, a body or an idea threaten our own coherence.
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It is not the slumber of reason that engenders monsters, but vigilant and insomniac rationality.
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A book is a small cog in a much more complex, external machinery. Writing is a flow among others; it enjoys no special privilege and enters into relationships of current and countercurrent, of back-wash with other flows - the flows of shit, sperm, speech, action, eroticism, money, politics, etc. Like Bloom, writing on the sand with one hand and masturbating with the other - two flows in what relationship?
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Forming grammatically correct sentences is for the normal individual the prerequisite for any submission to social laws. No one is supposed to be ignorant of grammaticality; those who are belong in special institutions. The unity of language is fundamentally political.
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The desert is populous. Thus the body without organs is opposed less to organs as such than to the organization of the organs insofar as it composes an organism. The body without organs is not a dead body but a living body all the more alive and teeming once it has blown apart the organism and its organization. Lice hopping on the beach. Skin colonies. The full body without organs is a body populated by multiplicities.
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Every consciousness pursues its own death, every love-passion its own end, attracted by a black hole, and all the black holes resonate together.
Is it the dead who belong to us, or we who belong to the dead?
Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 2: The Time-Image.
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Shit on your whole mortifying, imaginary, and symbolic theater!
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“It is at work everywhere, functioning smoothly at times, at other times in fits and starts. It breathes, it heats, it eats. It shits and fucks. What a mistake to have ever said the id.”
― Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia
The self is only a threshold, a door, a becoming between two multiplicities.
Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, Capitalism and Schizophrenia
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