Updates, updates

Hope to have something posted up here on MH’s Basic Writings soon. Currently wading through more Lenin for group, maybe a note on pedagogies of reading groups…

I’ll briefly outline an interesting situation from last week: there were two of us leading the discussion of “What is to be done,” and at the end of the session I asked what people would like to read for next week. (More Luxemburg, “State and Revolution,” and Imperialism”) At first, someone said that they wanted more Rosa; the other group leader said that “just Rosa” was too light to follow up Lenin, then someone said Imperialism… long story short, the whole conflict of reading assignments for this week was only solved after we (the discussion leaders) stepped in and said that State and Revolution would expand the core themes in WITBD and that we could follow up with Imperialism the following week.

This situation was uncanny: we had just spent an hour discussing the role of the revolutionary party whose primary basis for the seizure of state power was predicated on the idea that leadership, growth, and determination is based on a select group who safeguards those goals until everyone else is able to participate. But it was strange: what do you do when you can’t act as a soviet counsel? When it’s ten people sitting around a table, what does it mean when we can’t organize critically?

Maybe all of these questions are funneling into my looming fear that reading groups and university learning-sites necessarily run by institutionalized Leninists (wittingly or not). (Fear is because it’s predicated on the “party” i.e. the teacher.) I prefer soviet-style, I don’t mind a few thematic blunderings here and there. But, alas, we are reading on-schedule and following thematic wake.

Love is a qualified term

Love is a qualified term. There are lots of adjectives that go in front of it: agape, amorous, fraternal, paternal, maternal, familial, platonic. But what if, underneath (and perhaps excluding) these different demarcations and evocations of love, there was one fundamental meaning and significance of love?

This is where we switch gears. What if love can’t have a modifier? That modifier really suggests something else, something apart from love, or something that wishes to attach itself as an appendage to it. Here’s where I say that love is writing.

Writing, of course, is also a qualified term. In the course of this exercise (my senior thesis) I still haven’t come down all the possible paths. I still haven’t explored the implications of Love as Writing. So, to begin, let’s talk about love in terms of Badiou’s essay “What is Love?”. In that essay, I think that it’s safe to say that love is in direct relation to sextuation, that is, real physical and social relations between human bodies. There are several imperatives that Badiou invokes: these philosophical procedures are labeled as “truth procedures”. They are the processes and methods by which we find truth. These processes are: Art, Politics, Science, or Love. These various processes are true to the extent that they instantiate ‘humanity,’ which is to say that these processes legitimate communities, life, and the utopian concept of human togetherness.

Already, it’s easy to see that I’ve chosen three legitimating factors that color themselves within the lines of Art (utopia), Politics (community), and Science (life). And then, there is the fourth term, Love. Badiou goes into an analysis of love in both male and female sextuations: in the male variation, love legitimates the other realms concurrently within itself (it is equal to an extent, its role and priveledge are vital to the process, but only insofar as it is just a tad less equal to politics and art because it is only true if they are true). The female position on this is very different: we see that love is the surrounding factor, the procedure that totalizes and legitimates all of the others. It is the truth that is the most true. What does this mean?

Writing is dialectical, it is for the utopian, and it speaks the political.

In the introduction to this essay, Badiou launches into his main argument with a note on philosophy and novelistic prose, something that “women” have excelled at. Here, I believe that it’s crucial to let go of the generic and physical implications of women and consider the possibility that women is a qualifier for his later conception of love. If women is a type of code name for his female model of love. What is philosophy in all of this? And why is it that novelistic prose merely “thinks the thought of love?” Here, I believe that the quantum leap is made in terms of love as writing–specifically the discursive relationship between the following:

Philosophy and the novel (literature): If the novel thinks the thought of love, it can be said that love itself is philosophy. Philosophy is the truth procedure that legitimates humanity in toto: that is to say, it legitimates art, politics, and science. The novel is the animation of this truth procedure: it is the narration that does not interpret at a glance; the thought but not the interpretation. Philosophy, on the other hand, is the explication of the thought, the procedure behind narration: the imperative and the truth.

The singular and the universal: The reader and the world (humanity) that it accesses through this truth procedure (this procedure of love is played out on a number of different valences, which I’m still trying to illuminate thoroughly, but I’ve listed them below).

The producer and the “consumer” who is transformed: Through writing (and the reading of writing) love does not allow for passive members of humanity. Love instantiates the reality of art, of science, and of politics. It transforms dismantled into dialectical.

 

The philosophical incarnations of love:

Aesthetic (the utopian): the aesthetics of love as production. The imperatives of writing for a utopia; the needs for an aesthetic imperative. Works I’m using: Schiller, young Lukacs, young Geothe, Hegel.

Political (writing as Real, as phantasm): the image of “thoughts”; the dialectically legitimate (material) image (work) and the phantasmagorial. This last word means something like a method of translating and conflating reality into merely an image. A mythology, a process. A mythology as a mode of conflating reality and the political via translation (a note on ontology as a political hermeneutic). Works: Schelling, Adorno, Brecht, Lukacs.

Scientific (dialectical): what are the direct demands of philosophy and humanity’s animation if indeed it is literature? What is realism? and how are these goal accomplished? How do we break out of the images (ideologically binding utopias, mythological phantasms, and the like), to reach a legitimate and ultimately emancipatory type of love? Works used: Hegel, Marx, Badiou.

 

 

