Jacques Derrida’s influence on the world took the form of a “quasi-private conversation” in French, through a smoke-screen from behind a mahogany laid desk. His audience of lofty thinkers vomited ideas, chewed the cud of intellectualism, shared fluids – bodily and otherwise – ate Japanese food and laughed at how clever they all were, really. For all this generosity and closeness there’s no life after life after death for these guys.
His monument, his “bench by the road”, exists in cloth-bound monuments to disproved thought. Piled high in dusty stacks.
At least the monument exists.
No one can sit on it and wait for a bus though.
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