The paragraduates don’t exist. We’re the paragraduates. Or the paragraduates are what we are. They’re us in potentia.
The paragraduates … is a name of who we were for Livia: don’t you see? The paragraduates are us, in messianic guise. Our dream. Our escape-selves. We come from as it were outside of history.
There was an earthquake, in the night. There was a shifting of tectonic planes in the night. There’s a crack that’s appeared in the campus. Through the campus concrete. Through its rivulets. Through its walkways. Through its buildings, too. Through it all, through it all, running like truth. Deepening.
A crack … that will widen, widen, and then swallow it all up. And swallow you up. And swallow all the plans of the bad organisational managers. And make it so Organisational Management never existed. And set the whole world free again. Of their evil plans …
Only now, in this moment, was our retrieval of European philosophy important. Only now, in this nucleus of time, did it make sense. Only now was our idiotic retrieval important. Was it legible to Livia.
Did she foresee the coming of Organisational Management? The takeover of the university by Organisational Management? The transformation of what was real into the organisable and the manageable by Organisational Management?
Did she see that our idiocy was needed now, as not at any other time? Was it only now that she could take her tiger’s leap towards us?
Now – her messianic now. When our idiocy flashed up. Became salvific.
The potential of our idiocy: that’s what she saw. The way it might be used.
In her philosophy department! As disclosing the messianic mission of her philosophy department! Even in, and perhaps especially as, the inevitable failure of her philosophy department!
With us, the whole of the humanities leapt forward – into idiocy. With us, philosophy took its idiocy leap. Its stupidity plunge. It tumbled down the waterfall of stupidity. It feel like idiocy rain.
What we inherited as European philosophy. What came to us, what flashed up as European thought. In the teeth of analytic philosophy! Over and against the analytic philosophical world view, which is to say, the Organisational Management worldview.
What continental thinking could become on our island kingdom. In our island story! What it was for us! In its constellation of thinkers for us. Like toy stars stickered on a child’s bedroom ceiling.
Our idiot’s European philosophy. Our fool’s version continental thought. In our ersatz Old Europe. A continent to which we’d never been!
Timely because untimely. Relevant because irrelevant. Clear because obscure. Central because marginal.
In our obscurity. Which was clarity itself in its obscurity. In our marginality. Which was centrality because of its marginality.
We had moved to centre stage, in Livia’s mind. We had become geniuses, in Livia’s mind. Geniuses in our idiocy! We were world-saviours, in Livia’s mind. Because we could not save the world! Our moment had come, in Livia’s mind. Because of the perfection of our uselessness. The times were in need for us. Because we were so utterly outside our times.
Our repetition of the tradition. Our making it anew. Because we could barely read it, European philosophy. Because we couldn’t understand it, European philosophy. Because we were mere apes, poring through its pages, European philosophy.
In a sense, Livia created us. In a sense, Livia uttered the words, let there be idiots. She found us. She recognised us. For what we could be. She discovered us, in our losers’ corner. At the annual British Society for European Philosophy conference.
She was receptive to us, Livia. She was open to us, Livia. She saw us. And that was her moment of messianic intervention.
Hadn’t she lived her entire life waiting for this? Didn’t it make sense of her work to date, of her academic labours, that had led her through mathematics to philosophy – and to messianic philosophy. To the philosophy of Walter Benjamin and his friends.
Wasn’t it only now – now – that she could have discerned us, Livia? Wasn’t it because of the present crisis, which Livia had also discerned? Wasn’t that how she could blast us out of the academic continuum?
Cessation: that’s what we promised. Dialectics at a standstill.
Our study – which was only the parody of study – brought all productive academic work to an end. Everything the university was trying to achieve! The business of the university. The university as business.
No, we couldn’t be accounted for. We couldn’t be explained.
We can’t be explained, not ultimately. We can’t be accounted for.
The destruction has already occurred. The Mercia Philosophy Department had already exploded philosophy. It now had to spread, that explosion. Which is to say, it had to be understood in its messianic significance.
And all of it. for laughs! None of it serious!
The idiot is humorous. The idiot is funny, whether obviously or inadvertently.