you were always just a sad boy, a sad boy living out a dream

Bloch’s instance on the Expressionists’ desire to spontaneously break out of the material confines of capital (surely not a notion that Adorno would encourage) is itself indicative of the mythological implications of the political use of the image in aesthetics. But its true import is of the dialectical nature of The Myth’s exposition throughout history. The political meaning of the aesthetic image is manifest in the content and creation of art, whose political connotations might be either latent or nested within the work, but whose implications cannot be denied in any dialectical analysis. For Adorno, the mythological image is that which nullifies the ideological and the utopian elements of its translation and comprehension. In a short of short-hand way, there is even a case to be made for the Kantian-idealist status of art in mythologies, since they can never be anything better than an “either/or” impossibility: both and neither. But of course, in the aesthetic realm there is always more than practical reason. There must also be judgment from the critical perspective that regards aesthetic production as an event in the material reality, as well as an aesthetic event that is trans-historical because of dialectical critique. This is not to say that all works can be validated through a dialectical method of critique. As Adorno points out, phantasmagoria is not useful in criticism. To this we value the fact that dialectics strip away phantasmagoric material from aesthetic production in order to define key political relationships. Keeping this in mind, the political aesthetician as well as the aesthetic politician must not confuse the phantasmagorical with the mythological: for the phantasmagorical is the image that ideology conflates against its own material reality, whereas the mythological image is the implanted utopian impulse trapped within an ideological rendering. The relationship between the two is easily confused: the key in determining the phantasmagoric and the mythological is to ask what the image does and what it wishes to convey. In the case of the former, the phantasmagorical image will merely provide an animated face of consumption, of products and of accumulation. The latter, on the other hand, is that supporting impulse and desire that undergirds the animation of consumption and accumulation—in the last instance, the two readings are connected only through ideology: the phantasmagorical image is mechanic and the mythological image bears the imprint of capitalism’s ideals that have already been half dismantled into its own system. We all want to make sure our loved ones won’t suffer after we die, we wish that we would not stop existing after death, but in the end, all we can do is take out a life insurance policy. And in the case of the mythical image’s insistence on its status in the ideological: in fact, it is the greatest key to the ideological. Considering Bloch’s short opening piece, it is theoretically sound that he would choose such a topic for “debate.” This debate launches into the core of the utopian desires in an impossible ideological climate: and whatever the implications of the conversations, they were neither submerged into a quasi-historical narrative on good and bad art, but had everything to do with the modes of historical excavation and interpretation of a given impulse.

 

We no longer live in an era that is backlight by institutional ideology. Instead, we live in a world that has been mythologized with images that conceal the ideological implications of reality vis-à-vis experiential desires and categories. The essential point is to employ the dialectical line of thought produced between Marx and Hegel (located around Hegel’s theses on the State)  in order to reinstate a mode of realism that is predicated on following dialectical procedures that liberate the utopian  impulses from their veiled suspension within ideology so that they can confront reality. This is not a merely negative operation of destruction, but one that disperses the conflated images of “the everyday” so that life is possible.

 

Spirit, Actual, Ethic (Aesthetics and Politics): Part One.

I figured that is time for a proper entry. I’ve gotten through the first three bits of this book: “Bloch against Lukacs,” “Lukacs against Bloch,” “Brecht against Lukacs.” There is a fourth part that I’m about halfway through now, and that section is a series of diaristic entries by Benjamin on Brecht. I should comment on the form and organization of these writings, first.

After the Presentation, Bloch’s “Discussing Expressionism” is so slight an entry in the book that it is hard to believe that it opens the door to nearly two hundred pages more of inquiry, analysis, and debate. The entry is only twelve pages, and it denies its ostensible form as a polemic. First, it seems to know that it is a piece about renewed interest, the picking-up of a thread, more than a “for or against” operation. I wonder if picking up such a discussion-thread has to incite a type of debate along its course, to get the momentum of debate going. After all, there are plenty of entries and essays that do discuss a topic, but are libel to be left static and “interpreted” in an endless array of citations, before a genuine discussion is brought about. But I think here, that Bloch ultimately asks for more, even only if in the title of his work, than a polemic. [That's why I like seeing it in this volume, where that request is met...]

Bloch is concerned with the spirit of Expressionism, the ways in which it permeates time and politics of a given instant. I think this is crucial for the beginning of this book. Where Lukacs would like to dismantle the whole project of Expressionism from the start based on its ideological flaws that are awakened in technical difficulties, Bloch highlights the mere insistence of existence. It seems, more than engage in a direct polemical debate with Lukacs, the man and philosopher, Bloch is more interested in dismantling the more material and categorical implications of such a debate. He insists that there is something to be learned and valued from the persisting spirit of the Expressionists, who placed importance on the immediacy of experience. Whether or not these experiences were materially or ideologically sound, has an import of lesser degree.

In a sense, the spirit of creation and of experience, Bloch points out, has the ability to permeate time and space, and therefore is the kernel of the human desire to experience something outside of the ideological and the categorical. He dismisses, correctly, the attack that the Expressionists were in any way tied with the Decadence movement, or any other movement. This is a qualified claim, and precisely the moment where, I think, Bloch goes down the wrong ally-way.  The spirit of Expressionism is to find that which is not totally consumed by ideology, which is not weighed down with systemic organization and categorization. It refutes the possibility of being categorized by being “incomprehensible” to the system outside of the system of primary experience. This is a negative characteristic, and one that undermines the entire project. Because if the only imperative of a system like Expressionism is to “express” there is no objective (or even subjective) referent to the revolutionary aesthetic that is claims to hold so dear. For if the Expressionsts have been unparalleled, yes, it would be in the spirit of ‘a-political’ experience that they themselves might call ‘trans-historical’ experience. And, of course a-political engagement is short-hand for engagement that is consumed in dominant ideology, and trans-historical aesthetic experience might enter into the realm of the eternel, but only once it has leaped from the platform of its particular economic and ideological enjambments. What I’m saying is, art must always know the terms of its own position in context to its present incarnation, or else it is subject to subsumption in another dominant form. Which, is what happened to the Expressionists, who were unable to Express anything more than their experience in capital.

This, leads me to take up the Lukacsian line of critique. He responds to Bloch in “Realism in the Balance.” I think that, first, he shows that the Expressionists are not Realists because they are not real, insofar as they have been cut off from the kernel referent which would allow them to adequately express a true reality or possibility outside of ideology and economy, since they lack the demarcations of those categories in the first place.


Red moon, blue sea, empty house

the hopeless and interminable feeling of artistic surges over in an expressive force, like the desire to speak to the boy who was left alone too long. left alone far too long and without a letter. the impression that stifles every refined word that i could drum up but haven’t learned, any project or open-road is closed-off by my idea of tomorrow’s hours, all-accounted and necessary, obligations and seasonal rifts. i wonder if tonight, the copper moon will cast a crooked shadow on a buckled sidewalk crack and let me see the trees and tiny snow flakes, burning against the full highland sky, heath freezing over like a weaving of icicles. and i could see stones moving in ghostly shapes, and what would it mean if i saw a face? a human face? this heavy and blunt despair falls away into the absurd gray hues of this computer screen and the wall opposite me and the person across the room, even shadows have lost their mystery–they wear the weight of bored and hunched shoulders.

i can only think by what i cannot say, i have no words that are mine and i don’t have the practice or precision to form them against the uniformity of a shaping knife. blind, surging spirit and feeling have spilled me out somewhere from first high, and now i spin a rabble of trash into glass, inviting others inside.

