Mug

Q: What is the most exotic coffee you've ever sipped and where?
A: I once had an espresso in Brazil where the beans had been hand-picked by monkeys on a hard-to-access mountain top.

—BOBBY HASHEMI, my former employer and Coffee Republic founder.

Live long and prosper

Some Labour MP wrote an article in the paper about the wonders of free-market economics. She was waxing lyrical about how "the operation of markets is a peaceful way of facilitating revolution whereby outsiders are allowed in, vested interests are challenged and the old is replaced by the new."
Yes! All is tickety-boo when market forces are in control.
"Globalisation is not a threat, but an opportunity, and we should embrace it and see liberal markets as the most effective instrument for generating prosperity."
Yes! All those nasty aristocrats will lose their privileges, their stately homes etc. Instead we'll see a veritable thunderstorm of trickle-down wealth; meritocracy will prevail. Hurrah! Then the privileged will be those who have earned it. But 'earning it' requires a bit more than mere hard graft. You need money to begin with, to get the virtuous circle turning. Money 'lends itself' to the creation of wealth - but what happens if you are penniless to begin with? You've got a problem.

Not really. You see, now it appears as if the successful in a meritocracy have earned their success, rather than simply been born with it. Yet one question remains: what makes 'earned' success more legitimate than inherited wealth (or stolen wealth, for that matter). What kind of wacky protestant work ethic are we tangled up with here? Answers on a postcard, please.

It's so good to laugh again

Television or the drink?

Television has the unique power of bringing people together. The usual complaint is that a tv dominates the living room. The flip side to this is that it unifies the thought of each viewer, to a remarkable degree. Films can do this, but there is nothing quite like mimicking a line from a tv show, only for your interlocutor to reciprocate, turning the dialogue into a skit.
Of course, if you happen to be reading the same book as another person (apart from Potty Harry, what are the odds...) there is instant rapport. But really, 'what are the odds?'

Life on Earth

The house has begun to turn into an life-form of it's own. The spiders are returning for the summer, and the beehive/insect park in the chimney is spewing out more and more creatures. Two bees fell out of the fireplace this morning, and a few days ago we had a visit from an inch-and-a-half long European Hornet. In the bathroom, a number of mushrooms have mushroomed in the corners.
I can't understand the contemporary obsession with destroying these various living things. Personally, I am quite proud that the conditions in the house foster life and growth. And the place feels a lot more cosy. It is almost as if our home is itself an organism (here a more astute blogger would invoke Hegel or something about 'flat ontology').

Public Service Announcement

Good news for all those who study at the Coventry university which is not Coventry University. I have jimmied open an ice-cream fridge in the Arts Centre (first floor, across from the Mead Gallery). Free Haagen-Dazs for everyone!
We shall conduct an experiment of sorts. How many free riders can there be? Is there even a free rider problem here? I welcome anyone who wishes to 'take things too far' and 'spoil it for the rest of us', for example by taking as much as they can carry. The sooner the fridge empties, the better.
For all those who wish to hand me over to the authorities, I provide once again the details of the Serious Organised Crime Agency.
I believe it was Herbert Asquith who once said "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice-cream!"

Can 'Yakety Sax' make anything funny?

Yep, it sure can. Play on full volume.

Alberto Giacometti

Dave Distiller: six reasons to

1) Distiller's exam had all my favourite questions: Bernard Williams and his S&M/torture obsession in 'The self and its future' - thought experiments are definitely making a comeback; analytic philosophy's very best faux-phenomenology; Dummett on Frege (who else?). The list goes on.

2) Trying his best to make Worms squirm (to be honest, I didn't see this with my own eyes). Even if Elusive-Hyphen forced him to organise that evening, and forced him to look like he was having fun, I don't mind. In the end I don't want any more of the analytics than that they invite a few speakers from France, and sit politely listening during their talk.

3) The man might have some taste. A little sparse for some eyes, but I would say that this is a fairly good image to have on the cover of one's book - admit it! (this is actually the editors copy of the proof after he'd finished reading it. Kidding.)

4) Distiller and I have had almost all our meaningful exchanges in the lavatory (no Axel, no Lila, not that).

5) Apparently he left Christminster because the atmosphere was too 'aggressive' (purely hearsay). Within a few months of arriving here he was nicknamed 'the Gauleiter'. Fast workers will always have a place under my wing.

6) Like Churchill, he marks essays on the exercise bike in the gym. 'Healthy body healthy mind' as Neechee used to say (and both at the same time!)

Is Jean Hyppolite the finest reader of philosophy?

I have smudged my way through a few weeks of busy-ness. Hence the dearth of posts. Hyppolite has been there by my side every step of the way (ok, except for that niggling Epistemology and Metaphysics exam).
What a legend. Elusive-Hyphen calls Hyppolite's essay on memory "the best", and Hegel scholars the world over turn to his books for guidance in those darkest of arts - Hegelianism.

Luce Irigaray part two: "Keep your difference!"

Luce Irigaray exhorted us to keep our difference - this remark signalled that the seminar was beginning to open up. It had begun badly, with one participant reduced to tears through an unfortunate sequence of misunderstandings and miscommunications. This failed dialogue was followed by a disagreement over whether Allah is neuter. "Prove it!" demanded Irigaray playfully.

