My theory, which is mine
My theory, which is mine.
Right. I'm tired of having the theoretical sand being kicked in my face. If it's not Golub and his Gadamer fixation, it's Tinka and her preoccupation with T S Eliot and a whole blogful of Theory. Even G. Leuschke - unlike me, a real mathematician - can boast an unhealthy knowledge of the works of Wittgenstein and Nabokov.
And all I've got is my battered copy of the Penguin Nietzsche Reader, and a fondness for Ezra Pound's early verse.
What I need is some sort of intellectual Patron Saint to use as ballast, as a role-model, as vicarious authority. And since I've never read Heidegger or his successors I suppose it had better be someone French.
But the only methodology I use is to wander around aimlessly making sarcastic remarks in other people's comments sections.
That's it! Guy Debord and the Situationists! With their signature riffs the dérive - a drift down city streets in search of signs of attraction or repulsion - and détournement - the theft of aesthetic artifacts from their contexts and their diversions into contexts of one's own devise - [definitions from Greil Marcus's Lipstick Traces - A Secret History of the Twentieth Century , which I hereby declare to be a key text]. Perfect!
And with a quick flourish we can borrow Torill's idea of the Web-as-city and replace surfing with the (vastly more glamorous) dérive and declare the blog itself - take your tongue out of my ear, Juliet, I am blogging - to be a form of détournment.
I shall try, however, to deny myself the pleasure of denouncing one-by-one all the blogs I read as shamefully complicit in the perpetuation of the Spectacle.
Although you are, you know. You really are.