i still swell up like a bloated fish against the pitfalls of a well conditioned routine. everyday commonality is a phrase that means banality and my community has poisoned itself with false, fleeting dreams that are always smoking off glowing embers somewhere over the horizon–the romantic volcano would burn us in the street if we came too close to it. and oh, how we love our feet and fingers.

we see that we are on the land above the sea. we walk on water not by faith but by stones, pavement poured over and into the water like shell mounds that will not die.

and i am polluted by agreeing to regurgitate words before i’ve understood them. i stand choking above a toilet just after the second course– gagging and nauseated but i signed up for more, more, more, for the promise of more.

it’s clear to me, the politics of continuing the meal: we fall away from praxis and push it further still by force, pointing out until we have become masters of self-deception, of proving lacksis. we reaffirm just what we tell ourselves we patiently wait to fight against. we sit weak and sick on our own acids, at the grand meal of tastefully selected paradise in the dumps of New Jersey, where even the tomatoes are grown in cement.

more, more, more;

it was perhaps the worst slogan–
“WE WANT EVERYTHING,”

of course you do.

The empirically aesthetic fiction of politics

so  many more things can go wrong on a computer than on a type-writer. and yet the typewriter has me stumped. The ribbon is twisted. It’s making me completely angry… not at the typewriter. It’s a different kind of technical problem. I think if I tried to survey all of the different kinds of “technical problems”, or the estrangement that I have with italicizing something, it makes me very uneasy.

I didn’t realize it until a little while ago. Here I am, staring out my window, but I’m writing, with as much confidence and fluidity as if I were laboring over the lines. And if I make an error, something will highlight it for me. If I need to imprint the words or shift a letter, all I have to do is push a button. It’s not about the typewriter, either. That is just the thing that came before this… they are made of the same sentiments. What I feel, though, is the separation of my thoughts and their production. Is this real? Cloud data somewhere, and as long as we have this, it will be around well after my youngest sister has her last grandchild. Of what I made in a cloud, it will be seen in the numbers that make the image of the cloud, and the final product is a virtual list, fluidity, production.

I was talking last night with some friends. One said that he feels pure theory is self-indulgent crap, and that there has to be some empirical use for it. I had a hard time understanding his comment. Of course, I see that theory can be self-indulgent, like that presenter at Cornell a few months ago who said that his theory only worked in theory. (He was talking about some post neo anti fascist babble about the blood and the earth relating to the Hobbsean myth of humanity. For this I can submit Marx’s sixth thesis on Feuerbach.) But his own argument seemed to preclude itself from theory, full stop. If something only works in theory, it seems to me that it is a mere fiction. And that something is a fiction, it must be understood both empirically and theoretically. Which leads me to my second critique of my friend’s statement, that the aesthetic may or may not really be an empirical use of theory. But theory is not to be used empirically. At least, not in any pedestrian sort of way. Like the man who said that his theory works only in theory, I would say to him that he was writing fiction, and that it would best be left to the theorists to make sense of his fiction. And to determine that his fiction was in fact a fiction and not a theory, one must inhabit the uses and abuses of imagined theories and sorts of other fictions from the empirically theoretical, and not the theoretically empirical, which is always a fiction.

And so it seems that theory is not a theory unless it is used in such a way that allows us to see the “empirical” (which is a fiction, as well, for various reasons, not the least of which is the very need to “find” the empirical).

I wonder, though, about the uses of a theoretical standpoint in the empirical production of aesthetics (forgive me if I start to sound cute). In the last day of the Idealist Tradition, we were having a stupid man’s discussion of the intersection between aesthetics and ethics. I should say that my understanding of the whole thing is a little stupid, but all in all, I think that the class was useful, even if only negatively. Okay, so we were ending the Idealist Tradition on a bit of sour note with Nietzsche. I really do need to spend time finding out just why I hate him so much…

The Idealist tradition “dies” but for me, it only dies insofar as it is ignored. I can’t go much deeper into my analysis of N right now, aside from the fact that he can neither be an anarchist nor a fascist. His fascism is impossible because it demands a rejection of all structure, and he cannot function as an anarchist because his anarchism depends upon the hierarchical construction of a united society. So, forgive all of my childish antics and my trite tone and lack of style when I say that Nietzsche seems to me like the crystallization of modern hysteria. This idea is malformed though, and I’m sure that someone has already written on it.

Here, I’m pulling myself back in to the discussion of the aesthetic and the ethical. I do see that the Fascists could have been great modern artists, insofar as they have precluded themselves from the real implications of being a fascist. In short, they were never really fascists, and if they were fascists in the way that people love to categorize them as Nietzschians, they were just scaley-eyed followers from the get-go. They did not know or posses the theoretical knowledge of their own aesthetic kernel. They might as well have made boots in Berlin.

I don’t know if I’m saying what I mean to say, and that’s because I am really undecided about the matter. No, I am not saying that Nolde was not Nolde, rather that he did not posses the means, empirically, that made him great. In a sense, i do understand that the aesthetic seems to be subsumed in the political, since it best operates (on an empirically functional level) when the actant is not aware of his situation. At best, he is only partially aware. In literature, I am thinking of Flaubert.

So, if aesthetics are not the mediatory device, and are instead understood as the kernel within the political, at the very worst, as something half dismantled from the political, what can I have to say about the production of art?

The way we move beyond both the “aesthetic” and “the political” to the first degree, is t borrow Fredric Jameson’s mathematical metaphor and kick it to the next power: we enter the realm of theory to deal with the empirical realities of imagined theories and politics.

From the merely aesthetic, just as the merely political, it is impossible to see which one is the empirical application of what, and at what time. It is also impossible to see the break between artistic greatness and technical skill, whose inspiration lies elsewhere. Theory, then, is the positing of these competing “first valence” phenomena, and placing them against not only themselves but against history and their contingent places in “empirical” reality. If you would like to call the theoretical a vacant category of metaphysics, you’ve got to be kidding yourself.

