I’ve been down the post-modernist rabbit hole. Far down. Marcuse, The Frankfurt School, Post-Formal Operations, the whole fucking nine yards. It’s a pipeline full of shit that spews out into nihilism or Advaita.
At the beginning of the day, you have to get up for a reason, and that reason is inevitably strongly informed by some pretty basic biological impulses. Try practising some post-modernist shit retention, see how long you last. The body has it’s own truth. Post-modernists (along with the rest of humanity) are largely slaves of their bodies, wishing they could abstract and satisfy their appetites in the theoretical realm. Foucault was a child with dialectical diarrhoea asking “Why why why????” Chomsky is doing the far more difficult, constructive work – the ‘how’.
Update. While I admire Chomskie’s well wishes, I can’t help but to always wink at his sincerity. It’s as if he believes that his good wishes are inherently good.
And we can make very good arguments that they are – I can make those arguments, and I have. My entire blog is based, very obviously, on constructionsist philosopy. Is that a word? Constructionsist?
I just need to wink. I can’t hear the good will of Chomsky without needing some deconstruction and death at the same time. He’s so soaked in justice – as if that’s an actual thing (it arguably is, and it’s arguably not – which is the point – if you are not at once of both minds or at least agnostic about this, then you don’t get it yet). It’s kind of campy, even as much as I appreciate the truth and sincerity of the camp, and will sing along with and re-play and invent my own campy songs.