the only

|Sartre is the only deleuzian|

.

some idiots on the internet
and perhaps in books. want to demon_ Strate_ Demon _ Strata- desirours of turning molecules into
strata, to fix the particle flow into igneous rock

they a re strataists ~ noslagiaists malaise_ists they are re-activists __ sentimentalists__


jibbering 'bout jargon__ they are in Guattari's words 'conservative reterritorializers' .. they find something

good and hating and fearing its intensity and novelty want to fix it back into past terms

postmodern is shit __ we were not even modern ~

Sartre, on the other hand, is the first and last Deleuzian. he probably only read five pages

yet his body is Deleuzian and DeleuzianGuattari. Sartre's body is the body of the two

of the DG of his body is the DG
______________________this is a fantasy

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
but that does not make it false
odes to existential
territories

territory
the word says it all tory
as in conservative

the paranoid regrabbing of land


_____________

Sartre's war Diary

The couple | DeBEaUVoIR
et
SaRtre
|>>>>>>>>>>>>
(she looks , at least in this

picture, like a severe
mama~!)

(Notice the kerchief ~940's -50's sexy!?)
(one wonders about the sexlife a greatphilosopher)

____________________________> a Philosopher who taught us about the holes in being. the bad faith of the waiter

who 'plays at being a waiter' and the ontological surfaces of skiers' hills _________their swopping down into being.

|






and

Selection from Sartre's War Diary

INTRODUCTION TO SARTRE

Philosophers have produced many famous autobiographies, but few have left any diaries, in their relative spontaneity and immediacy a riskier form of self-revelation than retrospective composition. The single great exception are the notebooks Jean-Paul Sartre kept for some nine months, after being called up in September 1939, running from the Phony War to the eve of the fall of France. He filled fifteen of these. Of them, only six have survived. Five, found in his papers, were published posthumously by Gallimard in 1983, and were translated into English by Verso in 1984. A sixth—by a fortunate accident chronologically the first—came to light in a cache bought by the Bibliothèque Nationale in 1991, of which we publish excerpts below. The torso that has escaped destruction, some 600 pages in all, is by any measure one of the most remarkable pieces of writing Sartre ever produced—all but unmatched in their intellectual vivacity, variety and pungency. Though not much more than a half century has elapsed since they were written, the loss of the other nine books recalls the gaps in what has come down to us of the literature of Antiquity more than any modern precedent. The notebooks range freely over philosophical, literary, historical, political and personal themes. With the recovery of the first, Sartre’s intentions become clearer. In his diary, he was developing the concepts and concerns that would form Being and Nothingness, published in 1943 after his release as a prisoner-of-war; sketching ideas that take shape in his Portrait of the Anti-Semite; and—not least—beginning to test the instruments of existential analysis that would ultimately produce his portraits of Baudelaire, Mallarmé, Genet and Flaubert. But the notebooks were not just a quarry of private reflections for future reference. Sartre, who was reading Gide’s and later Stendhal’s Journals, makes plain that he intended eventually to publish them, as a work of the same kind—though, characteristically, he showed small interest in them after the War, in the careless indifference to his own writing he records in the excerpts below. The sum of the notebooks thus becomes a wonderfully spirited, unsentimental—indeed often caustic—literary self-portrait, against the background of the opening months of the war. In the missing notebooks, we know that Sartre analysed at length his relationship with France—perhaps the most intriguing single theme in all that has been lost. But in the first notebook, we have what could be taken as the pendant to it: a scintillating description, written with a mordant lyricism, of his passionate relationship to the period that had just come to an end, the inter-war years of his prime.

September–October 1939

Marmoutier. Thursday 14 September. [1] A curious connection between stoicism and optimism.

It’s already there in the Stoic of antiquity, who needed to believe the world is good.

More of a psychological device than a theoretical connection.

Another ruse to tranquilize oneself, another trap of inauthenticity.

I set out for the army stoically, meaning that on the one hand I blocked out everything that made up my former life, and on the other hand accepted a future in which my own possibilities would no longer exist.

‘Readied up’, as they call it here. I was glad to be readied up, but didn’t realize that the essence of this state implies a kind of admiring docility towards the military authorities in charge of me.

By placing myself in their hands, I trusted them and ceased to be a ‘man against’.

This obviously came from the fact that I had freely tendered my resignation.

I lost my critical spirit, and surprised myself in the first few days by being disagreeably affected when officers were criticized in front of me.

Certainly the famous attitude of ‘saying no’ already implies doubt and reservation.

Acceptance, on the contrary, leads to that admiration on principle which is everything I most detest.

jean-paul sartre

quote from _________________________>

New Left Review 59, September-October 2009

______________________________________________________________

from the Critique of Dialectial Reason

and other

spaces

jean paul sartre driving a maehdrescher

The worker who serves the machine has his being in it just as the employer does; and just as the employer reinvests his profits in it, so the worker finds himself objectively forced to devote his wages to the upkeep (at minimum cost) of a servant for the machine who is none Other than himself[...]But we must not be misled by this apparent symmetry: the machine is not, and cannot be, the worker's interest. The reason for this is simple: far from the worker objectifying himself in it, the machine objectifies itself in him. In so far as industrialisation and concentration determine the proletarianisation of a section of the rural classes, they constitute not only the opportunity for the new proletarians of selling their labour power, but also, in the field of practico-inert Being, a force of attraction which tears the peasant away from agriculture and puts him in a workshop before a loom.
[...]

(One can wonder about these machines that Sartre describes and the desiring machines that only work when they break down)

Thus the machine defines and produces the reality of its servant, that is to say, it makes of him a practico-inert Being who will be a machine in so far as the machine is human and a man in so far as it remains, in spite of everything, a tool to be used: in short, it becomes his exact complement as an inverted man. At the same time, it determines his future as a living organism, just as it defines that of the employer. The difference is that it defines him negatively as an impossibility of living in the more or less long term. The machine does this not only through the counter-finalities which we have described (air pollution, destruction of the environment, occupational diseases, etc.), but also through representing, for him, in so far as it develops his being in the practical field of industrialisation, a permanent threat of reduced wages, of technological unemployment and of becoming disqualified.

