Author: Lars Iyer

We’ve had Enough. We’ve exhausted the world – this world. And we need to destroy it – in us. To sacrifice the world in us. To loosen its hold.

 

Desperation, right. Desire, right. A cry Upwards. For what? Salvation? Rescue? For something else. For anything else.

 

We don’t want meaning – their meaning. We don’t want truth – their truth. We don’t want the Same. We don’t want the circling. We don’t want the same old Orbit.

The way God lives on is mocking us. It’s humiliating us. The way that God survives in our hope … We have to kill God in us. We have to close down that dimension of hope. Once and for all! … We need to stop waiting for God to reach out his hand. To uncover his face. We need to accept that no one’s there.

And be happy atheists?

And be unhappy atheists.

 

You want the world to end so you can have Meaning. You think the world’s so meaningless, so fallen, that only the end can give it, like, significance. Your desire for apocalypse is a desire for Truth. And Justice. And Goodness.

 

The problem is the non-apocalyptic. It’s existence, just endlessly existing. Endlessly ending and rebeginning. To think, it has the temerity to go on. Despite all your wild eschatology. And that’s why you’re eschatological: because you can’t bear it just going on.

It’s forbidden to despair of the world. Why? Because the world might become the Kingdom of God.

 

We think it has to be like this, the world. We think we have to suffer dereliction. But what we don’t see is the dereliction of our dereliction: the fact that it’s a contingent problem – don’t you see?

 

We fetishise suffering, right? We regard is as spiritually purifying, even now – even after the death of God, or whatever.

 

Hell is the best place to find salvation.

Who said that? Did you make it up?

I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to a philosopher before.

I don’t think I’ve never met an Organisational Manager before.

What do you make of us Organisational Managers? Admit it, you’re sceptical.

 

I saw you at a meeting, I always thought you looked kinda interesting.

Are you flirting with me?

I thought you were flirting with me. There’s a … sexual magnetism.

I’m a married woman.

How married?

You’re chancing your arm.

 

I’m literally flirting with the right.

And I’m literally flirting with the humanities.

 

Are you even straight? It’d be a surprise if you were. Humanities types are all queer, I know that. You’re all gender fluid, right? Gender fluidity hasn’t hit Organisational Management yet. We’re behind the times. Perhaps you philosophers will tell us all about it. Perhaps you’ll liberate us from the patriarchy. But you philosophers don’t go in for that kind of thing, do you? It’s more the English department.

 

So: your origin story: how did you become a philosopher?  

We don’t call ourselves philosophers. I teach philosophy, sure. But philosopher is an honorific – something you’re called by other people. No one would actually call themselves a philosopher.

How insufferably pompous! I’m going to call you a philosopher, philosopher. That’s how I’m going to refer to you, philosopher.

 

What about your origin story? How did you become a – philosopher?

How did you become an organisational manager?

Oh come on, its not half as interesting. I met my husband. Or rather, he was teaching me. He was my lecturer. And I was just an innocent Business studies student.

You studied business studies? You actually signed up for business studies?

I actually wanted to make my way in the world. Not just be another unemployed humanities grad.

If I hadn’t been unemployed, I wouldn’t have got anywhere.

Typical: the rest of society has to pay for you to lie about and contemplate.

I’m dangerous, philosopher. I’m at a loose end. I’m careening. I’m fucking things up. I’m taking revenge for my fucked-up life … Actually, I’m not really fucked-up. I didn’t have a traumatised childhood, or anything like that. I’ve got no fucking excuse – just boredom.

 

I wasn’t even in rehab. I just said that to make myself sound interesting. I don’t even have a drink problem. I don’t have anything … What do you say to make yourself sound interesting? Oh I know you actually think you’re interesting. Isn’t that something? Interesting enough not to have to sound interesting …

See, you think you’re very interesting: I can tell. You’re terribly presumptuous, philosopher. You think you’re perfectly fascinating.

I don’t think there’s anything interesting about me.

See, there you go: nothing interesting. I have nothing to declare … except my philosophy. Except all the books I’ve read … Except my philosophical attitude …

I’m sure you’ve read books, too.

Not interesting ones. Not difficult ones. Just boring books, really. Long, boring business books. And I haven’t read many of them. I’m not really into Organisational Management theory … that’s the philosophy side of things in Organisational Management – see, we do have a philosophical dimension in Organisational Management …

I’m more about applied Organisational Management. How Organisational Management works on the ground. I’m pragmatic. I haven’t poked my nose into all the old European corners, like you.

 

You think you’re dark, well I’m darker than you. You think you’re profound. Well …

Go on.

I think I’m already dead. I’m dead and this is all a dream. Or maybe it’s what flashes before you in the last moment before you die. Either way, it’s not real.

I’m … dissociated. Probably autistic. I’ve been hiding my symptoms all my life. Have you?

I don’t know. That’s what everyone says no, isn’t it?

 

It’s like I’ve been put out of use. Laid aside.

By what?

By life. I don’t have any consolations. You have your philosophy. And I have … what?

You’re in a frivolous mood today.

Sure I am. I’m feeling flighty. Do you like me flighty? Actually, I irritate myself when I’m flightly. I was kinda hoping you could tether me down. Do you ever get like that, when you can’t even concentrate? When your mind’s everywhere at once? I’ll bet you don’t.

Make me serious … Tell me about serious things, philosopher. Turn my attention to what’s actually worthwhile. Actually, I should be practising my German … for my upcoming trip … Did I tell you about that? I’ll bet you don’t even speak German.

I read it.

But you don’t speak it, and that’s the difference. Anyway, my Germany trip is the natural break. The way we’ll come to an end. How about that? A break … that’s what we’ll need. It’ll be quite natural. We should really round things off, don’t you think?

Maybe you’ll meet a German.

Maybe I will. A German Helmut. A strapping lad … properly virile, not like you.

Would we despise ourselves if we knew how we’d turn out? If we knew we’d lose our edge?

What edge?

When we were young we’d go round and set fire to things. And break things. And when we were young PhD students … We were just pleased too be off the streets. Off the fucking dole. We’d never thought of careers. We thought we’d be dead by thirty …

So what happened?

Maybe we’d just get worn out. Our blood thinned. All that whoring for work wasn’t good for us.

But we’re safe now, right? We’re secure. We’ve got jobs.

We can do better than this. We could be better people. Or more interesting people. Or wilder people.

Tell me something Susan Taubes said. Read me some Taubes.

If there is something to be healed, the brokenness is within the world. To ask for the eradication of brokenness as such is to wish the annihilation of the world. To heal the broken relations within the world, requires first that we acknowledge the reality of these relations (instead of fleeing into the imaginary) + then drawing from the tree of life, science, art, wisdom, cultivate + transform them. The powers of creation, of life are also the powers of destruction: every transformation passes through chaos.

That’s weapons grade Taubes. She’s, like, the heart of fucking darkness. Susan Taubes looked so cool. So chic. All intelligence and melancholy and attitude. And she was an émigré – a Mitteleuropean Jew. Whose family had gone through unbelievable suffering. And she killed herself. Fuck. The queen of cool.

We’re overconscious humanities types. We’re the humanities, idling. The humanities, left to do nothing. Left to just lie there, like a pool staring up at the sky. Until … until what?

All the humanities, dreaming. The whole of the humanities, dreaming in us. We’re the humanities ‘ unconscious. We’re the humanities, asleep. All the subjects …