For an entry on the proper designation of theory and its production as “aesthetic,” I might need to eat some lunch, first.

please someone tell me yes no maybe…. rough thoughts

The missing subject

Hegel’s explication of the concept of the individual in the Preface to his essay Philosophy of Right correctively refocuses the Kantian position of the subject in relation to the concrete world. He says,

I leave out of account every particularity such s my character, my temperament, knowledge, and age. ‘I’ is totally empty; it is merely a point—simple yet active in this simplicity. The colourful canvas of the world is before me; I stand opposed to it and in this [theoretical] attitude I overcome its opposition and make its content my own. (PR, 328)

Here, Hegel effectively outlines the compressed Kantian point of subjectivity as a self-referential framework that works to exclude exterior objects and concepts in exchange for a self-fulfilling prophesy of interchangeable subjectivity. The movement is as follows: the transcendental subject is only capable of marrying the otherwise incommensurable categories of existence (the natural and the moral) only through imprinting his already-existing interior framework necessitated in a narrative myth of à priori wholeness from which the individual has emerged, but can only access from this point of inwardness. Hegel exposes the missing subject of ‘I’ that is ultimately responsible for overcoming these categories as the very ideology from which Kant attempted to free the individual. Essentially, the Kantian ‘I’ is the use and metaphysical belief in the à priori. The tentative state of the absolutely individual Transcendental Subject can only posses its infinite subjectivity against the hidden embers of a mass web and a denied sensuousness. Karl Marx puts it best in his sixth thesis on Feuerbach, when he explains that the soul of humanity is paved over by a dumb generality; the genus of humanity retroactively reunites the individual though a type of imagined origin. On myth that American schoolchildren and high school students learn about are those primordial scenes of brutish society in Hobbes and Locke. The viciousness of the purely natural life is taken as the horrible root—or true soul—of humanity lives within each individual, and was managed and preempted through the formal relegations of the united (self-destructive) sprit into the mechanistic whole that is only manifest as a herd of individuals. Here, it is more important to contemplate the significance of this narrative as a narrative, rather than excavate its architecture. If this core is the Essence of man that must not only be comprehended, but also, dumb after its comprehension, there is only one conclusion to make from Marx’s thesis. This myth has been impressed upon the real collective spirit only after it was arbitrarily splintered through social machinations whose reproduction is only possible through inherent and unbridgeable social agitations. Thus, the narrative of the silent and violent whole manifested in the individual is true insofar as this violent kernel is the entirety that feels inherent alienation between its spirit and its outward functions. In a diversion from material and class-based conflicts, the static individual might only believe himself to be absolutely transcendental if he believes in the closed-categories of his historical existence.

The subject seems to be evacuated of its particular qualities and cannot be put in relation to other subjects except in that relation the self paints on the other. It is simple yet active in its banality in that there are not direct any direct challenges to this individual in its universal incarnations because of its “simple” overwriting of the exterior world. Hegel’s corrective uses for Kant lie in his treatment and contextualization of the subject to the objects that surround him. The relationships that objects colorfully animate are only apprehended through the concrete, itself—but that this concrete meaning is not in for itself; rather, it is the concept which illuminates the form of the object, and in turn illuminates the subject who perceives this relation. So, where Kant’s framework (inadvertently) calls for a static revision of the concrete world through the self-referential category of ‘I’ (that comprises anything and everything it cares to, abandoning all the rest without consequence), Hegel instead shows the contextual relationship that the subject has with both subjects and objects. For Kant, the point of origin for the transcendental subject is rooted in an impossible transference of Absolute knowledge from a subjective perspective, a situation where the subject functions situationally as his own god. This situation is a practical impossibility once à priori categories are dissolved in the sense that the cohesiveness of the subject’s overwriting his surrounding objects exposes its tautological roots. This is the fatal error of Kant’s critique—its theoretical postulations are completely destroyed in the face of the concrete.

In Kant, the very mode by which the realm of the metaphysic is left behind is the very thing that instantiates it as a metaphysic in the last instance. Kant’s à priori categorization is conceptually seen in the lack of definite context—that is, the objective and the concrete. Kant’s model of the individual is only viable insofar as it does not come under attack of the determinate concrete sphere. For example, a modern subject lives in a nation-state and takes part in commercial processes. He does his business in the public, votes his piece in the elections, and holds property. In normal economic, social, and domestic circumstances, the subject can function at least nominally within the Kantian framework of the transcendental subject. In isolated, minor issues of business, he is able to rationally identify the proper components of his decision, and extract a seemingly legitimate result, for which he advances upon a “moral” framework. However, in the face of a systemic economic, political, or moral crisis, the subject is unable to advance any decision in a coherently rational way, since it has been severed à priori from the concrete, that is, the contextual. This is all to say that the transcendental nature of Kant’s theory of the subject is in a static state, and that Kant’s critiques are valid insofar as they occur within the normative bounds of the ideal, itself. The logic of the individual, then, is really thinking the thoughts of the normative order: in economics, it will follow the law of capital, in politics, it will follow the tide towards a democratic republic, and in morality it will do its best to place the crown of infinite rationality on its head. But in the non-normative, (the real) systemic problems of every kind throw this fragile framework into disarray because of the subject’s fundamental inability to situate himself concretely, or to situate the categories of his existence in concrete relations with each other.

In terms of the individual’s mythic narrative, the very moment that a high school student learns about their silent and violent origins in the tangled mass of human nature, is precisely the moment that highlights the fallibility of this myth. The contemporary individual cannot function as an isolated individual because is relation to others has been proven time and time again, the most recent and obvious example being the global financial crash that surfaced in October of 2008. And yet, the very most devastating possibility for the imaginary individual subject and the system in which he lives would be to discover a. the genuine unity of social humanity, b. its constituent antagonisms, and finally, c. that his “individual” identity is really a specific class situation at the basis of his own permanent suffering.  In contrast, the real self that emerges through this disintegration turn out to be closer to the individual’s spirit that transform his everyday life because those false forms of reality are shed in exchange for a larger identity that historically reaffirms not only his singularity, but also his singularity’s reality in a universal sense. This position of self-awareness has many valences that extend beyond the binary of singular and universal of the human and spiritual corpus, and into the historical and utopian incarnations of the real Mass and Spirit. Today’s “leftist” political discourse is fragmented along many of the twentieth century’s hangnails, each progressively cutting a deeper rift between the historical and the utopian. This rift is also understood between the political and the aesthetic: today, there are dogmatic Leninists who write in the old high-rhetoric of the Vanguard Party, composing thoughts that are based on a polemical mode of thought. The problem with this, most obviously, is that between the utopian truth and possibility that the Leninist position spoke to circa 1917, but also the impossibilities for a reoccurrence of those social conditions that led to it. In short, one on hand, there is a devastating inversion of theory and practice in today’s Left, where the rhetoric and historical unfolding of Marx-Leninism are taken for the universal theory of the revolutionary spirit. This misstep is easy enough to make, since the lines between historical fact and significance are easily trodden over without so much as a passing glance. But the real cause for this retroversion toward dogmatic Leninism is paralleled in the same type of contemporary hauntological cultural formations that conjure up the 1960’s as a radical origin of social change. These two moments are evidently and indisputably important moments in revolutionary theory and practice; but something happened to them. There is some imaginary scar that we suffer from; some invisible cross that we bear from both of these moments, and it is here that we should remember Marx’s Eleventh Thesis on Feuerbach:

Philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point is to change it.

