Žižek’s showing off again
By Erik B. Anderson
This piece in the London Review of Books was like most of Slavoj Žižek’s work. It is Žižek showing off again, an exercise in how smart Žižek is, how much he knows about other people's ideas. He obviously takes great delight in what he knows about, but it's a hodge-podge of other people's ideas put together. Does Žižek have a fundamental idea of his own? If so, I haven't found it. His work is a pastiche in the Jamesonian sense. I myself am guilty of putting together other people's ideas, so I don't think I'm better than him. I just don't know what his point is, other than being an ambassador to the world for Lacanian Psychoanalysis and Leftist Marxism with his zeal and his obvious energy for writing and publishing non-stop, all day, every day. He does a lot of good for this world, I think. He makes me want to read all about Agamben, Badiou, Berlosconi and Hitchcock, but I also think he's over-compensating for something: Namely, the lack of any fundamental idea of his own from which to grow and flourish.
If he would focus on his own idea like it were a garden, he could relax a bit and watch it grow - stop and smell the flowers, and all. But instead, he hops from garden to garden to garden all the way around the world, yanking at a weed here, watering some dry ground there...giving a little advice to the owner of the garden. He reminds me of my mother, who cannot sit still. Since my father died, she has moved to Mexico, taken cruises to Alaska, Hawaii, all over South America and the Caribbean, spent a lot of time in Guatemala...gone on road trips around the state of Baja California and the Western United States, celebrated her birthday in New York City and Williamsburg, Virginia...gone to London, Ireland, Spain and Beijing...and those are just the places she has told me about. I stopped talking to her about all those places because she just makes me sad. She doesn't seem to get anything out of those experiences.
Besides visiting my mother in Mexico, I have only been out of the country three times, myself: to Hong Kong when I was twelve; to Ghana when I was twenty-one, and to Jamaica when I was twenty-eight. Each time was a very powerful experience which became part of who I am. I probably wouldn't mind dying in any of those three places because what I got from my visit there was so monumental. But my mother just buys a T-shirt, or a piece of art, and then can't wait to get to the next party spot. I feel like Žižek is similar, except he does it with ideas. He likes to extol the virtues of the Psychoanalysts and the Leninists, but would he put his life, or his livelihood, on the line for any of those ideas? I just don’t know. As critical of Postmodernism as he says he is, he just can’t shake the ironic detachment that makes him want to ramble from Ahmadinejad and Berlosconi to Ronald Reagan and Kung Fu Panda, ultimately arriving at Agamben. These are all excellent points, but what is their effect? It doesn’t make this reader stand up and compose a stirring tribute that would surely get him nominated for the Nobel Prize. It makes me want to exclaim, “Cool! Let’s Hang Out!” in a very immature way. Watching a movie with Slavoj Žižek would be one of the highlights of my life, I would do that in a second if the oportunity presented itself. But, would I want him with me when the shit hits the proverbial fan? I'm not certain.
I hope I'm wrong. I used to collect Žižek’s books compulsively. At one point, I had almost twenty of them. So I have an idea what I'm talking about, but I didn’t read a single one past the first chapter. . Unfortunately, the only thing of his that I actually enjoyed was the first chapter of The Sublime Object of Ideology. That's the only thing I remember. It's the only thing worth memorializing, in my opinion. I just stopped reading his stuff because so much of it was exhausting and too dense. Maybe some of his books are substantial, but when I read any of his other books and articles, I always find myself just looking at signposts directing me to Freud or David Lynch or Kung Fu Panda. I am grateful for it, don't get me wrong. But, I enjoy reading more substantial writers like Andre Green, James Baldwin or R.D. Laing – Ann Rule, Dennis Lehane or Doris Kearns Goodwin -- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, William Shakespeare or Thomas Mann. My time on this planet is short, and there is much to read. Žižek’s on my radar, for sure, but what he writes is just clutter compared to these writers.
I honestly hope that Žižek never stops writing. My life changed after I discovered him in 2001. I saw him speak just a few days after my father died in 2003. He shines lights on subjects that no one else in the world would consider looking at; using colors that no one else in the world would consider using. He is quite remarkable, and he is definitely making a name for himself in the annals of human history. He will be remembered by many people, which can't be said for most people in this world. He is an excellent cultural critic. I wish I could be published as widely as him, but I feel sorry for him that he can't just take his time and write a few good pieces. I wish he would stop writing with so much ferocious intensity. His method has turned into his madness. He should write something truly awesome, something that would change the world or make it stop entirely. Then...THEN..well, wouldn't we all like to do something like that?
