This week was a little piece of hell for me and a bigger piece of hell for a friend of mine.
We used to joke about Deadwood Powder Keg Syndrome. I wonder if he and I are suffering from it. His suffering is warranted. Mine was extracted by a reader concerned about my last post.
I don't often get visibly angry or upset about things. I'm kind of that person who packs it all on the inside. I didn't find my post to be off putting or scary, but readers will read and I can only embrace the postmodern death of the author. (Merci , Roland Barthes, merci boucoup! J'écris donc je meurs. C'est ca.)
It was a strange week of competing interests. It was yet another week of getting information, processing information, learning more information.
It was another week of talking, talking, talking.
About what? That's not so important.
I want to be obtuse in this post. I don't feel like being transparent or smart today.
Oh, but I shall be clear in this one thing. I would like to say to the reader only known as A Little of This, A Little of That, you have something to say. Your comments are too insightful and clever for you to remain silent. You may either write a blog or send an email (momentaryacademic@gmail.com). You now have an audience of one, who would like to know more.
I believe that there will be a second wave (or third) of writing on these blog things. It will be like the second and third wave of ska, or even feminism. Exciting, captivating and most of all endemic.
7 comments:
Okay - you started it! Barthes made the distinction between the "text" and "writing." Your "text" needs to show that it "wants" me and it does so through the "jouissance" of language (and we're not talking "joy" - we're talking the other jouissance!)
The death of the author just means that the text needs to live by itself; the rules that lend themselves to meaning need to be internal (which is not the same as objective).
Your previous post was fine and obeyed its own rules splendidly. Don't get sucked in to a dialogue that encourages you - even passively - to compromise your own "writing." Your "text" is too important.
(For the record, you made me get up, go to the bookshelf and pull down an old copy of one of Barthes' books that I read when it was new!)
"Le texte que vous écrivez doit me donner la preuve qu'il me désire. Cette preuve existe : c'est l'écriture. L'écriture est ceci : la science des jouissances du langage, son kamasutra (de cette science, il n'y a qu'un traité : l'écriture elle-même)." -Roland Barthes, Le Plaisir du texte. Editions du Seuil, p. 13-14.
Well, if I was looking for the dirty heathen cocksucker that needed to go into all that damn frog talk when said cocksucker was trying to make a simple point about the continuous commentary of literature and the eventual loss of authorship on this cold fucking earth, then I guess I found my cocksucker.
Now should said cocksucker decide to quit using big words and talk like a normal fucking human being for two goddamn seconds, I would thank them for the nice fucking things they might have said. If however, they decide to continue with this fucking behavior and further irritate me, they will be gutted and fed to Wu's fucking pigs.
Casey - Good one. We shall take your request under consideration and appreciate your example of how normal human beings talk.
Well, sir, that is the kind of fucking agreement a cocksucker could fucking drink to. Dan! Whiskey!
Pascal Ebert, Oh. I've been properly and unequivocally schooled. I know that I used Barthes to my own ends. Wouldn't Derrida be proud of me? ;)
In all seriousness, you're right and I shouldn't and won't compromise what I write.
Casey, LOL-Deadwood. I has an anger. I can has whiskey?
Ur liver. i cutz it open.
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