Government is the right disposition of things.
MICHEL FOUCAULTWith humanity, life has ended up with a living creature that never quite finds itself in the right place, a living creature destined to wander and endlessly make mistakes.
More Michel Foucault Quotes
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This knowledge, so inaccessible, so formidable, the Fool, in his innocent idiocy, already possesses.
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 -
The game is worthwhile in so far as we don’t know what will be the end.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
As the archeology of our thought easily shows, man is an invention of recent date. And one perhaps nearing its end.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Nature, keeping only useless secrets, had placed within reach and insight of human beings the things it was necessary for them to know.
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 -
Death left its old tragic heaven and became the lyrical core of man: his invisible truth, his visible secret.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
From the point of view of wealth, there is no difference between need, comfort, and pleasure.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
It is the certainty of being punished and not the horrifying spectacle of public punishment that must discourage crime.
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 -
Visibility is a trap.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
In civilizations without ships, dreams dry up, espionage takes the place of adventure and the police take the place of corsairs.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
I don’t write a book so that it will be the final word; I write a book so that other books are possible, not necessarily written by me.
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