Bøger af James Krendel-Clark

This essay (in the authentic sense of the word, an attempt), takes the point of view that the ruinance brought on by the death of God is not so much an "ethical" problem, but a crisis of representation (and of therefore of subjectivity). The Christ-event, like the Nietzsche-event, was a question of a certain Absolute force, a certain universality which was, for a time, concentrated within the soul of a single "human" actor, such that a certain voice was heard, no longer merely a question of the occasional inspiration of the prophets, but of an Absolute which spoke with authority for itself, in the durational form of a life. If Nietzsche proves that this event is performative in the most profound sense of the word (from Austin's famous "I now pronounce you man and wife", we arrive at "I am not a man, I am dynamite"), we must wonder whether it is possible to isolate certain aspects of this performance, in order that we might learn to make use of them for ourselves, in our own attempts to make this grotesque thing speak, this famous "Absolute", and in order that it be made to speak not in the name of a cowardly piety, but in the name of a megalomania bolder than ever, with enough force to shatter all of the idolators of "science" and "morality", with a voice as terrible as the ages, with an electricity that explodes the faux-rationality of "networks", and with a complicity worthy of the crime-nourished "friendships" of the novels of the Marquis de Sade.

"Darby Frown has had it up to here with bourgeois respectability and lives out his relentless quest for clarity as a rough-and-tumble hitman while participating in surface reality just enough to seem almost human. Are his crimes real or only imagined? Is his ruthless pursuit of grim deathnirvana a futile sham, or is it the only way to survive the identity meltdown of postmodernity? This is a story that is less than the sum of its plots, and the reader is advised to keep alert to the risky seductions of its paranormal and criminal sallies into paranoid nonsense. Nevertheless, it is difficult to read Hitman and not feel an eerie sense of recognition. Darby's strange delusions remind us how fragile and cheap sanity is in an over-administrated and hyperstimulated late-capitalist environment whose domestic comforts threaten us with spiritual emasculation and giddy tedium, where BDSM and PTSD are just similar acronyms symbolizing our rancid ennui and our yen for the beyond, always kept tantalizingly out of reach by the thought-police." -Aleksandr Meckel Jr. (Ardella Creek Examiner)