This line is so often quoted from Marx’s corpus that it verges along the border of reified philosophy. Nevertheless, this phrase is the key to understanding the invisible trauma of our times and its significance as the imaginary genus of post-modernity. The cultural moment of the sixties is sometimes called the moment of rupture, that instant that history opened up and provided history with its own (and last) exit strategy for emancipation from formalized limits of human relationships. Likewise, there are certain factions of the Left that are organized around the political and economic anachronism of the Russian Revolution. These two groups point to a moment of legitimate social and political truth and trauma that have affected common political and social discourse to this day. But, I would suggest that these two moments in particular have stuck in our radical cultural memory as the genus to our own impossible identity. The contemporary imagination and project is scattered and weakly coordinated in political discourse precisely because it is a genus that we have adopted after-the-event, perhaps without even knowing it. These images, symbols, and lines of change have been flooded by the very apparatus in which it was to effect change. The Russian Revolution and subsequent political theory distilled in Lenin’s corpus highlight the (nominal) realization of the utopian imagination. It is a philosophical body that legitimates the communist project in the dominant and modern world’s own terms. It was the premier moment of political praxis, in which centuries of subaltern voices and resistance was recognized in the same sphere as the dominant capital discourse of hegemony. But, in every shining moment of the universal, there is also its contingent counterpart of the contextual: there is no one line to summarize the entire political, economic, and ideological history of the U.S.S.R. as a governing body. There is no need. What is important to recognize is the critical importance and meaning of the Russian Revolution as an event, both political and intellectual, that speaks to the spirit of possibility. In addition to universal potentiality, it is crucial to delineate the measure marks between political and theoretical manifestation and the point at which it was washed out by the waves of happenstance. Thus, we move from utopian event to the gray shores of the everyday. The only way that we might overcome the politically, economically, and socially impossibility of reincarnating the Soviet Revolt of 1917, is through a re-examination of the universal spirit of the revolution and its face.  We must name the real narrative myth in which radical politics has allowed itself to become an individual enterprise, as just one other choice in a world of limitless options. In order to do this, the other valence must re-emerge, that universal consciousness of the utopian.

The question of delineating a coherent line of thought between the spirit and form of the radical body and its imagination is complicated further when the possibilities of social engagement—both personal and formal—exists largely within the sphere of the sixties aesthetic determinations and social coincidence. For many contemporary activists and leftists, the everyday ethic, or lived relation to the revolutionary imagination, the sixties are regarded as the cloudy origin and missed exit of our epoch. Here, we must use the intellectual blue-print of the dialectic to free ourselves from our imaginary relationships to an imagined past, to an origin that does not exist in the utopian imagination save in the universal. Yet, this relationship is only viable and reachable in a concrete and achievable program of everyday living if we rigorously examine our deep cultural predication from a Marxist perspective. This is to say, in order to free the radical imagination and actualize its everyday appearance in this historical moment, we must break free of the happenstance of the twentieth century events.

This cannot be reached through a pseudo-science of exhaustive and extensive reading of the philosophical and political canon, but through an understanding of the “static” contemporary moment, full of contingencies and a thousand invisible shards of glass in relation to its trans-historical context. In short, we must return to Hegelian dialectics, and retrace our own contemporary “leftist” identity in a relentless exercise against the present. Too long has empancipatory discourse been designated by the faded possibility of the communist state. Perhaps it is time to announce that all hitherto existing incarnations of communism have “failed” insofar as the radical imagination has failed to see them as moments in a trans-historical project rather than the political state. In a word, the radical imagination has forgotten itself in the infinite negativity of self, without a care for its contextual and trans-historical meaning and relationships.

 

A love letter

In life, longing has to remain love: that is its happiness and its tragedy. Great love is always ascetic, whether it raises the object of love to supreme heights and by so doing alienates it from itself and from the lover, or whether it merely uses that object as a springboard; whereas petty love abases love and causes mutilation, which is another form of asceticism. Great love is the natural, the real, the normal kind of love, but among living human beings it is the other kind that has become normal: love as silence and repose, love which cannot and will not lead to anything else… In life, longing has become love, and now love is struggling to be independent from longing, its lord and begetter.

Longing and Form, 115

No secret messages. Love is soul that is excited through human form, but this human form kills it. Longing is a bridge. The bridge that connects the two that cannot become the one. And these bridges, these are the constructions of madness, the forms that stretch out not to realized souls but merely towards their attempts. Longing was the very bridge destroyed for the lived life. One without the other is nothing. Love as silence and repose always gives something away. The self that has no divides cannot share secrets, it cannot play games or live externally. The innards are external. Love is teeth upon the ice-block, the excitement and the pleasure of immanent numbness: the realization of love is always the refusal to allow that silent, lying body to feel its own truth in another form, a reflection carved from the novice’s hand, an arbitrary use of pieces and parts.

“It is that feeling of being both near and far which comes with great understanding, that profound sense of union which yet is eternally a being-separate, a standing-outside,” (112). In life, that which takes human form, love cannot but be actualized as that aside from longing. Love is the unity and understanding, the acknowledged life that remains unwhole. Its unwholeness is not due to a non-realization. In fact, love and longing are most purely felt as the sublated unity in human isolation. In this life, they are felt in isolation but this conference of unity in difference is based on the dream of some great and true infinity. And how painfully that silent death, that maskless death must be. The soul evacuating its formal actualization- the final act of love.

For the kernel of love is an unbearable sentiment to life–in silence, in hardened, dusty soils, the body of what is or even what could ever be realized is the unbearable truth of humanity: that which predicates actualization is at its core the blistering and glittering beauty of the inexpressible.

