Date: Wed, 13 Apr 2005 20:10:20 -0700
From: ebm3-AT-email.arizona.edu
To: deleuze-guattari-driftline.org-AT-lists.driftline.org
Subject: [D-G] Pure Immanence


"Goddamn her! Goddamn her! Goddamn her!" How many times, friend, have I screamed
this, both inwardly and aloud! I want so badly to see my ex-wife succumb to the
slow poison of her perfidy.

My rage is astonishingly inexhaustible, and astonishingly exhausting. It is the
ourobouros, the serpent that consumes its own tail. Insatiable is its appetite,
but limited its provender: soon to wink out, to implode.

Do not, however, pronounce my death as the author of these words. Speak me no
Derridean shibboleths. These marks are not but empty traces, not the furrows
dug by the tenaciously clinging nails of the author as he is swept toward the
textual limbo of an absence of presence. Ask yourself who suffers the worse
fate, Dante's virtuous pagans, or his eternally masticated Judas? Oh, to be
banished to the lightless, loveless margin! I'd choose being Satan's cud over
my fate.

Ecce homo! I AM HERE, I assure you, stalking Jameson's prison-house, beating
bloody forehead and fist against its impenetrable walls.

How I wish these words could make your computer screen quiver and smoke from
their splenetic intensity. But, alas, they are dumb and pliable, serenely
ordered and orderly--pleasing font, regular margins.

My rage is impotent; its issue stillborn.

Apply the ointment of oblivion, false wife, and find the fly--the fly born a
maggot, fed on the carrion of our love.

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