Would it not suffice less dramatically to think, with Spinoza, what makes us persevere in being? To think patience instead, this measure of time that, in the face of urgency, cauterizes wounds . . . The patience of being—a subtle, forgotten, uncolonized art of the self, in which emotion is entangled with thought, the cuisine of all creation. But it would have to be a patience neither in the service of waiting, nor especially in that of depression, compromise, or fatal renunciation. This risk—the risk of being—cannot be envisaged or evaluated