I wonder if longing in life is yet another imagined duality which provokes man to discover true love–the cruel knife-twist in the heart from l’autre that reaches out, builds bridges, no matter how tentative, to the manifold sky yet without shape. There can never be love of the two–there is desire for the other and longing for the one. And this longing in its earthly shape has already foreclosed itself in our best interests so that we no longer desire, but ache.

Great love is the soul, the utopian heart of the matter, and is only realized insofar as it is located within earthly matter, or form. The question is of which form and for what end will this heart beat?

A heart that hardens
on the ice-block had better let its red
life-ribbons melt it;
unity of difference,
blood and water, better than
a frozen soul,
a shattered life.

flower chains

Is it really that much more difficult to refrain from feeling petty things? Is it a matter of soul or of situation that meetings, friendships, projects, take on the look of an a-political social club? At the fuzzy locus point, is the real belief and hope to get laid, get friends, get together, all masquerading under the equivocated “education of peers?” Or do we know why we’re here. Perhaps there has been some confusion. I used to think that feeling this way (which is less of a feeling than a confrontation), wanting things to be different in the world, and seeing them differently from others obliged me to make decisions that didn’t all together “register” in the liminal world. It was okay to break this or that “friendship;” I knew when to work and when something was performative and should be left behind. But slowly, and fearfully–and I should say–with regret enough to pass it by–that the world of thinking differently and writing and even of “being radical” has slipped under a twilight.

Projects written alone in an attic reached fewer people, were still the practice of a novice, sure. But it was there. And now, writing cover letters and personal statements and finding this or that writer “totally unintelligible” has become the norm. I can’t pretend to say that these more, oh I don’t know, middle class woes have highlighted the failing inability to really discuss politics, philosophy, ethic, spirit. Yes, on a very real level, I am behaving like a foolish child: but really, I can’t bear the thought of working this hard for entry into some tight-lipped institution with a bunch of self-loving hypocrites whose political affiliations from the get-go have already been dismantled. There is something to say for education; there’s quite a lot to say about it. On the other hand, real education is often held in the least aesthetically-appealing bits of town, on the back streets of New Brunswick, New Jersey; it’s drinking the dirty water and swimming in it, letting hair turn hard from the polluted swirl.

In spite of everyone’s (radical) best intentions, are we not living in the brain-dead day-to-day? We’re just boying this or that shirt for this or that event, driving late at night, mixing our contemplations of love and production within our veritable “inboxes.” If we–and here, I mean I–look deeply enough, it is perfectly legitimate to note the movement of the contemporary young person in search of radical vocation as:

1. Shocked, radicalized, bare, completely rejecting the opportunities and categories of this world
2. A slow concrete shadow, a fear of the tradition, a period of groping, of constant thought, isolation (in university context)
3. Friendships, company, respite from the depression of it all
4. An imagined agility; acceptance of context, of performance, of “system navigation”

But like those who say “you can be radical on facebook, it’s all about the system,” isn’t it high time we let ourselves in on the bad joke? That we have allowed ourselves, our impulses, our power, to be contained in the ideological? Perhaps this isn’t just facebook; it’s graduate school and the Friday night party, drinks after class… we have turned our company into a cycle of repeating consumption. Because what are we changing, versus what are we allowing to change us?

Marx said

Criticism has plucked the imaginary flowers on the chain not in order that man shall continue to bear that chain without fantasy or consolation, but so that he shall throw off the chain and pluck the living flower.

I see lots of chains, lots of ironical statements from people who know better. And I feel them. We know what we’re looking at. We know that there’s “no radical break available.” But what are we moving towards? And how might we even say we know what we long for, anymore? To never feel that sparkling pain blazing in the skies above us as truth and not as a bleeding heart! We wear our commitments like good little boys and girls, writing the pamphlets, passing the papers, organizing the events. But our lives, and everything we see for ourselves, must once again reject this long-term melancholy of retreat. Love must be seen as a matter of course and not a highway exit (else we might miss it, forever!) in the way we live our lives, with the hope, clarity, and grit conferred upon our every day existence.

We have decorated our homes and hearts in a garland, and admire our great courage to bear it all in the face of such dismantled beauty. But we are still in our homes , as the fields of flowers outside our windows are paved away in gridded squares, our hearts closing in on themselves.

We must all read young Marx.

Nature herself has determined the sphere of activity in which the animal should move, andit peacefully moves within that sphere, without attempting to go beyond it, without even aninkling of any other. To man, too, the Deity gave a general aim, that of ennobling mankindand himself, but he left it to man to seek the means by which this aim can be achieved; heleft it to him to choose the position in society most suited to him, from which he can bestuplift himself and society.

This choice is a great privilege of man over the rest of creation, but at the same time it is anact which can destroy his whole life, frustrate all his plans, and make him unhappy. Seriousconsideration of this choice, therefore, is certainly the first duty of a young man who isbeginning his career and does not want to leave his most important affairs to chance.

-Karl Marx, “Reflections of a young man on he choice of profession,” 1835

writing as event: absent ghost of ontology

We will continue fantasize over our own ghosts until we learn how to remember them without shaking with desire to be dominated by them, or to become them once again. In Bruno Bosteels’ essay “Thinking, Being, Acting, or, On the Uses and Disadvantages of Ontology for Politics,” sketches out the basic issues that a modern leftist ontology would and must speak to in order to constitute itself as a legitimate and emancipatory entity. Bosteels by no means proffers a one-line “solution”  to the “ubiquitous return to the question of being in the field of political thought,” at either end of the essay, let alone in its body. Instead, Bosteels navigates around the demands that an ontology would have to recognize (if not reconcile) the present need for it as such, while navigating its various deployments from the Enlightenment to the present. The first task of a legitimate meditation on the question of being is to zero in on its constitutive demands. This need for a contemplation of contemplation is illuminating. That is to say, when faced with the question of constitution, it is certainly not more acceptable now than at any time in the past to employ a strictly auto-spontaneous Kantian model precisely because it presupposes the question of being as metaphysic. Bosteels continues down the dialectical path, and offers ontology “described as spectral, nonidentical, and postfoundational. It tries to come to terms, not with present being but with ghosts and phantasms; not with entities or things but with events” (2).  This consideration is essential—a consideration embodied and addressed in the writing, itself. In this passage, it is clear that the imagining of ontology cannot be conducted as anything other than a rigorous critique of its history which is only positively considered through the act of writing removed by the second degree from its properly political diagnostic engagements.

