John Lennon used to sing:
“Please don’t wake, no don’t shake me, leave me where I am, I am only sleeping”
I always liked this song and, over the years, the reasons why I still do have deeply changed. Like everybody else, I attached emotions, memories, and entire sets of thought to this song (and many others of course). The effect this song has on me today, though, is quite peculiar. I don’t just recollect old memories, but I get once more to experience a specific feeling I used to have around 2005-2006 when I lived in Munich, Germany. I remember this song was part of a playlist I would play in the morning while sipping coffee in my tiny apartment in the east side of the city. I remember there were tons of Beatles songs on that list, especially from Sgt. Pepper and the White Album. “I am only sleeping” does not simply remind me of places, thoughts, objects and people, but, above all, it evokes a state of mind that I felt slowly vanishing over the years. Continue reading
My beloved wife decided to buy me a typewriter. Not an old school one (expensive and always needing lot of careful maintenance) but a more modern electronic typewriter that can get the job done just fine. Why? Continue reading
What happens when the philosophical investigation reaches its limits? Why does the philosophical investigation strive to cross these same limits? How does such striving change the philosophical investigation itself?
I will give a very general outline of these problems as a preparatory work for future posts on the negativity in dialectical logic and more specifically in dialectic materialism. My focus is on three authors: Kant, Friedrich Schlegel, and Derrida viewed in their common effort to represent the unrepresentable or at least to define, within the horizon of what can be represented, the nature of the unrepresentable.
Canetti’s “Auto da fé” was an excruciating reading, a literally painful experience from beginning to end. Rewarding, for sure, but disturbing nevertheless and deeply unsettling. I have always believed in the right of a reader to simply toss a book away if the narrative would simply not get a grip on him.
In the case of Canetti’s novel, I had to resort to a form of unconscious trust in the perspicacity of the author. Like many readers, I came to know Canetti first and foremost through his opus magnus “Crowds and Power.” I had no expectations to find in the novel any diluted version of the sociological/political theories to which Canetti owes most of his fame, but I was somehow confident to find the same voice, the same insightful gaze. Instead, from the very inception of the novel, I was placed in the midst of a very dry and aseptic narrative landscape, where a man and a boy are engaged in an unusual conversation: Continue reading