Stop showing off, Slavoj, and show us something!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
EBA vs. WFB, Jr.: "This is the reason America will never get anywhere."
When he was but a prince, The King of Funny Faces asked William F. Buckley, Jr. a question when he came to speak at West Chester University, April 1996: "What is your stand on the "Timber Salvage Rider?"
The father of modern conservatism rolled his eyes, and a room full of two-hundred rich white people with nice watches and BMW's shouted at the King of Funny Faces. They screamed "Go home!" "Why don't you get out of here!" and worse. The King was scared.
When William F. Buckley, Jr. spoke, he said, "The world is a giant ashtray we put things into..." and then gestured as if to extinguish as cigarette out on the podium.
Click on image to read full article.
Then he said something about, "I question the juvenile nature of people who treat all animals as pets," but the Timber Salvage Rider wasn't about animals, it was about trees.
Click on image to read the full article.
That summer, the King of Funny Faces spent two weeks (one in June and one in July) aggressively lobbying over 200 Congressional offices to repeal the Timber Salvage Rider with a group of activists from all over the country (mostly the Pacific Northwest) led by Former Congressman Jim Jontz of Indiana. The head of the Forest Service gave the King of Funny Faces a dirty look at a Congressional hearing at which only one dissenting voice against the Timber Salvage Rider spoke, and he sat right next to the Secretary of Agriculture in his conference room in the Department of Agriculture Building.
It was a good time, but it was bittersweet. Not only did the King of Funny Faces find out that his cat died on the last day of his first trip to D.C. We ended up losing the vote by the closest margin possible, two votes! The final tally was 211-209. It was a very sad time for us, and for the trees and wildlife that depend on the trees in areas that now look like this.
The father of modern conservatism rolled his eyes, and a room full of two-hundred rich white people with nice watches and BMW's shouted at the King of Funny Faces. They screamed "Go home!" "Why don't you get out of here!" and worse. The King was scared.
When William F. Buckley, Jr. spoke, he said, "The world is a giant ashtray we put things into..." and then gestured as if to extinguish as cigarette out on the podium.
Click on image to read full article.
Then he said something about, "I question the juvenile nature of people who treat all animals as pets," but the Timber Salvage Rider wasn't about animals, it was about trees.
Click on image to read the full article.
That summer, the King of Funny Faces spent two weeks (one in June and one in July) aggressively lobbying over 200 Congressional offices to repeal the Timber Salvage Rider with a group of activists from all over the country (mostly the Pacific Northwest) led by Former Congressman Jim Jontz of Indiana. The head of the Forest Service gave the King of Funny Faces a dirty look at a Congressional hearing at which only one dissenting voice against the Timber Salvage Rider spoke, and he sat right next to the Secretary of Agriculture in his conference room in the Department of Agriculture Building.
It was a good time, but it was bittersweet. Not only did the King of Funny Faces find out that his cat died on the last day of his first trip to D.C. We ended up losing the vote by the closest margin possible, two votes! The final tally was 211-209. It was a very sad time for us, and for the trees and wildlife that depend on the trees in areas that now look like this.
# # #
Erik B. Anderson: Early Childhood
Erik B. Anderson
by Mary Wilkin (Grandma)
The first child of Kay and Bruce Anderson, the first grandchild of Marion Anderson and Mary Wilkin, Erik was born prematurely on June 9, 1975 in Morristown Memorial Hospital. The excitement of his birth turned to anxiety as Kay had a convulsion in the hospital and was diagnosed as having toxemia. No one knows what cause this condition but the baby must be delivered immediately. A Caesarian operation was performed and the 5 lb. 4 oz. boy was put in an incubator. He was only 3 weeks early. His mother, however, was kept highly sedated with only her husband being allowed to see her. He was only 3 weeks early. His mother, however, was kept highly sedated with only her husband being allowed to see her. After a couple of days Kay was allowed to see her baby but not to hold him. We later learned that this was because they thought she might have another seizure and drop the child. Her dream of nursing the baby was denied, but the family of 3 eventually returned to their home at Quakerchurch Rd. in Randolph, N.J. with a healthy, thriving son.
