The Song Remains the Same

The end, end, the end...

I know it's a cliche, but sometimes it really feels as if all of my worldly experience is already contained in this bloody film.

Those were the days...

This was of course the future at one point.

Aus - Fennesz

Unsullied Potentialities

Here are just a few of the things that I would have written about recently, were I not in the final stretch of a very long and deeply unproductive stint of higher education.

- Manuel De Landa and his strange aversion to language.
- Asja Safraniec's excellent analysis of Derrida's professed inability to 'do' Beckett.
- Something rather interesting about Lacan and shame.
- A vanished and forgotten Victorian exhibition palace, an example of perfect failure.
- Leopold Godowsky and the embellishing effects of ill-remembrance.

Feel free to imagine how illuminating it would have been to read these, although I may spoil each of them soon by actually writing them up.

A case for the non-linearity of history...

There were, he said, no mitigating circumstances: the press, the voting system, the impropriety of Tory party funding, none of these could explain away the fact that the Middle Class in England had continued to vote Conservative because in their miserable hearts they still believed that it was in their interests to do so.

Robinson began to consider what the result would mean for him. His flat would continue to deteriorate and its rent increase. He would be intimidated by vandalism and petty crime. The bus service would get worse. There would be more traffic and noise pollution, and an increased risk of getting knocked down crossing the road. There would be more drunks pissing in the street when he looked out of the window, and more children taking drugs on the stairs when he came home at night. His job would be at risk and subjected to interference. His income would decrease. He would drink more, and less well. He would be ill more often. He would die sooner.