In the ruins – really, it’s only even been about the ruins of European thought, for us. We’ve only ever know the aftermath. The after-party.
The party of continental philosophy’s over, essentially. It hasn’t been cleared away, the party; there are still a few stragglers, sipping last bottles of wine, but it’s essentially over. The thrill has gone.
Thought has moved on, perhaps. It’s somewhere else, or perhaps nowhere. But we’re still alive, somehow. We latecomers, amusing ourselves among the scraps. The scapings … Looking out for souvenirs …
There are high times in the life of thought … brief, brilliant bursts. And then the falling away. Then the dying of the light. Then the dimming of the day.
No more fireworks. No more shouts of triumph. No more hullaballoo. No more masterworks.
It’s the hangover. Its the perpetual day after. A time for European bathos, and everyone knows it, even if they pretend they don’t.
The truth of the ruins – that we alone know. To which we alone belong.
At least we recognize the ruins as the ruins. At least we’re not pretending that the party’s sill going.
Work in Progress 