There were one or two blogworthy diamonds in the dust of seminar waffle (sorry, 'valuable discussion'): "...it is fashionable to reject Heidegger today..."; and in response to a question about another academic, "I am not here to judge anyone".

I asked a question at the end of the seminar: "Does a deeper commonality, or common humanity animate our progress towards the other? I would like you to elaborate whether there must be a more fundamental sameness, beneath the difference of which you speak." I thought it was a suitable question for someone of my standing: not too specific or knowledgeable - the kind of question expected of a person familiar with philosophical problems, but not an expert on Irigaray's work.
The response was interesting: humans are relational, but they relate in different ways. Each person inhabits their own 'house of language', so the problem is how to articulate a way to meet in a common region. She also made one or two crucial remarks about mourning - which I didn't fully understand.

Later, there was another dinner for the seminar participants. Funnily, we arrived at our table just as the Frédéric Worms party was arriving at theirs' (luckily, I managed to catch most of Worms' talk earlier that day). The evening took on a dreamlike quality. In the distance I could see mortal enemies Elusive-Hyphen and Dave Distiller conversing with vigour and apparent pleasure, in the company of the eminent Bergson scholar.

As we (the Irigaray group) threw ourselves heartily into our second day's drinking, the discussion livened up considerably. Someone asked Irigaray a question about Sartre.
"Sartre! Sartre! When they offer me the Prix Nobel, only then will I talk about Sartre!"

At the end, there were only five: four philosophy students and the guest of honour. She was regaling us with stories of the Italian school children with whom she works. She showed us some drawings, and explained their importance.
Since most of our group had left, it appeared that I was the only person remaining with any knowledge of french (I use 'knowledge' in its loosest sense). Fargone asked Irigaray a question about whether the bambini 'keep their difference'. She couldn't understand the English. She gestured at me: "You seem to have some French - can you translate?" I tried. Let's just say that we built a small tree-house of language, between French and English. Irigaray understood my rendition of the question, although in my excitement I made a grammatical blunder (or two).

The end of the evening was marvellous - there was a collective sense of joy. Whoever said in vino, veritas was mistaken. One finds not truth in wine, but love. Just as we reached the bus stop, where some of us were to separate, Irigaray began to tell a story about an interview. We started to say our goodbyes, and she said with mock incredulity "don't you want to hear my story?"
"I imagined for the interviewer a dialogue between the masculine identity of Beauvoir and the feminine identity of Deleuze!"
Everyone started falling around in raucous laughter. And then she was gone.

Luce Irigaray part one

On Tuesday, Professeur(?) Irigaray gave a talk ('The path towards the other') at our university, which was followed by wine and dinner with her and the English department. I was fortunate enough to be invited.
Near the end of the evening, I infiltrated a small group of people talking to Irigaray. She asked me what I did at the university. I told her of my status, adding that I really enjoyed her lecture. Not satisfied with this formulaic response, she said: "Oh yeah? What part of the talk did you like?" The other people at the table erupted into comical derision: "You got rumbled...Tough break kid."
Fortified by the wine I'd been drinking all evening, I waved them away: "No no no, I will answer the question." I proceeded to say something about authentic communication with the other - which I now realise she couldn't really understand, since in my ardour I talked too fast.

A little later, she turned to quiz the (analytic) philosopher of literature sitting beside me. It was, erm, tricky: "I am interested in the knowledge we can gain from fiction...Woolf...ethics" the hapless anglo-americano mumbled.

After the main course, Irigaray managed to snaffle two desserts from the set menu. I heard our waitress being gently admonished by her supervisor - but her explanation for the freebie was simple: "Gift of the gab, innit."

Monday, Tuesday, Opus Dei...

Always nice to have a Labour Minister for Women and Equality who thinks homosexuality is a sin, and that condoms promote promiscuity. I won't even mention whether she is pro-life or pro-choice. At least we can feel comfortable in the knowledge that the Catholic Church has the interests of the proletariat at heart. Like when they tried to spread the rumour - amongst poor and Aids stricken communities - that condoms have tiny holes through which HIV can pass.

Sign in a toilet near the philosophy department

To prevent blockages, please do not deposit cigarettes in the urinal.

Mmkay

A game of chess is like a sword fight: think first, before you move

"Reading philosophy sometimes stimulates, even cures. Reading sends us back to our daily existence with our spirit a little more alive. A chess match would have perhaps done just as well, and would have created less mental perversity and illusion."

Luce Irigaray, The Way of Love p4.

Five minutes is a long time in philosophy

Brn has arrived back from France. We talked of Bergson.

"Oh, yeah, thanks for recommending that Deleuze book - it was excellent," a whippersnapping second-year piped as he tumbled past the door of the room Brn and I occupied. At last, I am a guru. The lad's cheeks reddened; he was trying to suppress the lust that he couldn't understand.

Later, I turned to look out the window, as Brn reminisced about the cafés. A student walked past, and adjusted her skirt with a tug. I wouldn't notice this but for the fact that a moment later, another girl strolled by, doing the exact same thing. Tugging the skirt straight.

The earth moved

'This is it, my niggaz: this what we boast about'

I have submitted my Bergson/Merlot-Ponty car crash. All's well that ends well, as they say in the tropics.