Europe, the old Europe, is no more. The culture of old Europe is no more. Ring the alarm bells! Sound the klaxon! Gather and lament! Rend your garments!
Silence. Crickets.
But that’s a sign of the end: there’s no one who cares. No one who notices. It’s reaching through France, through Germany. It’ll be in Mitteleuropa soon. The subtle invasion.
Only the shadows of old Europe. Only the rumours of old Europe. Only what was once old Europe and is now no more.
Only the passing – Old Europe’s passing. Only the fall-apart. Only its breaking up, as satellites break up in orbit.
The artists of old Europe. The film directors of old Europe. The philosophers of old Europe. No more! No more!
Sound the lament! Send up the death-cry! Europe is not what it was. Europe as run out of Europe. Europe’s lost faith in itself. Europe’s lost contact with itself. It’s not what it is.
Europe’s at an end. There’s no Europe in Europe. Europe is broken up – in Europe. And have they noticed, the European philosophers? Are they aware? Are they philosophising about it now?
They can’t notice it. They can’t afford to. They live on in a state of denial. They’re pretending that things can go on as they were before. That there’s a continuity between past and present. A continuity that reaches into the future.
They’re closing their eyes to it: the death of Old Europe. They can’t think about it: the end of Old Europe. They can’t say the words, Europe is dead. They can’t take it in. They can’t experience it. They can’t admit the thought into their conscious minds. They’re repressing it in every possible way.
Of course not! they exclaim, if the thought even crosses their heads. But it cannot cross their heads. They cannot let it cross their heads. European thought is essentially extinct: European thought cannot think that.
The end of Old Europe. It’s not like the wipe out of the dinosaurs. It’s not sudden. It’s happening by degrees. Slowly, slowly.
Old Europe is demented. Old Europe is deepening its dementia. It’s gone in the teeth: who was it that said that?
They should put it out of its misery. But should they? They should shoot it dead – just hang it from the tree, like they used to hang old sheepdogs. Shoot it like a rabid dog.
Europe’s got dementia, is that it? Europe’s raving … They should turn off Europe. Cut its power. Turn off the European lights. Scatter the European stars. Europe’s dead – and is philosophy dead, too?
Analytic philosophy’s alive.
Analytic philosophy’s pseudo-alive. It’s functioning. It’s sky-netting. It’s blinking its lights. Extending its robot arms.
Analytic philosophy is calculating. Reckoning. It’s doing its technical thing. Bleeping, probably. Buzzing. Whirring. Ticking.
Analytic philosophy is scanning the sky. Waiting for its interstellar overlords. Waiting for the invasion force. For the Analytic Philosophy mothership. The Analytic Philosophy invasion force. Because that’s what it does: invade. Take over – that’s all it knows how to do.
Sending out its probes, analytic philosophy. Its drones. Scanning terrain. Working out plans of conquest. Multiplying itself. Machinating. Searching out every crevasse or crack where something else might be going on. Is this the only way European philosophy is to survive? Translated into Analytic Philosophy. Carried over into Analytic Philosophy. Transposed into Analytic Philosophy. Into Analytic Philosophy-ness.
Work in Progress 