Writing of the Aftermath §I
The Romanian came over to pour more Romanian wine for us, and hey, after a movie that is KTV music videos meet Gothic Poe and Korean melodrama, bring it on, friendly old man with the bushy eyebrows!
"Writing of the Aftermath" may be a title I am shamelessly stealing from a class she taught this term, but nothing of Blanchot's sentimentality is hidden from our shared divergence from the social sciences. She with the brains and feist, I with the thin skin that readily turns red with one drop of alcohol, our conversation went from infamous absences of substance to the blurriness of the just-past colloquium. It did not hit me then just how suspicious a certain comment could pass for Derridian-feeling-ah at that time, but indeed upon second thoughts, what determines a "masculine reading," or reading for that matter?
There would be more of these nights to come. For this one, we celebrated the colloquium for its incredible "reversal" of erotic pedagogy (Ann Carson also writes about the "erotics of doubt" in her sublime Autobiography of Red.) On the train ride back home, I told her about Echo, and she told me about her resistance against that pathos even as we both agree that love can, and will one day -- "sooner or later" -- become friendship.
I came home and telephoned "home." He appeared to still be riding on the idea that I find both alienating and weary, but there is nothing I can do right now. Not even confession. The very least I deserve, after a whole night of echastological insomnia, is to sleep on it and not dream of an ending. Even if such a sleep were to be silent.
"Writing of the Aftermath" may be a title I am shamelessly stealing from a class she taught this term, but nothing of Blanchot's sentimentality is hidden from our shared divergence from the social sciences. She with the brains and feist, I with the thin skin that readily turns red with one drop of alcohol, our conversation went from infamous absences of substance to the blurriness of the just-past colloquium. It did not hit me then just how suspicious a certain comment could pass for Derridian-feeling-ah at that time, but indeed upon second thoughts, what determines a "masculine reading," or reading for that matter?
There would be more of these nights to come. For this one, we celebrated the colloquium for its incredible "reversal" of erotic pedagogy (Ann Carson also writes about the "erotics of doubt" in her sublime Autobiography of Red.) On the train ride back home, I told her about Echo, and she told me about her resistance against that pathos even as we both agree that love can, and will one day -- "sooner or later" -- become friendship.
I came home and telephoned "home." He appeared to still be riding on the idea that I find both alienating and weary, but there is nothing I can do right now. Not even confession. The very least I deserve, after a whole night of echastological insomnia, is to sleep on it and not dream of an ending. Even if such a sleep were to be silent.
"What does it matter. All that remains is the feeling of lightness that is death itself or, to put it more precisely, the instant of my death always in abeyance. [Qu'importe. Seul dmeure le sentiment de légèreté qui est la mort meme ou, pour le dire plus précisément, l'instant de ma mort désormais toujours en instance]" (Blanchot, L'instant de ma mort 10; 11).
posted by msl at 9:29 AM
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