Text and photo via Metastable EQuIlIbRiUm

which happens to be a site chock a block full a innaresing thing

Break yr practico-inertia readers
break yr inertia

_________ slip past yr ossification machines

cut sheaves

________________________

He was my Teacher - Gilles Deleuze on Jean-Paul Sartre

Once upon a time there were people , stupid and uninformed, ill-read half-ones, who thought Mister Deleuze did not know his or love his Sartre. Here then, blogged here again from Deleuze's Desert Island and Other Text is the latter's moving tribute to Sartre.

He Was My Teacher
(1964)

____________________________
The sadness of generations without "teachers." Our teachers are not just public professors,
though we badly need professors. Our teachers, once we reach adulthood, are those who bring us something radical and new, who know how to invent an artistic or literary technique, finding those ways of thinking that correspond to our modernity, that is, our difficulties as well as our vague enthusiasms. We know there is only one value for art, and even for truth: the "first-hand," the authentic newness of something said, and the "unheard music" with which it is said. That's what Sartre was for us (for us twenty-year-olds during the Liberation). In those days, who except Sartre knew how to say anything new? Who taught us new ways to think? As brilliant



and profound as the work of Merleau-Ponty was, it was professorial and depended in many respects on Sartre's work. (Sartre readily likened the existence of human beings to the non-being of a "hole" in the world: little lakes of nothingness, he called them. But Merleau-Ponty took them to be folds, simple folds and pleats. In this way, one can distinguish a tough, penetrating existentialism from a more tender
and reserved existentialism.) As for Camus—alas! Either it was inflated heroism, or it was second-hand absurdity; Camus claimed descent from a line of cursed thinkers, but his whole philosophy just led us back to Lalande and Meyerson, writers
well-known to any undergraduate. The new themes, a particular new style, a new aggressive and polemical way of posing problems—these came from Sartre. In the disorder and the hope of the Liberation, we discovered, we re-discovered everything: Kafka, the American novel, Husserl and Heidegger, incessant renegotiations with Marxism, enthusiasm for a nouveau roman... It was all channeled through Sartre, not only because he was a philosopher and had a genius for totalization, but because he knew how to invent something new. The first performances of The Flies, the publication of Being and Nothingness; An Essay in Phenomenological Ontology, his conference Existentialism and Humanism—these were events: they were how we learned, after long nights, the identity of thought and liberty.


