To my dearest friends and foes.
Beware, for they will mock your gods and saints. Beware, not of the mocking, but of the mocking being nothing but the husk of an empty diversion; that is: beware of the mocking, for fate impends elsewhere.
Threats and mockery hover everyday haps and mishaps, clouded tempers, early promises, harms, resentments and ill-bearings, all at hand. To insult, we march. To disdain, we march. Finding it obvious, we march. Proclaiming truths, alas, we march, and time, in its own time, will know: not knowing what we are doing, and understanding nothing, we marched.
Wither march we? For whom? Against whom? It seems clear underneath our armors, despite it being obvious to all that our armors guards as well as it blinds. Wither, then? We know not.
Wither Marxism, some once asked, as walls seemed to crumble Marx’s old efiggy. To that question Derrida answered: wither indeed! In Derrida’s answer wither stood for direction, destination and proposition. For Marx withered – faded – but seemed not prone to disappear and leave no trace (traces are of utmost importance for Derrida): Marx left traces, and the traces stood for a proposition, for the withering of the effigy made room for the imposition – and impositions are the foundation of politics, one must notice – of a spectre.
Thus I urge: wither – not to fade, but not to stand, and not fight, so not to lose.
I bring you no invitation to despair, might it not be clear so far: I devise no artifacts, no strategies and do not wish to conjure spectral militia. Wither, thus, is an urge of mine for you not to engage in dust-stormed war mongerings, not to indulge in sarcastic lashes over factoids (no politics derive from sarcastic derision of factoids), not to lose control, but to recognize loss, mourn clarity, and strive for vivacity and clarification.
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