A postfoundational, spectral notion of ontology is specifically useful when considering the overall trajectory of his essay and its subjects, regardless of whether or not Bosteels decides to take them on for good. Our political nightmare haunted by ghosts and specters is most successively recognized, remembered, and integrated into memory through the project of writing. The arch of Bosteels’ essay speaks to this necessity incorporates that first demand of a leftist ontology—through the long and arduous tasks of naming the various historical figures and their employment of ontology within their historical contexts. The process of unearthing these ghosts and specters in “A Leftist Ontology” exhumes the ghosts of a half-dead political project and transforms them into a properly dialectical event as writing. Writing, then, is seen as the ontology of the present; the essay shows itself to be A Leftist Ontology.

Writing as a production of truth functions in this capacity as ontological, but its forms are not limited to that of the essay, or even of the political variety. In all cases, literature not only “thinks the thought of love” insofar as love is understood as a mode of approaching truth, but as a method of elevating the most tragic, painful, and important ghosts of our epoch and upholding them without sublating or foreclosing their real implications from the Left’s memory.

On Jameson’s preface to The Political Unconscious

This post marks the beginning of my free reading of Jameson. And already, the preface says so much more than I thought it might. For my first attempt at understanding it, I will try to close read some passages.

The Political Unconscious accordingly turns on the dynamics of the act of interpreation and presupposes, as its organizational fiction, that we never really confront a text immediately, in all its freshness as a thing-in-itself. Rather, texts come before us as the alway-already-read; we apprehend them though sedimented layers of previous interpretations, or–if the text is brand new–through the sedimented reading habits and vategories developed by those inherited interpretive traditions. (FJ 9)

What this points to, in unaffected language, is a way of reading, a way of interpreting literature. Much like the world we live in, literature is not directly experienced because of two forces (that FJ later expands): history and literary criticism (or modes of criticisms). These might be considered two opposing things, but I have more than a feeling that they are a part of the same dialectical (Marxian) truth. In the case of the old text: it is easy enough to imagine how we do not really read a text, directly. The tradition of the text, the cultural assignments, the quick and dirty indexes on a work’s author, its secondary and reified use in popular (contemporary) culture, etc, are exhausting. Not to mention the historicist lens that we don every time we attempt to read a work outside our own epoch (as an aside, I wonder if “our epoch” or season of epochs, each pass away more and more frantically, as we are outmoded not at century’s intervals, nor even decades, but now by the week, the day, the minute…). Until we, as historical readers, or readers blinded and harnessed by our inaccessibility to history, or even time itself, cannot read any text without a mode; this brings us to the second type of reading: literary criticism.

The inaccessibility of the reader to his own epoch, while also isolating him from any other, might be temporarily overcome with a manner of reading. FJ lists the many en vogue in the following pages, and points out that in the end, these kinds of literary understandings, like any given feuding mysticism, competes soulessly with all the others with all the same words and stifled promises. Of course, FJ makes no bones about his premise: to show that the Marxist mode of reading is not just another type of reading on the “intellectual marketplace,” but that it eradicates the need for such a dogmatist view and allows the reader to come into the closest type of contact with any given text because it accounts for the historically real material context of the work as well as our own. Thus, it unites us with the text. There is much more to be said about this text. And I will post on more quotes in the preface during all my spare moments this week, though they appear to be few.

Back to reading Oscar Wilde; as I was reading the two in concurrence (not to mention Whitman for a third) I have overcome my hatred of the former and the latter. FJ reminds that Marx’s favorite author was Balzac–

it’s really just too bad that Wilde falls so hideously into his own traps. Brilliant imagery helps this. Onward!

signing off.

What I love about redundancy is that it always means something different-

This little turn about the timeworn path of new year’s is worthwhile, in spite of itself. Not because it is really a new year or that it really is a fresh chance, but because it is something I might do every once in a while, anyway. Some things that I would like to work on this year-

Blogging; this doesn’t appear to be *too* difficult to manage at first. But I think I should take my writing in this blog to a new place. Being a self-conscious thinker usually leads to my being a bad thinker. In a sense, all of my writing, specifically my blogging, will not be as concerned with being “right” (or as it really turns out to be) an exercise in not appearing to be a sycophant. Perhaps all along I really was more concerned with fitting myself into a long line of history and philosophy that could be discussed normally. This is a tricky place to be in at my level of reading and maturity: for a more advanced person, the difference between posing new problems in a new way and posing problems in an unrigorous way is a danger. [I think it might be, at least for me, but I will have to muddle through this for now. i.e. the top of the ramble.] In short, blogging this year will be more concentrated on particular pieces of writing or ideas or events without my accidental self-conscious attempts to make everything fit before I speak. But this is a process.

Stories; it’s been over a year and there are still huge gaps in the story I am writing. I don’t know whether or not it’s any good but I do enjoy writing it. What can I do? Attempting to iron out the end of the plot by the end of the year. Also, writing new short stories might be a good idea.

Self-consciousness; I’ve mentioned it several times before. It’s my biggest problem. I don’t know if it is because I didn’t receive an organized, standardized education or because I wonder if I am always fatally flawed in my thinking and ultimately have nothing to offer. That would be very bad, but we can’t all be philosophers and if I am not a very good thinker, perhaps I’ll learn something else to do with my time. Most likely, though, I should drop the self-consciousness in spite of being a little dull because I don’t really think I would ever give it up.

Public Conversations; there is such a thing as truth. That doesn’t mean I know what it is, but it also doesn’t mean that it ceases to exist when someone doesn’t agree with my general point of view. I’m sure that almost no one agrees with me and not because I’m so great. Learning when to not argue with people–i.e. when politics and philosophy are fundamentally confused (can’t you tell I’ve been meditating on Badiou and Zizek?) and reduced to the level of “taste”. Learning when to laugh at a very bad and confused joke, learning not to enter into a conversation with the latent intent to undermine the other’s point of view.

Thinking; without forcing it into the confines of history and a historically “whole” conception without slipping into nothing deconstruction. Not everyone can do/be everything- Badiou really puts this into perspective for me in Philosophy in the Present. Fighting with everyone for a world-view is rather stupid because it’s all just caught up in itself.

Future; big, scary word. I can’t ease my way out of this one.