"Private thinkers" are in a way opposed to "public professors." Even the Sorbonne needs an anti-Sorbonne, and the students don't really listen to their professors except when they have other teachers also. Nietzsche in his day had ceased to be a professor to become a private thinker: Sartre did the same, in another context, and with another outcome. Private thinkers have a double character: a kind of solitude that remains their own in every situation; but also a particular agitation, a particular disorder of the world in which they rise up and speak. Hence they speak only in their own name, without "representing" anything; and they solicit those raw presences, those naked powers in the world which are hardly more "representable." Already in What is Literature?, Sartre sketched the ideal writer: "The writer takes up the world as is, totally raw, stinking,
and quotidian, and presents it to free people on a foundation of freedom... It is not enough to grant the writer the freedom to say whatever he pleases! He must address a public that has the freedom to change everything, which implies, beyond the suppression of social classes, the abolition of all dictatorship, the perpetual renewal of categories, and the continual reversal of every order, as soon as it starts to ossify. In a word, literature is essentially the subjectivity of a society in permanent revolution."2 From the beginning, Sartre conceived the writer as a being like any other, addressing others from the sole point of view of their freedom. His whole philosophy was part of a speculative movement that contested the notion of representation, the order itself of representation: philosophy
was changing its arena, leaving the sphere of judgment, to establish itself in the more vivid world of the "pre-judgmental," the "sub-representational." Sartre has just refused the Nobel prize: this is the practical continuation of the same attitude; it shows his revulsion at the idea of representing something in a practical manner, even spiritual values, or as Sartre himself says, his revulsion at the idea of being institutionalized.
The private thinker requires a world that contains a certain minimum disorder,
even if only revolutionary hope, a seed of permanent revolution. In Sartre, we find almost a fixation with the Liberation, with the disappointments of the day. It took the Algerian War to recover something of the necessary political
struggle or liberating agitation, and then, the conditions were all the more complex, since we were no longer the oppressed, but those who would turn on one another. Ah, youth. All that is left is Cuba and the Venezuelan maquis. But greater still than the solitude of the private thinker is the solitude of those looking
for a teacher, who would like a teacher, and would not have come to him except in an agitated world. The moral order, the "representational" order has closed in on us. Even atomic fear has taken on the appearance of a bourgeois fear. Today, young people are schooled in thought with Teilhard de Chardin for a teacher. You get what you deserve. After Sartre, not only Simone Weil, but Simone Weil's monkey. Not that profoundly new things in contemporary literature
are lacking. Take a few random examples: the nouveau roman,Gombrowicz's books, Klossowski's stories, Levi-Strauss's sociology, Genet's theatre,
Gatti's theatre, the philosophy of "unreason" that Foucault is working on... But what is missing today, what Sartre knew how to bring together and incarnate
for the previous generation, were the conditions of totalization: a totalization in which politics, the imagination, sexuality, the unconscious, and the will are all united in the rights of human totality. We continue to live on like so many scattered limbs. Speaking of Kafka, Sartre said: his work is "a free and unitary reaction to the Judeo-Christian world of Central Europe; his novels are the synthetic overcoming of his situation as a man, a Jew, a Tehee, a recalcitrant fiance, aTB patient, etc."' But what about Sartre himself: his work is a reaction to the bourgeois world as exposed by communism. His work expresses the overcoming
of his own situation as a bourgeois intellectual, as a graduate of the Ecole Normale, as a free fiance, as an ugly man (Sartre often presented himself as such), etc.: all those things which are reflected and echoed in the movement of his books.
We speak of Sartre as though he belonged to a bygone era. Alas, we are the ones who in today's conformist moral order are bygone. At least Sartre allows us to await some vague future moment, a return, when thought will form again and make its totalities anew, like a power that is at once collective and private. This is why Sartre remains my teacher. Sartre's last book, Critique of Dialectical Reason, Theory of Practical Ensembles, is one of the most beautiful books to have come out in recent years. It provides Being and Nothingness with its necessary complement, in the sense that collective demands now complete the subjectivity of the person. And when we think back on Being and Nothingness, we rediscover the initial astonishment we felt for Sartre's renewal of philosophy. We know better today that the relation of Sartre to Heidegger, his debt to Heidegger, was a false problem, based on a misunderstanding. It was the uniquely Sartrian that struck me in Being and Nothingness, it was the measure of his contribution: his theory of bad faith, where consciousness, from within itself, plays on its dual power not to be what it is and to be what it is not; his theory of the Other, where the gaze of the other is enough to make the world vacillate, "stealing" the world from me; his theory of liberty, where liberty limits itself by constituting situations; existential psychoanalysis,
where one discovers the foundational choices of an individual at the heart of his concrete life. And every time, essence and example would enter complex relationships
that gave a new style to philosophy. The cafe waiter, the girl in love, the ugly man, and above all my friend-Pierre-who-was-never-there: these comprised real novels in the philosophical work and set the essences going to the rhythm of existential
examples. A violent syntax of breaks and stretches were everywhere dazzling evidence, recalling the twin Sartrian obsessions: the lakes of non-being, and the viscosity of matter.
His refusal of the Nobel prize is good news. Finally someone is not trying to explain what a delicious paradox it is for a writer, for a private thinker, to Gombrowicz's books, Klossowski's stories, Levi-Strauss's sociology, Genet's theatre,
Gatti's theatre, the philosophy of "unreason" that Foucault is working on... But what is missing today, what Sartre knew how to bring together and incarnate
for the previous generation, were the conditions of totalization: a totalization in which politics, the imagination, sexuality, the unconscious, and the will are all united in the rights of human totality. We continue to live on like so many scattered limbs. Speaking of Kafka, Sartre said: his work is "a free and unitary reaction to the Judeo-Christian world of Central Europe; his novels are the synthetic overcoming of his situation as a man, a Jew, a Tehee, a recalcitrant fiance, aTB patient, etc."' But what about Sartre himself: his work is a reaction to the bourgeois world as exposed by communism. His work expresses the overcoming
of his own situation as a bourgeois intellectual, as a graduate of the Ecole Normale, as a free fiance, as an ugly man (Sartre often presented himself as such), etc.: all those things which are reflected and echoed in the movement of his books.
We speak of Sartre as though he belonged to a bygone era. Alas, we are the ones who in today's conformist moral order are bygone. At least Sartre allows us to await some vague future moment, a return, when thought will form again and make its totalities anew, like a power that is at once collective and private. This is why Sartre remains my teacher. Sartre's last book, Critique of Dialectical Reason, Theory of Practical Ensembles, is one of the most beautiful books to have come out in recent years. It provides Being and Nothingness with its necessary complement, in the sense that collective demands now complete the subjectivity of the person. And when we think back on Being and Nothingness, we rediscover the initial astonishment we felt for Sartre's renewal of philosophy. We know better today that the relation of Sartre to Heidegger, his debt to Heidegger, was a false problem, based on a misunderstanding. It was the uniquely Sartrian that struck me in Being and Nothingness, it was the measure of his contribution: his theory of bad faith, where consciousness, from within itself, plays on its dual power not to be what it is and to be what it is not; his theory of the Other, where the gaze of the other is enough to make the world vacillate, "stealing" the world from me; his theory of liberty, where liberty limits itself by constituting situations; existential psychoanalysis,
where one discovers the foundational choices of an individual at the heart of his concrete life. And every time, essence and example would enter complex relationships
that gave a new style to philosophy. The cafe waiter, the girl in love, the ugly man, and above all my friend-Pierre-who-was-never-there: these comprised real novels in the philosophical work and set the essences going to the rhythm of existential
examples. A violent syntax of breaks and stretches were everywhere dazzling evidence, recalling the twin Sartrian obsessions: the lakes of non-being, and the viscosity of matter.
His refusal of the Nobel prize is good news. Finally someone is not trying to explain what a delicious paradox it is for a writer, for a private thinker, toGombrowicz's books, Klossowski's stories, Levi-Strauss's sociology, Genet's theatre,
Gatti's theatre, the philosophy of "unreason" that Foucault is working on... But what is missing today, what Sartre knew how to bring together and incarnate
for the previous generation, were the conditions of totalization: a totalization in which politics, the imagination, sexuality, the unconscious, and the will are all united in the rights of human totality. We continue to live on like so many scattered limbs. Speaking of Kafka, Sartre said: his work is "a free and unitary reaction to the Judeo-Christian world of Central Europe; his novels are the synthetic overcoming of his situation as a man, a Jew, a Tehee, a recalcitrant fiance, aTB patient, etc."' But what about Sartre himself: his work is a reaction to the bourgeois world as exposed by communism. His work expresses the overcoming
of his own situation as a bourgeois intellectual, as a graduate of the Ecole Normale, as a free fiance, as an ugly man (Sartre often presented himself as such), etc.: all those things which are reflected and echoed in the movement of his books.
We speak of Sartre as though he belonged to a bygone era. Alas, we are the ones who in today's conformist moral order are bygone. At least Sartre allows us to await some vague future moment, a return, when thought will form again and make its totalities anew, like a power that is at once collective and private. This is why Sartre remains my teacher. Sartre's last book, Critique of Dialectical Reason, Theory of Practical Ensembles, is one of the most beautiful books to have come out in recent years. It provides Being and Nothingness with its necessary complement, in the sense that collective demands now complete the subjectivity of the person. And when we think back on Being and Nothingness, we rediscover the initial astonishment we felt for Sartre's renewal of philosophy. We know better today that the relation of Sartre to Heidegger, his debt to Heidegger, was a false problem, based on a misunderstanding. It was the uniquely Sartrian that struck me in Being and Nothingness, it was the measure of his contribution: his theory of bad faith, where consciousness, from within itself, plays on its dual power not to be what it is and to be what it is not; his theory of the Other, where the gaze of the other is enough to make the world vacillate, "stealing" the world from me; his theory of liberty, where liberty limits itself by constituting situations; existential psychoanalysis,
where one discovers the foundational choices of an individual at the heart of his concrete life. And every time, essence and example would enter complex relationships
that gave a new style to philosophy. The cafe waiter, the girl in love, the ugly man, and above all my friend-Pierre-who-was-never-there: these comprised real novels in the philosophical work and set the essences going to the rhythm of existential
examples. A violent syntax of breaks and stretches were everywhere dazzling evidence, recalling the twin Sartrian obsessions: the lakes of non-being, and the viscosity of matter.
His refusal of the Nobel prize is good news. Finally someone is not trying to explain what a delicious paradox it is for a writer, for a private thinker, to accept honors and public representations. The clever few are already trying to make Sartre contradict himself: they attribute to him feelings of vexation at having the prize come too late; they object that, in any case, he represents something; they remind him that, at any rate, his success was and remains bourgeois; they suggest that his refusal is neither reasonable nor grown-up; they point to the example of those who accepted-while-refusing, determined to put the money to good works. We shouldn't get too involved. Sartre is a formidable
polemicist... There is no genius without self-parody. But which is the better parody? To become a polite old man, a coquettish spiritual authority? Or rather to wish oneself the half-wit of the Liberation? To watch yourself be elected
to the Academy, or dream of being a Venezuelan maquis? Who fails to see the qualitative difference, the difference of genius, the vital difference between these two choices, these two parodies? To what is Sartre faithful? Ever and always to the friend Pierre-who-is-never-there. It is his peculiar destiny to circulate
pure air when he speaks, even if this pure air, the air of absences, is difficult to breathe.



