Date: Thu, 4 Dec 1997 04:28:25 -0500 (EST)
From: ringring <cw_duff-AT-alcor.concordia.ca>
Subject: repartition  



	In those days Jill was working on the theory of duration and
courage. If being was nothing (as Parmenides had hinted in that treatise
of antiquity 'Duration and the Being of Stasis') and nothing was not the
absence of the plenum but  the double other of the oriental way of
perception, then perhaps the transcendant could find an entry way into the
thought which is always already not known. Sometime in 1911 Bergeson has
resolved this problem of the concept of duration; yet resolving it meant
that courage, like the other 'classical' verities and virtues could no
longer be placed in the context of living, and the life entire. For
instance, when first perusing Proust, and the sentence had been read down
all its several pages of meandering, following with each delicate step
another logical disjunction, another logical splitting which led yet to
another path to be followed, was this not then a partitioning of the
process which led to synesthesia and not the totality claimed by the older
logicans of sensual unity; or worse yet was it not a bifurcation which
led to a decomposed self and its senses that left the Hegelian dialectic
stranded on the high water of intention and synthesis? Perhaps this would
somehow be connected to a Hum[e]ian nakedness espoused in the early notes
of the British thinker.
Alas, was the thought which one had while pursuing this particular
thought. Then there are the banks to think about, and the great deniers,
the neutrilizers, and  the many who conceal their own interests behind the
narrative of folds and strata. So Jill leaned back into the shadow  andthe
winter years wherein justifying the loss of the revolutionary charge by
recourse to pure self-interest. Forget the Kantian rule and hurl all ethic
out the window, man was not created to be a means to an end. But this was
not a thought to easily shared by 'les autres.' Especially when 'les
autres' had nothing to lose; naturally it goes without saying they also
had nothing to gain thereby. One could love a stranger more easily than
the fellows who garnered the fellowships and the cash-flow. And then they
spoke of resentiment. Pah! what would they know of hunger and loss of
committment and loss of dignity. How could this new group of intellectual
bandits gain any perspective when self-interest was their only interest?
	So Deleuze put her pencil down, lit a cigarette and turned to
Claire and sighed. "In an age of pure cynicism how can one expect even the
simplest courtesies to be met, so this is the elegiac legacy we are left
with dear friend." She also sighed the years of winter and disconnected
discontent and civilized nature dying away in the broken machine of
denial. At the end there was little left to say to the enemies of good
nature, the concept of the friend was 'perdue' along with all other acts
of courage mental and otherwise. The conservative reterritorialization is
what Franny called it in one of her own last essays. So they waited and
death came then, creeping, knocking, howling, slurring its words, hugging
its guts, clearing his throat, slushing his lungs. And then Spinoza came
to meet him. At the window, by the ledge and Gherasim walking the walls
and the river plashed with its call and the air shot softly by but fast.