tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19615698.post-79073499066744053582008-03-09T17:36:00.004-06:002008-03-09T20:31:01.377-06:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_7t00hhY9dac/R9R1uTJIXDI/AAAAAAAAABM/KesOeqINelQ/s1600-h/hugebook.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_7t00hhY9dac/R9R1uTJIXDI/AAAAAAAAABM/KesOeqINelQ/s320/hugebook.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175891310028545074" /></a><br /><blockquote>Books are a corruptible matter. Books are made of wood: <em>biblos, liber, codex, buch</em>, it's always bark or tree. It burns, it rots, it decomposes, it can be erased, it falls to the gnawing criticism of mice. Bibliophilia is, just as much as philosophy, an impossible love, its objects discolored, faded, worn-out, cut-up, full of holes. Books are miserable, hateful. Descartes hates the job of making books. There is nothing for the Subject - the other, the same; who says 'I'(think)- in the tomes, nothing but loss of time, a life uselessly consumed in reading the scraps of knowledge that I myself can found. There should be some legal restraint aimed against inept and useless writers, as there is against vagabonds and idlers. Both I and a hundred others would be banished from the hands of our people. This is no jest. Scribbling seems to be a sort of symptom of an unruly age. When did we write so much as since our dissensions began? Since our writing has been troubled.</blockquote><br /><p>J.L.Nancy, "Exscription"Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01601149905466752999noreply@blogger.com