From Desert Islands and Other Texts
Ed. Eng. Version David Lapoujade
Trans. Michael Taormina
Semiotext(e) Foreign Agents Series
(pp.77-80)


______________________________________

One ofthese dainty day and night i shall write back to this tribute of the then lesser known Deleuze.


and speaking of
tributes

Michel Foucault and the grand old man Sartre
demonstrating together

Foucault even attended Sartre's funeral

remember this is the same
Foucault
that had been
severly
criticized by
Sartre
the same
Foucault
who did not
cross the bridge
of discussion with

Derrida
after the latter's wronglly constructed
essay about
Madness
and

Civiilizationssssssssssssssssssss


O
Philosophers!


"Philosophy may have its great internal battles
(between idealisms and realism, and so on)
but they're mock battles.
Not being a power,
philosophy cant battle with the powers that be,
but it fights war
without battles
a guerrilla
campaign against them.

And it can't converse with them,
it's got nothing
to tell them,
nothing to communicate,
and can only negotiate.

Since the powers aren't just external things
but permeate each of us,
philosophy throws
us all into constant
negotiations with,

a guerrilla
campaign against ourselves.



G.D .

On The Sound and the Fury::Time in the Work of Faulkner

The full essay


of
The Sound and the Fury: Time in the Work of Faulkner Jean-Paul Sartre

The first thing that strikes one in reading The Sound and the Fury is its technical oddity. What has Faulkner broken up the time of his story and scrambled the pieces? Why is the first window that opens out on this fictional world the consciousness of an idiot? The reader is tempted to look for guide-marks and to re-establish the chronology for himself:

Jason and Caroline Compson have had three sons and a daughter. The daughter, Caddy, has given herself to Dalton Ames and become pregnant by him. Forced to get hold of a husband quickly . . .

Here the reader stops, for he realizes he is telling another story. Faulkner did not first conceive this orderly plot so as to shuffle it afterwards like a pack of cards; he could not tell it in any other way. In the classical novel, action involves a central complication; for example, the murder of old Karamazov or the meeting of Edouard and Bernard in The Coiners. But we look in vain for such a complication in The Sound and the Fury. Is it the castration of Benjy or Caddy's wretched amorous adventure or Quentin's suicide or Jason's hatred of his niece? As soon as we begin to look at any episode, it opens up to reveal behind it other episodes, all the other episodes. Nothing happens; the story does not unfold; we discover it under each word, like an obscene and obstructing presence, more or less condensed, depending upon the particular case. It would be a mistake to regard these irregularities as gratuitous exercises in virtuosity. A fictional technique always relates back to the novelist's metaphysics. The critic's task is to define the latter before evaluating the former. Now, it is immediately obvious that Faulkner's metaphysics is a metaphysics of time.
Man's misfortune lies in being time-bound.

. . . a man is the sum of his misfortunes. One day you'd think misfortune would get tired, but then time is your misfortune . . .

Such is the real subject of the book. And if the technique Faulkner has adopted seems at first a negation of temporality, the reason is that we confuse temporality with chronology. It was man who invented dates and clocks.

Constant speculation regarding the position of mechanical hands on an arbitrary dial which is a symptom of mind-function. Excrement Father said like sweating.

In order to arrive at real time, we must abandon this invented measure which is not a measure of anything.

. . . time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.

Thus, Quentin's gesture of breaking his watch has a symbolic value; it gives us access to time without clocks. The time of Benjy, the idiot, who does not know how to tell time, is also clockless.
What is thereupon revealed to us is the present, and not the ideal limit whose place is neatly marked out between past and future. Faulkner's present is essentially catastrophic. It is the event which creeps up on us like a thief, huge, unthinkable - which creeps up on us and then disappears. Beyond this present time there is nothing, since the future does not exist. The present rises us from sources unknown to us and drives away another present; it is forever beginning anew. "And . . . and . . . and then." Like Dos Passos, but much more discreetly, Faulkner makes an accretion of his narrative. The actions themselves, even when seen by those who perform them, burst and scatter on entering the present.

I went to the dresser and took up the watch with the face still down. I tapped the crystal on the dresser and caught the fragments of glass in my hand and put them into the ashtray and twisted the hands off and put them in the tray. The watch ticked on.

The other aspect of this present is what I shall call a sinking in. I used this expression, for want of a better one, to indicate a kind of motionless movement of this formless monster. In Faulkner's woke, there is never any progression, never anything which comes from the future. The present has not been a future possibility, and when my friend, after having been he for whom I am waiting, finally appears. No, to be present means to appear without any reason and to sink in. This sinking in is not an abstract view. It is within things themselves that Faulkner perceives it and tries to make it felt.

The train swung around the curve, the engine puffing with short, heavy blasts, and they passed smoothly from sight that way, with that quality of shabby and timeless patience, of static serenity . . .

