The ball isn’t there for the body; the exact contrary is true: the body is the object of the ball; the subject moves around this sun.
The ball is the quasi-object and quasi-subject by which I am a subject, that is to say, sub-mitted.
Collective ecstasy is the abandon of the “I”‘s on the tissue of relations. This moment is an extremely dangerous one. Everyone is on the edge of his or her inexistence. But the “I” as such is not suppressed. It still circulates, in and by the quasi-object. This thing can be forgotten. It is on the ground, and the one who picks it up and keeps it becomes the only subject, the master, the despot, the god.
How is it that I love you; you, among a hundred thousand, me, and not another? Is it an illusion; is Don Juan’s catalogue a wiser way of doing things?
We are not individuals. We have already been divided; we are al- ways threatened anew by being. Zeus, unhappy with our insolence, cut us in two; that is easily seen by looking at the navel, where the skin is brought together as if by tight purse-strings. We once had four legs and four arms, a round neck, two faces, four eyes that were strong and quick, and when we ran, we rolled on ourselves, limbs outstretched as eight spokes of a wheel so as to go very quickly. Zeus split us—he can do it again; in that case we would have to hop. Does the real individual have one foot, two feet, or four? Unlike Oedipus, I don’t know how many feet a man has. Thus we were of three sorts: male, female, and androgynes, according to what we have—two dissimilar or two similar organs. As soon as the punishment of Zeus took place, the sad, severed halves ran to one another to intertwine, to unite, and to find their plenitude once more. Love is a chimera, the leftovers of the split-up parts.