The idiot steps onto the stage at this time. At the time of the great poisoning. Of the great disabling. Of the great geoengineering. At the time of the machinations of Organisational Management in the darkness.
If it wasn’t for us there’d be dead repetition, that’s all. The dead UK repetition of European thought. In dull scholarship. In endless secondary literature. The dead hand of commentary. The andmoreagain of introductory books. Of the guide to this, of the dummy’s guide to that, of X in 90 minutes. The handbook of Y …
The hellish reality of the always the same, in the UK version of European thought. The eradication of a genuine passing on of European thought, in UK continental philosophy.
Conferences devoid of meaning. Empty and nonsensical paper giving. Publication, and so on. The stifling overflow of sameness and meaninglessness.
We’d changed the university into a forcefield. We made academia a place of polarities. We were charging things up.
It wasn’t about us as individuals. It was about our collective idiocy. The constellation of our idiocy. A group thing!
It was about what happens between us as idiocy. It’s idiocy as speech – idiotic speech. Charged-with-stupidity speech.
It was about a forcefield. A charge. There was an energy. An electricity.
Something was happening between us. We were gathering our strength, even as it seemed only that we were pooling our weakness. We were summoning our forces, as it seemed that we were dissipating our energies. We were preparing for our leap, even if for us it seemed only that we were falling.
But we needed a ringleader. We needed an impresario.
You don’t have to be so desperately marginal, philosopher.
You’ll couple up, philosopher. Get a proper girlfriend. It’ll happen. You’ll surprise yourself. You’ll do what other people do. Because it happens to us all, the whole settling down thing. Even to such as you.
Someone who’ll treat you properly, not like me. Someone who’ll look up to you. A fellow philosopher, maybe. You’ll meet her at a conference, or something. You’ll couple up and settle down. Just like anyone else.
You’ll have given up all idea of writing magnum opuses by then. You’ll be tired of the philosophical life.
What will she be like, philosopher? Someone you can be proud of. Someone of intellect. Of insight. Someone who Sees things, like you do. Where you don’t have to spell it out, like you do to me.
You’ll live in a philosophical bubble, won’t you? You can merge libraries. Imagine your dinner parties! See you’d get into dinner parties, too. Into entertaining …
You’ll want to lay down philosophy for a bit, philosophy. Lay down your arms. And – reproduce. You can name your children after famous philosophers. Raise them philosophically. Hothouse them. Whatever that would mean.
You’d have serious, thoughtful children, who’d say serious, impressive things. That would impress your guests at dinner parties.
That’s how it should be: philosophers should marry philosophers and raise philosophical nepo babies. Perpetuate the subject area. Pass on your philosophical lessons. You can ensure they had the education you did not.
She’d actually be interesting, that’s the thing. She’d actually intrigue you. She wouldn’t be like me, all whatever I am, all alienated and dissociated, who doesn’t belong anywhere. You wouldn’t suspect her of being a synth. And she wouldn’t suspect herself of being one either.
You can head off to conferences together – wouldn’t that be dandy? You’ll have academic philosophy friends with whom you can share philosophical gossip. Conference circuit gossip! You can plot and plan philosophically. Conspire philosophically. Discuss current affairs from a philosophical angle.
Someone who’d cook you square meals. Someone to cook for. And with.
You could read each other drafts of your work in progress. You could recommend each other books. What a marvel! A philosophical life – a proper one. Not with an ersatz type like me.
An intellectual paradise for two. Talking about things of which I’d have no idea. Intelligence meets intelligence. Intelligence multiplied by intelligence.
It’s only what you deserve, philosopher. You wouldn’t have to explain everything, like you do to me. It wouldn’t be like talking to an idiot – a proper idiot, not a philosophical one. You wouldn’t have to spell things out about mood, and so on.
You could even write things together. Present your work together at conferences. You could make believe that it even mattered.
Collaboration, philosopher. In philosophy and in life. A shared project. Living and working together. You’d have so much to talk about.
Your chance of a normal life, philosopher …
Two intellectuals. Two philosophers. Brought together! By luck! By chance! Wouldn’t you feel lucky with so much in common? Wouldn’t you be smug? Wouldn’t things just have worked out fine?