And again,

Beneath the sag of the buggy the hooves neatly rapid like motions of a lady doing embroidery, diminishing without progress¹ like a figure on a treadmill being drawn rapidly off-stage.

It seems as though Faulkner has laid hold of a frozen speed at the very heart of things; he is grazed by congealed spurts that wane and dwindle without moving.
This fleeting and unimaginable immobility can, however, be arrested and pondered. Quentin can say, "I broke my watch," but when he says it, his gesture is past. The past is named and related; it can, to a certain extent, be fixed by concepts or recognized by the heart. We pointed out earlier, in connection with Sartoris, that Faulkner always showed events when they were already over. In The Sound and the Fury everything has already happened. It is this that enables us to understand that strange remark by one of the heroes, "Fui. Non Sum."² In this sense, too, Faulkner is able to make man a sum total without a future: "The sum of his climactic experiences," "The sum of his misfortunes," "The sum of what have you." At every moment, formless shadows, flickerings, faint tremblings and patches of light rise up on either side of him, and only afterwards, when he has a little perspective, do they becomes trees and men and cars.
The past takes on a sort of super-reality; its contours are hard and clear, unchangeable. The present, nameless and fleeting, is helpless before it. It is full of gaps, and , through these gaps, things of the past, fixed, motionless and silent as judges or glances, come to invade it. Faulkner's monologues remind one of aeroplane trips full of air-pockets. At each pocket, the hero's consciousness "sinks back into the past" and rises only to sink back again. The present is not; it becomes. Everything was. In Sartoris, the past was called "the stories" because it was a matter of family memories that had been constructed, because Faulkner had not yet found his technique.
In The Sound and the Fury he is more individual and more undecided. But it is so strong an obsession that he is sometimes apt to disguise the present, and the present moves along in the shadow, like an underground river, and reappears only when it itself is past. When Quentin insults Bland,³ he is not even aware of doing so; he is reliving his dispute with Dalton Ames. And when Bland punches his nose, this brawl is covered over and hidden by Quentin's past brawl with Ames. Later on, Shreve relates how Bland hit Quentin; he relates this scene because it has become a story, but while it was unfolding in the present, it was only a furtive movement, covered over by veils. Someone once told me about an old monitor who had grown senile. His memory had stopped like a broken watch; it had been arrested at his fortieth year. He was sixty, but didn't know it. His last memory was that of a schoolyard and his daily walk around it. Thus, he interpreted his present in terms of his past and walked about his table, convinced that he was watching students during recreation.
Faulkner's characters are like that, only worse, for their past, which is in order, does not assume chronological order. It is, in actual fact, a matter of emotional constellations. Around a few central themes (Caddy's pregnancy, Benjy's castration, Quentin's suicide) gravitate innumerable silent masses. Whence the absurdity of the chronology of "the assertive and contradictory assurance" of the clock. The order of the past is the order of the heard. It would be wrong to think that when the present is past it becomes our closest memory. Its metamorphosis can cause it to sink to the bottom of our memory, just as it can leave it floating on the surface. Only its own density and the dramatic meaning of our life can determine at what level it will remain.
Such is the nature of Faulkner's time. Isn't there something familiar about it? This unspeakable present, leaking at every seam, these sudden invasions of the past, this emotional order, the opposite of the voluntary and intellectual order that is chronological but lacking in reality, these memories, these monstrous and discontinuous obsessions, these intermittences of the heart - are not these reminiscent of the lost and recaptured time of Marcel Proust? I am not unaware of the differences between the two; I know, for instance, that for Proust salvation lies in time itself, in the full reappearance of the past. For Faulkner, on the contrary, the past is never lost, unfortunately; it is always there, it is an obsession. One escapes from the temporal world only through mystic ecstasies. A mystic is always a man who wishes to forget something, his self or, more often, language or objective representations. For Faulkner, time must be forgotten.

'Quentin, I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciatingly apt that you will use it to gain the reductio ad absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his fathers'. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a momen and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.'

It is because he has forgotten time that the hunted negro in Light in August suddenly achieves his strange and horrible happiness.

It's not when you realize that nothing can help you - religion, pride, anything - it's when you realize that you don't need any aid.

But for Faulkner, as for Proust, time is, above all, that which separates. One recalls the astonishment of the Proustian heroes who can no longer enter into their past loves, of those lovers depicted in Les Plaisirs et Les Jours,⁴ clutching their passions, afraid they will pass and knowing they will. We find the same anguish in Faulkner.

. . . people cannot do anything very dreadful at all, they cannot even remember tomorrow what seemed dreadful today . . .

and

. . . a love or sorrow is a bond purchased without design and which matures willynilly and is recalled without warning to be replaced by whatever issue the gods happen to be floating at the time . . .

To tell the truth, Proust's fictional technique should have been Faulkner's. It was the logical conclusion of his metaphysics. But Faulkner is a lost man, and it is because he feels lost that he takes risks and pursues his thought to its uttermost consequences. Proust is a Frenchman and a classicist. The French lose themselves only a little at a time and always manage to find themselves again. Eloquence, intellectuality and a liking for clear ideas were responsible for Proust's retaining at least the semblance of chronology.
The basic reason for this relationship is to be found in a very general literary phenomenon. Most of the great contemporary authors, Proust, Joyce, Dos Passos, Faulkner, Gide, and Virginia Woolf, have tried, each in his own way, to distort time. Some of them have deprived it of its past and future in order to reduce it to the pure intuition of the instant; others, like Dos Passos, have made of it a dead and closed memory. Proust and Faulkner have simply decapitated it. They have deprived it of its future, that is, its dimension of deeds and freedom. Proust's heroes never undertake anything. They do, of course, make plans, but their plans remain stuck to them and cannot be projected like a bridge beyond the present. They are day-dreams that are put to flight by reality. The Albertine⁵ who appears is not the one we were expecting, and the expectation was merely a slight, inconsequential hesitation, limited to the moment only. As to Faulkner's heroes, they never look ahead. They face backwards as the car carries them along. The coming suicide which casts its shadow over Quentin's last day is not a human possibility; not for a second does Quentin envisage the possibility of not killing himself. This suicide is an immobile wall, a thing which he approaches backwards, and which he neither wants to nor can conceive.

