"To make of the recollection of the fragmentary logos transmitted by teaching, listening, or reading a means to establish as adequate and as perfect a relationship of oneself to oneself as possible."
Soon to appear on an Archaeology of surfAce(s) will be a collaborative project seeking to engage with Derrida's writing.
Also of note: Hypomnemata (see "Thoreau, Walking") (courtesy of philosophical conversations).
How quickly the obstacles to such an ideal appear! Tangled web of self-important memes, psychological projections and boredom’s props. But then the simple beauty of a “no.” Or an excuse: “The Real World”, say, though what is meant by this becomes less clear all the time. Wishing for the clean slate. All this was just a harmless diversion to begin with. Flatter oneself by invoking Bartleby: “I would prefer not to.” After all it’s always hit or miss, miss or miss. Sort through the clutter, through the merely repetitious, for just a bit of treasure, then proudly shared as if for one’s eternal doting parents—but it’s The Web, the future! you say. No, you are not concerned with the future, really. If you were it could all be erased today without causing a stir, without a single curse. That is the future, erasure. The blank page. So strike your fancy, pick your battles, sometimes delve, get lost and change, but don’t, don’t you dare, neglect the truly important stuff. "Publishing" and such, another word becoming less clear, more manically defended, demanded with displaced desperation, and invoked as a comforting, clear and present enemy, perhaps, but more importantly the discomforting, chance touch, disquieting stuff, beyond or before, not yet the stuff of words. The fluff of words. And call it “God”, if you must. Though he is very, very dead. And some little man is made to howl with timeless agony through a bullhorn in an empty chapel somewhere every time you say God's name, thus making you feel important about killing him again. Easier to kill him again than to avenge his disappearance.