I’m not a whole person. You’re not a whole person. If I was a whole, I would just be sitting in a corner being whole. Lacan
I and Me are always too earnestly in conversation with one another: how could it be endured, if there were not a friend? Nietzsche
Who determines where the margins are? Those who structure language? Discursive formations?
To my mind, there is nothing marginal about this correspondence. Perhaps in the greater sense of a working though of philosophy, this correspondence is marginal, irrelevant, illogical, et cetera.
I enjoy the correspondences we share for as much as we miss each other’s meanings, there are visible connections, unspoken understandings. You put my sentence (that I “revived, borrowed, modified – whatever”) in the centre of your work in this post. The action lies in the movement between the margins and the centre like a shuttlecock weaving a tapestry.
We share the books from our own private libraries. There is no greater joy for humans – we, humans – then to forget our selves – to take one step outside ourselves – and share our hard-won, singular knowledges with others of a like mind who understand the tragic nature of being-[human]: repitition as an affirmation of the joy in creating, becoming-nonhuman: the delight in art and beauty, in discovering, acting out of curiousity – just plain, old curiosity.
Those who look for the profound often get a squinty, screwed up look on their face. They miss the beauty right in front of them. They are poseurs. I do not mean to impose my ideas nor I do not want to expose the truth. I have no intensions of being “revelatory.” My spelling sucks.
My idea of the Enlightenment project is different. I delight in the “X” the experiment; not the long faces, the gravity of philosophy and the so-called ‘human sciences.’ I do not believe in us, humans, but in we, friends. It is for those I am emale launches the question: where will we find the words riven in the side (or margin) of the earth’s womb? Right down to the smallest leaf.