I suppose you feel more alone than ever, hanging out with me. I suppose I make you feel even more alone.
How life must suck. You must feel ever so exasperated. Having to explain so many things.
A great philosophical loneliness: that’s what your books attest to. A great cultural aloneness. A cultural cry.
Your book culture. Your film culture. Your music culture. And your arts in general culture.
That there might be others who appreciate this stuff. Who could save you from your lonely philosophical agony. Someone to whom these names mean something
What would her name be, I wonder? Another Indian type? Are there many Indian types, in your world? They’re all doing medicine, the Indians I grew up with. Some are lawyers. The lack sheep of the family became pharmacists. The very black sheep fell somehow into Organisational Management.
What is it that you want? Someone to appreciate these things with.
Your cultural treasury. Your dragon’s hoard. Your treasure on which you can curl up like Smaug.
What a relief to meet her. The test of your love life will become a distant memory. Our affairlette will be revealed in its true dimensions, as Nothing. As Squib. As Insignificance. As a bagatelle.
You could perform a real love death together, when philosophy is finally closed down.
Your Destiny, philosopher. That’s what it’ll feel like.
Just be patient. Keep your eyes open. Kee on looking. True love will find you in the end, and so on.
And in the meantime, here we are … you and I. And what does it amount to? What does it all Mean, capital M?
You and I, philosopher. For a time. But for how long? For how much longer?
We aren’t suited, not really. Anyone can see that. You wouldn’t put us together, would you? We wouldn’t meet on Hinge or on Tinder. Mutual friends wouldn’t introduce us. But then we wouldn’t have any mutual friends …
Philosophy: how did that word fall to us? Under what circumstances could we call ourselves philosophers?
Philosophy as a name for desire, that’s all. Philosophy as a calling, that’s all. Philosophy a vocation and nothing besides. As a question.
The question of philosophy. The question as philosophy. Our question? The question that asks us. In our stupidity. In our lack. In everything that disqualifies us as philosophers.
The fact that we can do nothing else. The fact that we don’t want to do anything else. That we’ll just stand there, open-mouthed, in the clearing of philosophy. Waiting. Looking upwards. As for some alien abduction.
We hold the philosophical line – but what line? We keep the philosophical faith – but what faith? We stay at our philosophical posts – but what posts? What are we doing? What are we for? Are we awaiting orders? Waiting to be relieved?
Some alert has sounded. Some klaxon. Some warning about us.
We found our way in. To where we shouldn’t be. Not our kind.
But don’t we preserve it more strongly than anyone, philosophy. Don’t we keep its space open, philosophy? Even if our philosophy has no content at all. Even if it’s just questioning. Even if it is for nothing. Even if it’s always in vain.
An empty command, that’s what we’re heeding. A vocation that is simply a revocation of everything else.
What are we waiting for? What do we think Is going to happen? But the waiting’s the thing.
Just delusion. Just misprisions. Just befuddlement. And bewitchment. Just delusion. Just persiflage. Just error. Just mistakes, and mistakes upon mistakes. But philosophy nonetheless. The philosophical question.
There should be warnings about us. Rewards for our capture. Wanted posters. There should be bounty hunters tracking us down even now. Bloodhounds on our trail. They should be following our footprints.
We should be stopped, shouldn’t we? There should be prevention orders. keep away orders! Restraining orders! Non molestation orders! Legal warnings of all kinds. To prevent our criminal trespass! Our civil trespass! There should be security measures! Surveillance measures!
There’s something wrong with us, just as there’s something right with us. There’s something stupid about us, just as there’s a desire to be something other than stupid.
We’re of the earth, the clay, just as we’re of the spirit that hovers above the earth. We’re atheist, desperately so, just as we’re the most fervent believers. We’re philistines – terrible philistines – but don’t we love like no one else the great European culture that is out of our reach.
Philosophers entirely in lieu of philosophy. Entirely lacking anything that would make us philosophical. Philosophy minus philosophy – but still philosophy. Philosophy, hollowed out – but still retaining the desire that is nothing other than philosophy.