Commitment; Next semester is going to be a douzy. I’m interning two days a week in the city at a mainstream publishing house, taking two upper level French courses and two upper level English courses in addition to a science course. Oh, and somehow finding money to eat. But after all that, it still leaves out my primary passion and concerns. (Of course the English and French courses will be great, but those are not nearly sufficient.) And so I’ve got to get creative. I’m not 100% on the second French course yet, but I think I should do it because I need to step up to the next level, anyway. But there is still the problem of commitment; I can’t say it’s a problem of time or anything else. It’s a matter of personal endeavor and dedication- for instance, I never really liked television anyway but now it’s necessary to give it up, entirely. I’m a bit too easy on myself and give myself too many breaks (that’s what happens when you listen to people around you…) Because for me this isn’t work to get into a good graduate program. Of course that would be lovely and I would learn a lot but that possibility is a. a bit stifled and b. highly unlikely for me. This is what I consider “real life” and it would be a shame to live without it.

It all started at 2pm in Seoul 362 days ago

I think you should all know something about me. I have a pre-myself and a post-myself period. Both epochs are slightly useful but equally flawed: pre-myself was all perception, all observation, the world was a loose connectivity of phenomena that circled around me, unknowable. Post-myself acquired the language to experience what I had felt for a very long time, the means to survey the proximity to the Idea of the Thing without ever touching it. [The outside of the persona and the impossible imagined void of being the persona, the belief from the void of belief.] But of course, I was always myself in these instances; while I may change, the enormity of consumption, of poverty, of false-realities still rattle me to no end. Only now, I’m not perplexed and sad that I can’t rewrite my world into a certain-type-of-film (which I assumed everyone else could do or had no need of doing because they were already secure in their own film-reality); I’m perplexed because I could never enter that world, even before I was myself, and I don’t know how to help others out. My pre/post demonstration does have a point, I promise.

I love taking little trips down the short pike, finding its breaks, finding its intersections, its segues, departures. But there are six hours that can’t be accounted for. [Of course, I could die immediately after posting this and then there'd be the 3-day chunk but I consider that more accounted for than not.] But there’s a rift in the road, something I can’t cross over or get back. There’s tear in the universe and I’m convinced that that’s where my *conversion* is; and I’m more convinced every day that that’s where I am, too.

I wrote ^ and walked away from my computer for a while… I forgot that I had to say goodbye to 2009 and I’m not too thrilled right now, either. Sometimes I get caught up in the moment that I slip out of justly and minutely accounted time. This was the year that I will always remember. This was the year that I began to want to live; I began living (in the very dusty, small capacity that I can).

No, I’ve been wandering around the planet this year six hours out of joint. At least, that’s how I thought it started. Like any of my stories (fiction and non) I’ll begin before the beginning, to get into the mood of things. Two days before my Rutgers-funded trip to Cambodia began, my friend and I looked at our itinerary and found a twelve-hour gap in Korea–twelve hours on New Year’s Day in Korea and no one had figured this out before us. Cut to: Seoul-6am New Year’s morning. Last I recalled in New York, it was somewhere around 11:45pm. We landed, the mountains were purple and pink in 2009′s dewy, 12-degree mist. The bus from Incheon was round, clean, incubatory. But where had my new year gone? It was already there, but it slipped away from me–there was a TV on the bus but it was all in Korean. The letters were round and incubatory, too. There was a long line of condos-it stretched from the airport to the city, most of the windows facing each other. But I could still see the sky and the mountains and the pink orb to the east, gently rising on a day that hadn’t happened.

We had breakfast at a  nice hotel, bread and jam and coffee. We took the subway. But I don’t remember the subway, really. I only remember walking up the stairs into the sunlight, it could have been any city; it was Seoul, South Korea. It was 2pm, it was midnight, it was 2009. That was it. Somewhere my life was compressed and mushed back together again up the stairs. I’ve been trying to find the caution sign in all the photos, I can’t see anything pointing to a rift in the universe. I think I was the only one.

The flight to Cambodia was non-existent. We got off the plane into a building that mocked the worst kind of Disney Cambodia airport. I don’t really want to talk about Cambodia. It was good and bad and I was more bad than good, not because I *did* anything to help or not in the token sense, not because I got drunk and pretended to be an Australian because I was too embarrassed to be an American. (This is stupid, of course, because either way I was totally invading… “helping their economy.” Developing it.)

No, because I realized my world-situation and I realized that no mural-painting in an orphanage in Phnom Phen can change the implicit acceptance, the implicit violence with which I painted it. No four-hour tour in a land-mine museum exempts me from the rich history of ignorance, of cultural relativist bullshit I played in to for nineteen years. No amount of delicately taking pictures of trash pickers in the garbage dump will make me “one of them.” The accepted NGO worker, the joke-feministing activist, the John Smith of the Third New World. I had a situation and it didn’t come printed a manufactured laptop case — express yourself! My worlds could not be separated, from that day onward. The walls and roofs were for the tourists, the tents, the rotting river boats were for the natives.

I get back from Cambodia–I sleep for a few days. I think I was detoxing from all the alcohol. And I started writing my story. The same story I work on today, and probably for the next few years. It had nothing to do with Cambodia (in a negative way, I think it has everything to do with it). But in a more general sense, it was about people entrenched in positions, in non-positions, and knowing nothing about it. To be perfectly frank, it’s about being dumped out into the world as a product, and a failing one at that.

Spring semester- Althusser’s spring. Lenin and ideology sealed the deal, I was in for the long haul. The snow was falling heavily and I sat on a bench in Brower Common for a few hours, leaping back to the opening pages every now and then. It was the first time I had really worked towards something, felt something. But summer was the worst.

I lived in the back of Cook campus. I got it. I read “The Coming Insurrection;” I was alone for the most part. I was almost fired for reading War and Peace. It always rained. I was out of joint with my friends, my boyfriend, my bed, the food I ate, my body. I started reading Lukacs, abandoned him for Althusser again. Abandoned him for youtube videos on social alienation. I could have watched myself. I freaked out and I stopped writing, I stopped reading. I recoiled and felt the warm last efforts of August. Something Big was coming.

Fall semester began. It was the greatest semester I’ve had, yet. It’s all too fresh to condense (I’m sure it’s all there in my ramblings). When I say it was great, I don’t mean emotionally. Emotionally it’s shit to be isolated, to make do with the attenuated thread of communication you have with the outside world. But it all got me to thinking, it got me to writing. I’m doing more now that I’ve ever done. Just ask Me-Ti.

When I isolate the days, one from the next and last, I can never string them right along each other again without losing the capacity of time–I mean, with every pause, there’s something lost. And those six hours, I think it might really be a lifetime.