Erik was the joy of the family. Round face, big brown eyes and chubby, rosy cheeks make him a delight to look at or hold. He was content in his swing or on the floor on the bright quilt his Aunt Joan (Wilkin) had made for him. Both Grandmas visited often and took frequent pictures of his various stages of development. Baby-sitting was their pleasure.
Erik sat up alone at 8 months, walked alone at 15 months. His first method of walking was his monster stride. He would put both arms straight out in front of him for balance and cross a room. In his high chair he would pick up Cheerios one by one from the tray while waiting for the rest of the meal. When the food arrived, he stuffed his face putting more in his mouth before he had swallowed the first bite. Kay frequently said "Manners don't count until you're 3."
Climbing out of the crib or playpen was a trick he learned from another toddler in Vermont where the family had visited in August '77. Skipping naps began about the same time at 2 years and 2 months. A month later on a long car trip to Cape Cod, Erik could identify most letters on a sign. When one was pointed out to him he would say, "That's an S or that's a C." While the car was stopped at one crossroad he said, "That's S-T-O-P --- Pots." Indoors adults would point to letters in the headlines and he would name each letter. Once his Daddy pointed to a quotation mark. Erik looked at the beginning and end quotes and said, "That's two sixes and two nines."
At home Erik knew how to turn on the radio for Grandma when she couldn't figure it out. He almost locked Grandma out of the car when she was scraping snow off the windows and he was inside pushing buttons. His first set of blocks he threw but he soon learned to build towers and knock them down. When no blocks were available at a time instead of knocking them down. After learning to make choo-choo trains of blocks Erik made choo-choos of any three items he encountered on a table or the floor.
In November 1977, Erik showed his imagination in a restaurant when he took a drinking straw and held it like a pencil and said, "I'm writing." Next he put the straw across his upper lip and said, "It's a mustache." When he held it above his eyes, he claimed, "It's eyebrows." Finally, he tried to twirl it like a baton.
Erik seemed unusually interested in words. When examining a humidifier in Grandma's house he asked what it was for and how it worked. Still puzzled when he peered inside, he asked, "Did my Daddy light the fire in the humidifier?" Once he said, "When I get covered with dirt, I'm dirty. When I spill my milk, I'm milky. When I play in the sandbox, I get sandy. When I roll on the lawn do I get lawny?" Another time he asked his mother if she razed her legs with a razor. As he got older he decided that a boy who plays soccer is a soccerist.
In the months before his brother was born, Erik knew that the baby was in his mother's tummy. He heard the heartbeat on the stethoscope in the doctor's office. When Kay came home with the new baby, Erik was given a boy doll that was anatomically correct. He would hug the doll and say, "I love my brudder."
At age 4, Erik loved to get presents. He was very particular about picking up the wrappings and putting them in the wastebasket. One gift, a Hop-it, frustrated him because he couldn't get the coordination to put both feet on it and walk as on low stilts. A fishing net he enjoyed because he could catch frogs in it. At this age, he was able to converse and relate details of his recent trip to Magic Mountain. His voice was often very loud. He had to be reminded to use his "inside voice" in the house.
For Hallowe'en of 1979 Erik dressed as the HULK and frightened his little brother. In toy stores, Erik was attracted to all games and toys that are related to monsters. At home he loved television but was very considerate about early morning sound. When he had Darlene, a teenager, for a babysitter he was so considerate he didn't wake her until it was too late for his ride to nursery school.
When his parents were due to arrive home from their trip, I suggested we write a Welcome Home sign for them. Instead he cut out a picture for them and wanted to write it himself saying, "Hello Mommy and Dad" not Daddy.
For one trip to say overnight at my house, Erik packed his own bag which he called his Brucecase. He remembered to pack everything except his pajamas. It was about this time that he declared that he did not want to be kissed. Grandma Anderson said she was going to kiss him anyway. Grandma Wilkin started blowing kisses to him.
by Mary Wilkin (Grandma)
The first child of Kay and Bruce Anderson, the first grandchild of Marion Anderson and Mary Wilkin, Erik was born prematurely on June 9, 1975 in Morristown Memorial Hospital. The excitement of his birth turned to anxiety as Kay had a convulsion in the hospital and was diagnosed as having toxemia. No one knows what cause this condition but the baby must be delivered immediately. A Caesarian operation was performed and the 5 lb. 4 oz. boy was put in an incubator. He was only 3 weeks early. His mother, however, was kept highly sedated with only her husband being allowed to see her. He was only 3 weeks early. His mother, however, was kept highly sedated with only her husband being allowed to see her. After a couple of days Kay was allowed to see her baby but not to hold him. We later learned that this was because they thought she might have another seizure and drop the child. Her dream of nursing the baby was denied, but the family of 3 eventually returned to their home at Quakerchurch Rd. in Randolph, N.J. with a healthy, thriving son.
