Negativism

And aren’t we suicide survivors, postgraduates? Haven’t we died from British philistinism – even our own philistinism? Haven’t we essentially killed ourselves – and more than once?


Haven’t we only even been allergic to ourselves? Appalled by ourselves?


It’s really only a question of how many times we’ve died. How many times we’ve been actually put to the death. By Britishness in general! By British anti-so-called-pretentiousness! By British philistinism (in everything but music!) By British anti-intellectualism! By British hatred of the intellectual! Which becomes the self hatred of the intellectual! And we’ve done the killing ourselves. Our Britishness is what made us kill ourselves.


We’ve died so many times, postgraduates! We’ve done nothing but die. Truly our lives have been nothing but a life in death.


Of course, becoming a postgraduate is a kind of death. Like becoming an ascetic in India. You die to your former life. To your former philistinism. Figuratively. Actually.

*Our negativism. Our deathliness. What did we ever want to do but die to the world?

And that’s what you want, too, postgraduates. This is a field trip, of sorts. This is a study trip. What is a PhD dissertation but a Descent? But a katabasis?

*No accident that so many thinkers have died figurative deaths. Their health is fragile. They’re mentally disturbed. Of course!

As we are, too, for better or worse.

Of course, it’s not sufficient to be mentally ill to think, but it is necessary, postgraduates. You must have passed through some kind of death, known some kind of loss. You must have been killed – martyred. You must be dead in some way. Of course!

You must have been stretched on being’s rack. Crucified, in your own way. By existence! By having to continue to exist! You must have been slain, and not just once. Because of your interests! Because of your pretentiousness! Because your love of high falutin’ ideas! Your temerity to want to look up from the trough.