Put down the Blanchot. Step away from the Blanchot. You’ll never get out of it, if you start on the Blanchot. You’ll be lost forever in the Blanchot vortex. By the Blanchotian Sirens’ song.
There have been so many scholars lost to Blanchot studies. I’ve seen them before – all bright eyed – keen. Full of promise. And then they … enter the oeuvre. Start reading. My God. They become shells of yourselves. Husks.
Blanchot’s work – so beautiful. So enticing. Written by some total fucking genius. Written in classical French, the essays, anyway. With perfect clarity. But that concerns the most obscure, unimaginable things.
Blanchot’s logic. It looks like logic. It reads logically – clearly. But you can never actually work out the argument. You think you can, but just when you think you’ve seized on it, it moves further out of reach. Leading you deeper into the thicket of texts.
Until you’re drowning in Blanchot! At the bottom of the Blanchot ocean! Lost in the darkness of the Blanchotian night! In the Blanchotian underworld! Carrying your flaming torch down, down, down, into those desolate pages. Like Orpheus, or whatever.
Work in Progress 