23 August 2004
No left left behind
It's been thirty-five years, and still the Sixties refuse to die, says the Prop:
Over in Cambridge [Mass.], of course, Kerry is just one more Capitalist to be lined up against the wall after the Revolution. The Sixties still live in Cambridge, right down to the tenured Marxists from the local Ivied Halls urging their students to put down those Vegan burgers, put on their sandals, come out of that tattoo parlor and march for Change! So help me, I was handed a flyer for a "people's" lecture on the "legacy" of Jacques Derrida by a panhandler on Harvard Square. I suddenly felt all groovy inside.
The distance between grooviness and nausea isn't what it used to be, if indeed it ever was.
And while we're sort of on the subject, it seems like a good time to trot out this January '03 post, which glossed over the fine art of fisking in the light of postmodern deconstructional techniques, and in the process of dropping Jacques Derrida's name, pointed to a Mark Goldblatt piece at NRO that gave Derrida some deserved derision:
[H]e is not now, nor has he ever been, a philosopher in any recognizable sense of the word, nor even a trafficker in significant ideas; he is rather a intellectual con artist, a polysyllabic grifter who has duped roughly half the humanities professors in the United States a species whose gullibility ranks them somewhere between nine-year-old boys listening to spooky campfire stories and blissful puppies chasing after nonexistent sticks into believing that postmodernism has an underlying theoretical rationale.
Shouldn't be too difficult to deal with said legacy, I suspect at least, for anyone who was able to figure out on the first try that My Mother, the Car was fiction.
(With thanks to the much-missed Cinderella Bloggerfeller, who inspired that original post.)