. . . you seem to regard it merely as an experience that will whiten your hair overnight so to speak without altering your appearance at all . . .

It is not an undertaking, but a fatality. In losing its element of possibility it ceases to exist in the future. It is already present, and Faulkner's entire art aims at suggesting to us that Quentin's monologues and his last walk are already his suicide. This, I think, explains the following curious paradox: Quentin thinks of his last day in the past, like someone who is remembering. But in that case, since the hero's last thoughts coincide approximately with the bursting of his memory and its annihilation, who is remembering? The inevitable reply is that the novelist's skill consists in the choice of the prsent moment from which he narrates the past. And Faulkner, like Salacrou in L'Inconnu d'Arras,⁶ has chosen the infinitesimal instant of death. Thus, when Quentin's memory begins to unravel its recollections ("Through the wall I heard Shreve's bed-springs and then his slippers on the floor hishing. I got up . . .") he is already dead. All this artistry and, to speak frankly, all this illusion are meant, then, merely as substitutions for the intuition of the future lacking in the artist himself. This explains everything, particularly the irrationality of time; since the present is the unexpected, the formless can be determined only by an excess of memories. We now also understand why duration is "man's characteristic misfortune." If the future has reality, time withdraws us from the past and brings us nearer to the future; but if you do away with the future, time is no longer that which separates, that which cuts the present off from itself. "You cannot bear to think that someday it will no longer hurt you like this." Man spends his life struggling against time, and time, like an acid, eats away at man, eats him away from himself and prevents him from fulfilling his human character. Everything is absurd. "Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
But is man's time without a future? I can understand that the nail's time, or the clod's or the atom's, is a perpetual present. But is a man a thinking nail? If you begin by plunging him into universal time, the time of planets and nebulae, of tertiary flexures and animal species, as into a bath of sulphuric acid, then the question is settled. However, a consciousness buffeted so from one instant to another ought, first of all, to be a consciousness and then, afterwards, to be temporal; does anyone believe that time can come to it from the outside? Consciousness can "exist within time" only on condition that it becomes time as a result of the very movement by which it becomes consciousness. It must become "temporalized," as Heidegger says. We can no longer arrest man at each present and define him as "the sum of what he has." The nature of consciousness implies, on the contrary, that it project itself into the future. We can understand what it is only through what it will be. It is determined in its present being by its own possibilities. This is what Heidegger calls "the silent force of the possible." You will not recognize within yourself Faulkner's man, a creature bereft of possibilities and explicable only in terms of what he has been. Try to pin down your consciousness and probe it. You will see that it is hollow. In it you will find only the future.
I do not even speak of your plans and expectations. But the very gesture that you catch in passing has meaning for you only if you project its fulfilment out of it, out of yourself, into the not-yet. This very cup, with its bottom that you do not see - that you might see, that is, at the end of a movement you have not yet made - this white sheet of paper, whose underside is hidden (but you could turn over the sheet) and all the stable and bulky objects that surround us display their most immediate and densest qualities of the future. Man is not the sum of what he has, but the totality of what he does not yet have, of what he might have. And if we steep ourselves thus in the future, is not the formless brutality of the present thereby attenuated? The single event does not spring on us like a thief, since it is, by nature, a Having-been-future. And if a historian wishes to explain the past, must he not first seek out its future? I am afraid that the absurdity that Faulkner finds in human life is one that he himself has put there. Not that life is absurd, but there is another kind of absurdity.
Why have Faulkner and so many other writers chosen this particular absurdity which is so un-novelestic and so untrue? I think we should have to look for the reasons in the social conditions of our present life. Faulkner's despair seems to me to precede his metaphysics. For him, as for all of us, the future is closed. Everything we see and experience impels us to say, "This can't last." And yet change is not even conceivable, except in the form of a cataclysm. We are living in a time of impossible revolutions, and Faulkner uses his extraordinary art to describe our suffocation and a world dying of old age. I like his art, but I do not believe in his metaphysics. A closed future is still a future. "Even if human reality has nothing more 'before' it, even it 'its account is closed,' its being is still determined by this 'self-anticipation.' The loss of all hope, for example, does not deprive human reality of its possibilities; it is simply a way of being toward these same possibilities."⁷

NOTES

1. The author's [Faulkner's] italics.

2. "I was. I am not" [Editor].

3. Compare the dialogue with Bland inserted into the middle of the dialogue with Ames: "Did you ever have a sister?" etc., and the inextricable confusion of the two fights.

4. A novel by Marcel Proust, c. 1924 [Editor].

5. In A la recherche du temps perdu (A Remembrance of Things Past) by Proust, Albertine is a lesbian attracted by and to the narrator.

6. Armand Salacrou, a contemporary French dramatist (born 1899), who wrote L'Inconnu d'Arras, (The Unknown Woman from Arras), in which a man learns of his wife's infidelity and kills himself.

7. Heidegger, Sein und Zeit


___________________________ found online here ________

Tintoreto creates a new body of outline the boundary of the body defined in painting seems to suggest the bounding outlined shapes of blake

Tintoretto - Jacopo Robusti - (1518-1594)

Leda and the Swan - Leda e il cigno
c. 1555
Oil on canvas
147.5 x 147.5 cm (58 x 58 in.)
Uffizi, Florence

-________________
Sartre wrote two
essays about the Italian painter.

I've read both in paperback
but there does not appear
to be any copies on the web.

However this short essay

"Sartre, Tintoretto and the School of San Rocco

Tintoretto’s gift to the School of San Rocco" written by

Giovanna Dal Bon

describes Sartre in the process of writing about the Italian painter.

"Jean-Paul Sartre arrives in Venice in 1933; he immediately finds a dark and aenigmatic figure that will obsess him for a long time: Tintoretto. Or better said, what of him comes out of his paintings. It will be a long and feverish hatching. A slow process that will bring him to assault the Venetian painter in jerks, returns, springs; with slashes in his writing style, for over a decade. The first hint of this furious enchantment dates back to 1948, he writes about it in "What is literature?": " Tintoretto chose the yellow gash of the sky above the Golgota not to mean anguish, nor to provoke it; it is anguish and yellow sky at the same time". From that time on, he will uninterruptedly investigate the private obsessions of the Venetian painter, persisting with his paintings. What attracts him so much in this character? The lights and shades in his destiny of hunted artist, the spasmodic anxiety for success that consumes and torments him, the sense of stubborn heaviness and disastrous fall emanating from his pictorial works, up to converting "the obsession for fall in an aesthetic system"; the osmotic relationship with Venice "Tintoretto’s painting is first of all the passionate relationship of a man with a city".