Erik was the joy of the family. Round face, big brown eyes and chubby, rosy cheeks make him a delight to look at or hold. He was content in his swing or on the floor on the bright quilt his Aunt Joan (Wilkin) had made for him. Both Grandmas visited often and took frequent pictures of his various stages of development. Baby-sitting was their pleasure.
Erik sat up alone at 8 months, walked alone at 15 months. His first method of walking was his monster stride. He would put both arms straight out in front of him for balance and cross a room. In his high chair he would pick up Cheerios one by one from the tray while waiting for the rest of the meal. When the food arrived, he stuffed his face putting more in his mouth before he had swallowed the first bite. Kay frequently said "Manners don't count until you're 3."
Climbing out of the crib or playpen was a trick he learned from another toddler in Vermont where the family had visited in August '77. Skipping naps began about the same time at 2 years and 2 months. A month later on a long car trip to Cape Cod, Erik could identify most letters on a sign. When one was pointed out to him he would say, "That's an S or that's a C." While the car was stopped at one crossroad he said, "That's S-T-O-P --- Pots." Indoors adults would point to letters in the headlines and he would name each letter. Once his Daddy pointed to a quotation mark. Erik looked at the beginning and end quotes and said, "That's two sixes and two nines."
At home Erik knew how to turn on the radio for Grandma when she couldn't figure it out. He almost locked Grandma out of the car when she was scraping snow off the windows and he was inside pushing buttons. His first set of blocks he threw but he soon learned to build towers and knock them down. When no blocks were available at a time instead of knocking them down. After learning to make choo-choo trains of blocks Erik made choo-choos of any three items he encountered on a table or the floor.
In November 1977, Erik showed his imagination in a restaurant when he took a drinking straw and held it like a pencil and said, "I'm writing." Next he put the straw across his upper lip and said, "It's a mustache." When he held it above his eyes, he claimed, "It's eyebrows." Finally, he tried to twirl it like a baton.
Erik seemed unusually interested in words. When examining a humidifier in Grandma's house he asked what it was for and how it worked. Still puzzled when he peered inside, he asked, "Did my Daddy light the fire in the humidifier?" Once he said, "When I get covered with dirt, I'm dirty. When I spill my milk, I'm milky. When I play in the sandbox, I get sandy. When I roll on the lawn do I get lawny?" Another time he asked his mother if she razed her legs with a razor. As he got older he decided that a boy who plays soccer is a soccerist.
In the months before his brother was born, Erik knew that the baby was in his mother's tummy. He heard the heartbeat on the stethoscope in the doctor's office. When Kay came home with the new baby, Erik was given a boy doll that was anatomically correct. He would hug the doll and say, "I love my brudder."
At age 4, Erik loved to get presents. He was very particular about picking up the wrappings and putting them in the wastebasket. One gift, a Hop-it, frustrated him because he couldn't get the coordination to put both feet on it and walk as on low stilts. A fishing net he enjoyed because he could catch frogs in it. At this age, he was able to converse and relate details of his recent trip to Magic Mountain. His voice was often very loud. He had to be reminded to use his "inside voice" in the house.
For Hallowe'en of 1979 Erik dressed as the HULK and frightened his little brother. In toy stores, Erik was attracted to all games and toys that are related to monsters. At home he loved television but was very considerate about early morning sound. When he had Darlene, a teenager, for a babysitter he was so considerate he didn't wake her until it was too late for his ride to nursery school.
When his parents were due to arrive home from their trip, I suggested we write a Welcome Home sign for them. Instead he cut out a picture for them and wanted to write it himself saying, "Hello Mommy and Dad" not Daddy.
For one trip to say overnight at my house, Erik packed his own bag which he called his Brucecase. He remembered to pack everything except his pajamas. It was about this time that he declared that he did not want to be kissed. Grandma Anderson said she was going to kiss him anyway. Grandma Wilkin started blowing kisses to him.
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