The philosophical hollowing. The philosophical abyss. In which nothing remains but the cry of philosophy. But the question of philosophy.
That word, philosophy. What it means to us. That word … that seemed to summon us. To call us to it. That word … which we’ve whispered to ourselves in times of desperation. That word … naming something for which we’d live and die.
Eternity, philosopher. Does that word have any meaning? Do philosophers use it? Is it respectable? Is it the kind of word you use?
I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what I’m saying when I say the word, eternity. Is it nonsense? Does it mean anything? Do all words have to mean things?
Are we in God’s hands, philosopher? Or are we in Mother’s hands? Whose hands are we in? Who are we held by? I suppose you believe that we’re not held by anyone at all.
Is it God’s word: eternity? Does it belong to God? What does it mean for a word to belong to God?
We’re walking along the shore. Is that supposed to mean something? Is it supposed to be About something, capital A?
What if all this was just an offering to God, all this? You and I. And everything we say. And think. And feel. What about that, philosopher?
It’s what I feel. Does what I feel mean anything to you? We feel all sorts of things, don’t we?
Are we just fools, philosopher? Are we deceived, all the time? Do we lie to ourselves and to each other? Are we in disguise? Do we live behind masks? Then how can we take them off: our masks? How can we show who we are?
Who are we? Who, today, tomorrow? Who were we yesterday, and the day before that?
And what are these words we use? To … express ourselves. To express ourselves: those words feel wrong.
The words we use. The words that use us to speak them. The words we speak. The words that speak through us. These words.
Are they God’s words, too? Does God speak through our words, too? And what does God say? What is God saying – even now? Even with my words?
What is it, language? What does it allow? What does it let us say, and prevent us from saying? Does language stand in our way? Where is it leading us, language? Where is it taking us?
Nothing has to happen the way it does. This moment doesn’t have to follow that one. We needn’t have been here, today, at the coast. We didn’t have to be here, and together. We didn’t have to meet not today, and not at any time. This didn’t have to happen, any of this.
Here we are, at the coast. Whitley Bay beach. On the promenade.
Why did we have to be here? What’s the good of our being here? Does God want us here? Did God bring us here? Were we following God’s … orders? Were we meant to come here? For what, philosopher? For what?
The question questions. It’s asking. There’s an asking. We’re part of the question. And it’s as though the whole world were asking. As though everything were asking. It’s as if it were all asking, and we were all asking.
Everything asks the question of itself: is that a stupid thing to say, philosopher? Is it an unphilosophical thing to say?
What about God, philosopher? The question of God: is that a thing? The question that belongs to God?
I feel very close to God, you know. Isn’t that stupid? Isn’t it stupid that I would feel close to God? But I do. I feel close to God.
And God is close to me. And God is close to us. And God is watching us. And maybe Mother is, too.
Maybe Mother is God, a version of God. Who says God has to be a he? Couldn’t God be a mother, too? There’s the mother-God in Hinduism, isn’t there?
Have we been false to God? False to ourselves? I want to pray, philosopher. I want to say words in prayer. I want to pray to the Most High God. Do you understand that?
It’s a beautiful word, prayer. It’s as beautiful as the word, God.
Where is God, philosopher? Does God still listen to us? Does God still walk with us, with the whole of humankind?
If I ask him, will he speak to me? Will we show that he was already here? That he’s always been here. That he will always be here.
Are we false to him? Do we lie to him? Do we lie to ourselves? Are our lives lies? Are what we are just lies? Untruths?
Can we re enter Paradise, philosopher? Can we return to Paradise? But seraphim guard the gates with flaming swords. We can’t go back. We have to go forward. We have to wander the earth. Looking for a way back. Looking to return to Paradise.
But perhaps Paradise is here, too.
This is Hell. We live in Hell.
Perhaps what you call Hell is part of Paradise.
I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what’s guiding me. Maybe I’m just saying stupid things. And maybe that’s not so bad, saying stupid things. Maybe the things that need to be said have to be stupid.
I’m repeating myself. These words are repeating themselves. These words … the rhythm of these words. That seems more important … at least as important as what is said. As what I am saying.
