Bloom, or course. If poets, why not philosophers?… or painters? or musicians? Thinking about art history and criticism–my question is–and this has been on my mind for some time, as an artist of an eclectic bent–why this need for pedigree? For lines of descent? For a clear central stream of perpetual renewal and repetition, or repetition as renewal? How male! What is the anxiety here, if not fear of the feminine, of creation without the paternal marker of ownership and mastery? What is the critical scorn for eclecticism if not an expression of enforced patriarchal monogamy–itself, but a disguised longing for polyamory? May love be free to choose its favorites, and free to choose again! Fuck the Gatekeepers!
The essence of Slavoj Žižek’s vision is that philosophy is the result of a critical act of buggery, by which another, earlier philosopher is deliberately misread, and hence re-written, retroactively absorbed and incorporated into the ongoing project of the making of a Subject. In one of those impromptu interviews he has had over the years, Žižek once related the notion that “Hegel didn’t know what he was doing”. He went on to say,
You have to interpret him. Let me give you a metaphoric formula. You know
the term Deleuze uses for reading philosophers—anal interpretation, buggering them. Deleuze says that, in contrast to other interpreters, he anally penetrates the philosopher, because it’s immaculate conception. You produce a monster. I’m trying to do what Deleuze forgot to do—to bugger Hegel, with Lacan [chuckles] so that you get monstrous Hegel, which is, for me, precisely the underlying radical dimension of subjectivity which then, I think…
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