Otto

[Otto]

>
> Derrida never understood Marx or materialism, or the implications
> of economic materialism . Nor do you.  Pynchon's texts do not
> need such elitist, obscure, crypto-fascist glosses.
>
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Young Tchitcherine was the one who brought up political narcotics.
Opiates of the people.
Wimpe smiled back. An old, old smile to chill even the living fire in
Earth's core. "Marxist dialectics? That's not an opiate, eh?"
"It's the antidote."
"No." It can go either way. The dope salesman may know everything that's
ever going to happen to Tchitcherine, and decide it's no use or, out of the
moment's velleity, lay it right out for the young fool.
"The basic problem," he proposes, "has always been getting other people to
die for you. What's worth enough for a man to give up his life? That's
where religion had the edge, for centuries. Religion was always about
death. It was used not as an opiate so much as a technique it got people to
die for one particular set of beliefs about death. Perverse, natürlich, but
who are you to judge? It was a good pitch while it worked. But ever since it
became impossible to die for death, we have had a secular version yours. Die
to help History grow to its predestined shape. Die knowing your act will
bring a good end a bit closer. Revolutionary suicide, fine. But look: if
History's changes are inevitable, why not not die? Vaslav? If it's going to
happen anyway, what does it matter?"
"But you haven't ever had the choice to make, have you."
"If I ever did, you can be sure-"
"You don't know. Not till you're there, Wimpe. You can't say."
"That doesn't sound very dialectical."
"I don't know what it is."
"Then, right up till the point of decision," Wimpe curious but careful, "a
man could still be perfectly pure ..."
"He could be anything. I don't care. But he's only real at the points of
decision. The time between doesn't matter."
"Real to a Marxist."
"No. Real to himself."
Wimpe looks doubtful.
"I've been there. You haven't."
(GR, 701-02)