In 1953 begins the writing of a series of sparse texts, fragmented, "furious", that were published in different moments. They appeared for the first time in an organic Italian translation edited by Gabriella Farina "Tintoretto or the kidnapped of Venice" (Christian Marinotti Edizioni €29, 00). Michel Sicard, in the introduction, lists and analyzes the main themes of Sartre’s aesthetic on Tintoretto"heaviness, time, space, light". In the hand-to-hand struggle with the Venetian painter, it emerges a Sartre different from the one busy with psycologic-existentialist incursions. His style changes direction, attitude, he considers the sign and visual space more than the historical conscience of the time. He goes deep into his works and lets them speak for him. He faces the story of Jacopo Robusti starting from an anecdote that marks his beginnings and fortune: "Jacopo was born in 1518; his father is a dyer; Venice immediately whispers to us that everything started in the worst of ways". Here comes the wicked deed. At twelve he enters the workshop of the master for excellence, the triumphant Tiziano who is the pride of the Serenissima Republic. He is turned out immediately, for fear of his talent. Jean-Paul does not wait and immediately rushes to the help of Tintoretto: "Tiziano was not easy, as everyone knows. But Jacopo was twelve. At twelve talent is nothing, it is easily swept away; you need time and patience to fix a fragile self-assurance, to change it into talent (…)". Bad luck seems to dominate and with the years it makes place for doggedness, “becoming rage”. Now he is alone against all, Jacopo wants to "produce, produce without stopping, sell, beat his rivals with the number and dimension of his paintings". All means are allowed, even deception.

In 1564 it is checkmate. When the Confraternity of San Rocco decides to adornt he reunions hall and announces a competition, he scatters everybody.

"Corrupts the servants, obtains the right measures". He presents the work ready and makes a present of it: "Not to you but to San Rocco, your patron saint". The School will turn into his domain. At this point Sartre urges. He chases him closely, with traps and ambushes, he breaks into the paintings as to rip them up. His power of investigation reveals internal trepidations and jolts. Talking about "San Marco giving freedom to the slave": "A Saint is all here? A falling body? (…) high, in full light the toes scratch the canvas with the nails; further away the face is in the shadow, turned upside down" and again "landslides, that is what he shows us in all his work".

This article copied in full from Sartre, Tintoretto and the School of....San Rocco

Decisions, or the eternal war against the practico-inert. and This and This and and

"Progress upon the project proper has become bogged down somewhat in the effort to change course. However it is necessary to focus on the new, as ever, and this focus now rests precisely upon the idea of the relation between political revolution, the group, and subjectivity. This is an idea which seems to be most strongly born out of my readings earlier this year of Jean Paul Sartre's Critique of Dialectical Reason and Search for a Method, and which has bled across and significantly coloured my understandings of Felix Guattari's later solo works and Alain Badiou's more recent project. The question which arises is that of how significantly the blasted defeated wreckage of the CDR hangs over its successors. What was most appealing about the earlier work, rather than its arrogantly naive teleology of dialectical progress, was Sartre's interest in the relation between the individual and group, and the extremely subtle (if perhaps not entirely convincing) manner in which he sketched the structure, necessarily contingent and fragile, which holds such groups together.

Guattari's work certainly evades many of the problems which beset Sartre: his privileging of the social over the individual, the removal of the dialectic as engine of history, and his use of transversality as conceptual stratagem to continually liquidate the sticky morass of the forces of the practico inert. However whilst his work evolves against a backdrop of French intellectual life in the early 60s dominated by Sartre, and he (and Deleuze) continue to refer broadly to a similar schema of subject group versus subjugated group (which parallels group in fusion versus inert collective gathering in Sartre's own schema) I am still not entirely clear on how he is able to think the interrelation between constituent elements within a group. Sartre's own analysis rests upon his notion of reciprocity. For him any gathering of individuals (and for Sartre the individual remains primary- which is perhaps his greatest failing) the relations between members is mediated via reciprocity, itself via "the third party". In a collective gathering structured in seriality this third party is deemed to be "other", which maintains the serial nature of the collective (1+1+1+1...etc). As structurated by alterity or otherness this collective's freedom, and the freedom of each individual within it, is severely curtailed by the forces of the practico-inert. This inertia may be broken down most effectively only through group action, such groups being formed in response to an event (usually for Sartre an external threat or crisis) which engenders a praxis, this praxis redeeming the third party from alterity, suddenly shifting to being seen by each member of the collective as "mine" or "the common individual." For any analysis of the relation between the Sartrean view of the group and Guattari's, this notion of alterity is key. Beyond merely maintaining a post-Sartrean delineation of group types, Guattari holds onto the need for alterity in relation to autopoesis, as detailed in Chaosmosis. I need to make sure here that the idea of alterity is the same as Sartre's-- certainly Gary Genosko's reading of this is that this form of alterity does not imply a dialectical openness to the genuinely "alter". A closer reading of Chaosmosis will be necessary to clarify this point I believe.

Further in Guattari's earlier work on institutional psychotherapy at La Borde clinic, in his development of the idea of transversality we find further eerie echos of Sartre's work: in positioning transversality as a device to critique the operations of the institution itself, the way the object (here the mental institution itself) comes to be known is via the group's subjectivity, itself created in the space opened up via applications of transversality. There appears here to be similarities between this idea of group activity leading to the object of the activity becoming known and Sartre's own idea of the progressive regressive method within Search for a Method (and undeniable shades of the dialectic of course). What Guattari appears to add is crucial however: that subjectivity is always already a group phenomena. One question which arises from this is of the relation between dialectical reason and transversality. And of the nature of group subjectivity implied. For Sartre there is no real group subjectivity as such, no gestalt or hyperorganism is formed in the group-in-fusion. The change occurs at the level of the commonality of the third party."

