«Аргонавты» Мэгги Нельсон — текст на стыке жанров, автотеоретическое высказывание о желании, идентичности, создании квир-семьи, ограничениях и возможностях любви и языка. Работая в традиции публичных интеллектуалов, таких как Сьюзен Сонтаг и Ролан Барт, Нельсон сплетает историю своих отношений с художником Гарри Доджем с исследованием того, что культовые теоретики говорили о сексуальности, гендере, институте брака и материнстве. Это вдумчивая и бескомпромиссная книга о радикальной свободе и...
Даже идентичные генитальные акты разные люди воспринимают по-разному [Седжвик]. Эту мысль очень важно — хотя и непросто — запомнить. Она напоминает нам, что различие кроется там, где мы наверняка ищем — и ожидаем — общности
Мы спорили беззлобно, но почему-то позволили себе скатиться в ненужную бинарность. Это мы и ненавидим в художественных произведениях, или, по крайней мере, не самых лучших из них: они якобы предлагают задуматься над сложными вопросами, но на самом деле заранее предопределяют все позиции, начиняют повествование ложными дихотомиями и ловят тебя на них, как на крючки, лишая дальновидности и свободы
Думаю, ты переоцениваешь сознательность взрослых
Видимость наделяет возможностями, но и дисциплинирует: дисциплинирует гендер, дисциплинирует жанр.
A day or two after my love pronouncement, now feral with vulnerability, I sent you the passage from Roland Barthes in which Barthes describes how the subject who utters the phrase “I love you” is like “the Argonaut renewing his ship during its voyage without changing its name.” Just as the Argo’s parts may be replaced over time but the boat is still called the Argo, whenever the lover utters the phrase “I love you,” its meaning must be renewed by each use, as “the very task of love and of language is to give to one and the same phrase inflections which will be forever new.”
I think Butler is generous to name the diffuse “commodification of identity” as the problem. Less generously, I’d say that the simple fact that she’s a lesbian is so blinding for some, that whatever words come out of her mouth—whatever words come out of the lesbian’s mouth, whatever ideas spout from her head—certain listeners hear only one thing: lesbian, lesbian, lesbian. It’s a quick step from there to discounting the lesbian—or, for that matter, anyone who refuses to slip quietly into a “postracial” future that resembles all too closely the racist past and present—as identitarian, when it’s actually the listener who cannot get beyond the identity that he has imputed to the speaker. Calling the speaker identitarian then serves as an efficient excuse not to listen to her, in which case the listener can resume his role as speaker. And then we can scamper off to yet another conference with a keynote by Jacques Rancière, Alain Badiou, Slavoj Žižek, at which we can meditate on Self and Other, grapple with radical difference, exalt the decisiveness of the Two, and shame the unsophisticated identitarians, all at the feet of yet another great white man pontificating from the podium, just as we’ve done for centuries.
I was sick of stories in the mainstream media told by comfortably cisgendered folks—presumably “us”—expressing grief over the transitions of others, presumably “them.” (“Where does it fit into the taxonomy of life crises when one person’s liberation is another’s loss?”
The aim is not to answer questions, it’s to get out, to get out of it.
I didn’t have a clue what you were talking about, but I could see you burned for it. I wanted to be near that burning. I still don’t understand, but at least now my fingers ride the lip.
I think you overestimate the maturity of adults, he wrote me in his final letter, a letter he sent only after I’d broken down and written him first, after a year of silence. Angry and hurt as I may have been by his departure, his observation was undeniably correct. This slice of truth, offered in the final hour, ended up beginning a new chapter of my adulthood, the one in which I realized that age doesn’t necessarily bring anything with it, save itself. The rest is optional.