Visibility is a trap.
MICHEL FOUCAULTWhat desire can be contrary to nature since it was given to man by nature itself?
More Michel Foucault Quotes
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In civilizations without ships, dreams dry up, espionage takes the place of adventure and the police take the place of corsairs.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
It would be wrong to say that the soul is an illusion or an ideological effect. On the contrary, it exists, it has a reality.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Madness is the false punishment of a false solution, but by its own virtue, it brings to light the real problem, which can then be truly resolved.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Justice must always question itself, just as society can exist only by means of the work it does on itself and on its institutions.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Islam, in the year 1978, was not the opium of the people precisely because it was the spirit of a world without spirit.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
This knowledge, so inaccessible, so formidable, the Fool, in his innocent idiocy, already possesses.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
It is the certainty of being punished and not the horrifying spectacle of public punishment that must discourage crime.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
I’m no prophet. My job is making windows where there were once walls.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Modern man is not the man who goes off to discover himself, his secrets, and his hidden truth; he is a man who tries to invest himself.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
We are entering the age of infinite examination and of compulsory objectification.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
We must not think that by saying yes to sex, one says no to power.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Do not think that one has to be sad in order to be militant, even though the thing one is fighting is abominable.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
The court is the bureaucracy of the law. If you bureaucratize popular justice then you give it the form of a court.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same. More than one person, doubtless like me, writes in order to have no face.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Death as the destruction of all things no longer had meaning when life was revealed to be a fatuous sequence of empty words, the hollow jingle of a jester’s cap and bells.
MICHEL FOUCAULT






