I Always Dream Of A Pen That

I’m No Good For Anything Except Taking The World Apart And Putting It Together Again (and I Manage The Latter Less And Less Frequently).

The End Approaches, But The Apocalypse Is Long Lived.

If You Read Philosophical Texts Of The Tradition, You'll Notice They Almost Never Said 'i,' And Didn't Speak In The First Person. From Aristotle To Heidegger, They Try To Consider Their Own Lives As Something Marginal Or Accidental. What Was Essential Was Their Teaching And Their Thinking. Biography Is Something Empirical And Outside, And Is Considered An Accident That Isn't Necessarily Or Essentially Linked To The Philosophical Activity Or System.

But Because Me And Myself, As You No Doubt Are Well Aware, We Are Going To Die, My Relation—and Yours Too—to The Event Of This Text, Which Otherwise Never Quite Makes It, Our Relation Is That Of A Structurally Posthumous Necessity. Suppose, In That Case, That I Am Not Alone In My Claim To Know The Idiomatic Code (whose Notion Itself Is Already Contradictory) Of This Event. What If Somewhere, Here Or There, There Are Shares In This Non-secret’s Secret? Even So The Scene Would Not Be Changed. The Accomplices, As You Are Once Again Well Aware, Are Also Bound To Die.

I Believe In The Value Of The Book, Which Keeps Something Irreplaceable, And In The Necessity Of Fighting To Secure Its Respect.