With the sharp wits of someone who is overtired, Antigone has an overview of her fate. She accepts that she has to die. It costs her less than living without having loved with this kind of passion which is equally madness and crime. Completely absorbed with herself and her lie, she nevertheless surrenders herself to the incalculability of the act of loving. One will have to follow the traces of a desire which directs its pleasure at itself in order to experience this self as a something unknown which is no longer able to discriminate between lie and love. One will no longer be able to close oneself off from cruelly witnessing this act of self-annihilation. One will answer to the question concerning the object of love, lie, and conversely. One will recognize Antigone as one’s own lie of love and submit to her immoderateness by confusing from now on her fatigue with one’s own sleeplessness. The lie is just as much a frenzy as it is love. One falls without knowing for how long and with what consequences and whither. And yet, Antigone is not without certainty. Her death has assumed the character of something matter-of-fact. Death robs her of her lie and consummates it at the same time. Antigone’s death has something resembling a mendacious self-evidence. What does matter-of-factness mean when one is speaking of dying?