The game is worthwhile in so far as we don’t know what will be the end.
MICHEL FOUCAULTWe are entering the age of infinite examination and of compulsory objectification.
More Michel Foucault Quotes
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We are entering the age of infinite examination and of compulsory objectification.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
Schools serve the same social functions as prisons and mental institutions- to define, classify, control, and regulate people.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
The individual is the product of power.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
My point is not that everything is bad, but that everything is dangerous.
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 -
This knowledge, so inaccessible, so formidable, the Fool, in his innocent idiocy, already possesses.
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 -
What desire can be contrary to nature since it was given to man by nature itself?
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 -
The soul is the effect and instrument of a political anatomy; the soul is the prison of the body.
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 -
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 -
I don’t feel that it is necessary to know exactly what I am. The main interest in life and work is to become someone else that you were not in the beginning.
MICHEL FOUCAULT -
I’m no prophet. My job is making windows where there were once walls.
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