And in the same way…there would be judging, synthesizing, independent of desire, whether it be empirical, as need or penchant, or transcendental, as pure will. That is to say, unlike every desire…a judgment not having ‘knowledge’ of it’s end. One could say, a blind judgment, quite blind, without even that ‘clairvoyance’ about what it hasn’t got which is necessarily supposed by the psychoanalytical hypothesis of the ‘fulfilling of desire’ in the symptom, and by the accompanying hypothesis that the said symptom can be deciphered thanks to this aim (even if it were to be illusory) for fulfillment. A judging blind to every end, but for this very reason, not a symptom. Or, as Kant says, disinterested. Without interest in liberty nor in pleasure in the usual sense. A state of mind that owes nothing as yet (nothing as yet or already no more) to the intrigues of willing, whatever it be. This feeling (since this sensus is sentimentality), when it is a question of tasting beauty, is precisely a feeling of pleasure, but a pleasure which doesn’t come to fill up a lack nor to fulfill any desire at all. A pleasure before any desire. This aesthetic pleasure is not the purpose of a purposiveness experienced (or not experienced) beforehand as desire. It has nothing whatsoever to do with an end or a purpose. It is finality, purposiveness itself, which has no end, no purpose in front of it and no lack behind it. So an instantaneous purposiveness, immediate, not even meditated by the diachronic form of the internal sense, nor by our way of remember­ing and anticipating. Certainly we (understanding, and repro­ductive imagination, memory) remember this instant and we will try to reiterate it. We will try to integrate it, to give it a place in our intrigues, our narratives, our explanations, all our arrangements of every kind. But it will have been independent of them. On the occasion of a form, which itself is only an occasion for feeling, the soul is seized by a small happiness, unlooked for, unprepared, slightly dynamizing. It is an animation of an anima there on the spot, which is not moving towards anything. It’s as if the mind were discovering that it can do something other than will and understand. Be happy without ever having asked for it or conceived it. An instant which will seem very long, measured by the clock of intrigue, but which is not in the purlieus of its timekeeping; a flash made of delayings (you tarry near beauty), a form, a little synthesis of matters in space-time, made sense, sensus. A sense that has to be thought of as absolutely singular. The occasion is the case. And it would be this absolutely singular sensus which would be communis. So the finality, the purposiveness is end-less, purposeless, without a concept of its end. This is why the feeling of the beautiful has nothing to do with perfection, with this completion that Vollkommenheit connotes.

Jean-François Lyotard: Sensus Communis