Kittler

Kittler just died, I remember Sartre going, my father at 97 was born in
1914, his mother died very shortly after, the world went into flames, has
continued along the same path. So everything, Derrida, Lacan, Jack Benny,
falls apart, falls out, I continue to work not with _those_ references,
but in new currents, until something withdraws, draws me back. It's too
simple to think of the past as stories, that what one ultimately offers is
stories, that these go the ways of mourning, lamentation, pain, death
itself. As if we're continuously walking wounded. I'm tired of this; I
want to work new for another twenty years at least. Memorials throw me
back into pasts that gnaw away at my soul, with the appetition of souls as
so many Barthian puncta, grasping away. It's all fiction. Tonight I was
given a sheaf of pages from a scrapbook or photobook of myself at ages

 
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