Neither animals of different species, nor men of different cultures, nor any individual, animal or human, inhabits the same world as another, however close and similar these living individuals may be (humans or animals), and the difference from one world to the other will remain forever uncrossable, the community of the world being always constructed, simulated by a group of stabilizing positings [dispositifs], more or less stable, therefore also never natural, language in the broad sense, codes of traces being destined, with all the living, to construct a unity of the world always deconstructible and nowhere and never given in nature. Between my world, (the “my world”; what I call “my world,” and there is no other for me, every other world making up part of it), between my world and every other world, there is initially the space and the time of an infinite difference, of an interruption incommensurable with all the attempts at passage, of bridge, of isthmus, of communication, of translation, of trope, and of transfer which the desire for a world and the sickness of the world [mal du monde], the being in sickness of the world [l’être en mal de monde] will attempt to pose, to impose, to propose, to stabilize. There is no world, there are only islands. That is one of the thousand directions toward which I would interpret the last line of a short and great poem by Celan: Die Welt ist fort, ich muss dich tragen, [The world is gone, I have to carry you] poem of mourning or of birth.
By Jacques Derrida, “La Bête et le souverain” (via heteroglossia)