God’s Word: is it like our words? Does God speak like we do?
Are we still alive, philosopher? How could we tell? Is this a real life or a false life? Are we in a real world or a false world? And what about those other worlds – what are we doing in them, the other worlds?
Are we walking on the shore? Are we at Whitley Bay? Are we together, you and I? Are we talking you and I? And what are we talking about in those other words, you and I?
Are we happy, in those other worlds? Happier, anyway, philosopher. Are you happy? Are you a philosopher or a would-be philosopher or whatever it is you are?
What kind of people are we in the other worlds? Did we leave Paradise in the other world? Did we Fall, in the other world? Imagine, if we could have just stayed forever in Paradise …
Are we as wretched over there, in the other world? Are we damned, in the other worlds? Are we hated in the other words? Do we hate, in the other worlds?
Are we weeping, in the other worlds? Do the tears run over our sore eyes, in the other worlds?
Do we know peace in the other worlds? What does that word mean, philosopher: peace? Does it mean anything, the word, peace?
What does the word rest mean, philosopher? Does it mean anything, the word, rest?
Or are we just falling and falling and falling?
Disgust as insight. As gnosis. Disgust as knowledge.
We have to taste the horror.
Tasting is knowledge. Like, visceral knowledge. Tasting is gnosis.
The wine’s confirming what we already know. It’s reminding us of what we know. It’s deepening the knowledge. It’s driving it home. Intensifying it.
It’s, like, embodied knowledge. Lived gnosis. It’s not abstract. It’s not propositional. You can’t convey it in words. You taste it. You’re disgusted by it.
It’s ontological. It’s ontological disgust. It’s absolute disgust. A revulsion at being itself.
There’s knowing and knowing. We have to KNOW, in capitals. We have to be reminded. We have to keep the knowledge alive. Keep the gnosis burning.
The disgust is awakening us. Drunken disgust.
Where’s it supposed to lead us, our disgust? Out of Hell?
More deeply into Hell. It’s more descent. It’s making us descend further. Go deeper.
We’re sinking. And have to sink further still. To the bottom of the world. Not just some Victorian tunnel.
A gnosis of what? Not of a higher, better world. A knowledge of what? Only that this world sucks.
There’s nothing to cure us, nothing to save us, nothing to lift us up, nothing but the void and the void isn’t anything, the void won’t help us, the void won’t come to our aid.
All we can do is live against it all. Which means live in our idiocy. In our unholy idiocy. The idiocy that’s fallen to us. That’s the only thing that is ours.
And not even a scream. And not even a breath. And everything Falling and Falling. And everything Plunging. We Sink. We Fall. With the flailing of the world. With the sinking of the world. With the decay of the world and of all things. That have lived too long.
We’ll know that we’re Wrong and that it’s all Wrong. That we’re Poisoned and that it’s all Poisoned. And there’s no one to save us. And that there is no Right and there is no Cure, at least not in this world.
We know that we’re made of sin and stupidity. Of the sins of stupidity. And that’s worse is that even though we know that we’re idiocy through and through, this knowledge doesn’t rise above idiocy, but is part of it.
We don’t even scream. We don’t even cry. Tears aren’t even rolling down our cheeks.
We don’t mean what we say. I don’t mean what I say. I haven’t said a single sincere word. A single honest word. I haven’t said anything true.
It’s like I’m defiling language. Like I’m saying the wrong thing, and all the wrong things. Language itself … these words themselves … Everything I’ve ever said. And we’ve ever said.
These words. I hate words. I hate speaking. I hate all the things I say with my mouth. I hate my mouth. I hate the hole into my inside. And all the things that spew from my mouth.
Why should I deserve to speak? Shouldn’t I just keep quiet? Shouldn’t I keep quiet forever? Shouldn’t I just stop speaking and writing? And saying things, saying all these things? Saying all these words?
We have to be disgusted with … our ability to speak. We don’t deserve to speak – maybe it’s that. We don’t deserve words. To be able to use words. Saying things is wrong. We’re destroying language. Polluting language. We shouldn’t say another word. A vow of silence! Silence! And wouldn’t we spoil that, too?
Work in Progress 