Christian monotheism stages the double suicide of God in the form of his incarnation and his death on the cross. The infinite God is finite; his resurrection will be the call to men to unite in a community of subjects without subjectivity (i.e., without God). The incommensurable is the trace of that finitude. It inscribes itself as infinite finitude upon the space of simple finitude. Simple finitude is what I call immanence without transcendence: the phantasm of immanence that subscribes to an equally shallow and unthinkable realism. There is no transcendence, to be sure! There is, most importantly, no transcendence of immanence, no surmounting, no positive beyond, no world-behind-the-worlds, no paradise. Only it is not enough to substitute a phantasm of immanence for the phantasm of transcendence. The strongest philosophical positions retain awareness of the necessity to situate transcendence (which has nothing of the divine to it) in immanence. It is at this point of an immanent transcendence—which marks nothing other than the inconsistency of the fabric of consistency called “world,” the incommensurable as the truth of the objective commensurabilities we call facts—that philosophy ignites. That is the point of an explicit intangibility, the unthought of which Foucault speaks, which tears the subject that opens up to it away and beyond itself. It does not leave the subject itself intact, indicating its peculiar void, the opening where the specters live, “an ‘outside the world’ […] in pure worldly immanence,” as Jean-Luc Nancy puts it, who is today perhaps the one who has penetrated furthest into this region. We know that Maurice Blanchot encircled this immanent outside (dehors) in every one of his books. We know that Foucault dedicated an iridescent essay to this concept. We know of the importance the same concept possessed for Gilles Deleuze. We can conceive of Derrida’s différance only as an implicit rift, as a spatializing chasm, i.e., in structural homology to the outside or exterior. And Badiou insists on the concept of the outside by warning against its (re)theologization: “There is a real excess, something with no place [hors-lieu], a gap. And if we call it transcendence, too bad.” The challenge is to think a non-religious, non-theological, non-theist incommensurability, an incommensurability that is wholly of this world or the world itself as incommensurable, as a fabric with open edges, as a hole-riddled and frayed texture. Like the cloak in Gogol’s story The Overcoat, this fabric seems to have too little substance to attach patches to it, demanding a new fabric, a wholly new coat: another world. It is a patchwork in which patch clings to patch without a stable underlying substance. There is only a teeming variety of accidents without substance. Everything seems subject to an explosive heterogeneity, an expansive indifference, an accelerating expansion into nowhere. That is, perhaps, what Deleuze means by singularities: nodes of teetering accidents, a whirl of particles of blind matter whose alliances remain surprising and unpredictable (at least the anticipability of their dynamism is never certain!).