__________________________________

Holdings Subjects Tintoretto, 1518-1594 Painters -- Italy -- Biography. Browse Catalog by title: Portrait of an artis... Search the Web Tintoretto, 1518-1594 Painters -- Italy -- Biography.

Portrait of an artist : [videorecording] : Tintoretto / Home Vision presents an RM Arts production ; director, Didier Baussy. [Chicago, Ill.] : Home Vision [distributor], c1984. Subjects Tintoretto, 1518-1594 Painters -- Italy -- Biography. Description: 1 videorecording (65 min.) : sd., col., stereo. ; 1/2 in. Contributors: Tintoretto, 1518-1594 Home Vision (Firm) RM Arts (Firm) Series: Portrait of an artist ; v. 10 Other Titles: The yellow gash [videorecording] : Jean-Paul Satre on Tintoretto. v-0003 Tintoretto. Jean-Paul Sartre on Tintoretto. Credits: Photography, Frédéric Variot, Francois Chenivesse, Christian Fournié; editor, Catherine Binet; music, Mara Laporte. Summary: Sartre's words guide us through this exploration of Tintoretto's decorative panels and vast frescoes, all situated in Venice. Sartre is fascinated by Tintoretto's rebellion against 16th century convention and by his innovative style.

Sartre and

Jean-Paul Sartre
GROUPE D'ÉTUDES SARTRIENNES - G.E.S

and this

documentary based on several sources

none like

there is none like you Papapa Sartre with your Nausea and Hole and yer totalized history course in materialism returned at the Hegelian three step synapse to the dialectal depasse comme le histoire and conserved preserved and deserved on yet another level of detotalized truth. From Objectivity to Objectivity you said and nothing was more beautiful.

And your Saint was Genet to his Mallarme strokes. The absent that never was. The abstention in other priorities words.

None like your two essays about Alberto Giacometti .a now forgot sand a forgotten sand

and your existential psychology and your Flaubert Idiot and the Family

and the Humble Admission

Yes yes, yes Anyone can write the last Volume it's knowledge it's just a question of style, but that is All.


Anyone who has grasped these methods can write the last and vibrant volume.

And your Search for a Method progressive regressive

and the Words
Les Mots

And the last years
blind half blind

and the newspapers

Henry Miller is dying
Come to Paris
Sartre was dying I didn't know



___________________

Life was a breath

not a breather


________________

Sartre on being 'awarded' the noble ... pri..ze

It is not the same thing if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre or if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre, Nobel Prize winner. A writer must refuse to allow himself to be transformed into an institution, even if it takes place in the most honorable form.

o n o on e

no On e has forgotten Sartre least of all

me

Didier Eribon sure Sartre

Everywhere she went Father Sartre was unremembered by the scholar of money war and deprived giftmaking rendering death unto death. Poor not peace. Peace brings the good day: Thinking

Didier Eribon

Sur Sartre

Je mets ici en ligne l'article "Jean-Paul Sartre" que j'ai rédigé pour le Dictionnaire des culutres gays et lesbiennes (Larousse, 2003).


Tout au long de son œuvre, que ce soit dans son théâtre, ses romans et nouvelles ou ses écrits théoriques et philosophiques, Sartre ne cesse d’évoquer l’homosexualité. Dans Huis clos, pièce représentée pour la première fois en mai 1944, un homme et deux femmes se retrouvent en enfer. Inès est lesbienne, ou plutôt l’était dans sa vie qui vient de s’achever : « J’étais ce qu’ils appellent, là-bas, une femme damnée. Déjà damnée, n’est-ce pas. » Dans le salon qui figure l’enfer où Inès se trouve enfermée pour l’éternité avec un homme (Garcin) et une femme (Estelle) hétérosexuels, c’est l’impossibilité pour ces deux derniers de faire l’amour sous le regard dégoûté de la lesbienne qui conduit Garcin à prononcer la fameuse phrase : « L’enfer, c’est les autres. »
Dans le roman la Nausée (1938), le personnage de l’autodidacte, qui fréquente assidûment la bibliothèque pour y lire les ouvrages dans l’ordre alphabétique, est présenté comme un homosexuel (quelque peu pédophile) qui regarde avec insistance les jeunes garçons. Un jour, il se laisse aller à caresser la main d’un lycéen, ce qui lui vaut d’être insulté, frappé et chassé par le bibliothécaire. La méditation de Roquentin, le personnage principal, sur l’autodidacte exilé dans sa propre ville et marqué à tout jamais par la honte et l’opprobre est un moment important dans la conclusion du roman.
Dans « L’enfance d’un chef », publiée dans le recueil de nouvelles le Mur (1939), le jeune bourgeois Lucien Fleurier rencontre le « pédéraste » Bergère et couche avec lui, éprouvant des sentiments ambivalents d’attraction-répulsion. Il rejette vite cette expérience homosexuelle et rejoint le destin social et politique qui est le sien pour devenir un militant d’extrême droite, caractérisé par un antisémitisme forcené...."

Il était notre professeur disait Deleuze dans Ile déserte.... déserte le texte...et trouve le territoire ...

Saint Deleuze

Saint Deleuze Philosopher and Teacher

a Biography by Jean-Paul Sartre

bang and nothing

i have know the empty of waiter. as what bad faith playin g itself.

later I wrote Cirque de Critique of Dialenctial cancer out reason de materialis.t.

Sartre et le Vietnam

SARTRE et le Vietnam
Uploaded by Jules_Michelet

Soutien de Jean-Paul Sartre aux ouvriers de Renault à Boulogne-Billancourt en 1970.

Jean-Paul Sartre à Renault - 1970
Uploaded by ricar_mm

Sartre two years after May, 1968 _ two years before the publication of AntiOedipus

and how

And how about the Critique? of Dialectical Reason? and the long winded foot-notes, the beauty of that grace, the word clattered down the page, what did young Genet,by then, a middle aged men heading to 60, what did he know about that, crowned in his Maids and Blacks, and Balconies, his Screens, and his epitome of Grace, what I wrote of him came about , came about, came about as I wrote ....

In the Words, I explained myself....

with the key I gave to Genet, he understood himself too well, so well,
he away to himself for decades, the little primping clown....

Sartre par lui-même

whatever happened to Sartre Par Lui meme?
Violated
Sartre viola
!

Sartre - Philosophie
Uploaded by arc