Oh, and oh, and oh, the more I read, the less I know. Then Rappaport, talking about Derrida talking about Benjamin and Freud: 'the opening toward a future which ... is the condition of all performativity [is that] ... the end is never anything other than a repetition of the end in which each moment is and is not identical to the others. [but that it is] ...a prior wounding or harming that is also and always part of the openness of future to come - a future at the crossroads of a truth and madness - a return to something traumatic that has happened in the past and that will come back at some time in the future.' Oh, and oh, and oh, where's it going? I don't know. Here's a poem about someone in my reading group who troubles me...
A Lesion of the Soul
Her teeth I notice first,
No, that’s not true of
course.
Her visage, hurt to see,
All over irritated, cross.
Furrows grow between her
eyes,
The mouth so tight,
severe.
Reproof is writ on all
she views,
Her words unhappy sneer.
Impatience covering all,
She callously pronounces.
Opinion raw and rough,
Dogmatic in her trounces.
So far I wish to flee
that gaze,
But mesmerised I stay.
For down within her
lonely eyes,
A sadness deeply lays.
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