Powers Of Horror An Essay On Abjection Effects Of Mania Essay
in a red desert, as a pack of wild black dogs with oily fur bared their teeth and waited.
It was that sort of night, when anything seemed possible, and I knew that too many more evenings like this would be dangerous, and that I had taken a phrase (“in the meantime, let others take their long march towards idols and truths of all kinds”) from the last page of too much to heart.
Riding my bicycle to campus, I saw her on the lawn in front of her apartment, selling most of her things.
This was the last time I was to see her, and just like that I could almost feel her happiness, and not just because she was barefoot in the grass or because she called my name and waved to me on my bike, and not because as I approached her I saw that her eyes were wide open like I had never seen them before, and they were beautiful and I knew through those eyes she saw me as beautiful, too, because everything seen through those eyes must have been beautiful.
When I became lost in the thicket of Kristeva’s words, which was practically all the time, I turned to the cover, to her face staring past the camera, contemplating escape, I thought. No matter if this was the actual face of Kristeva or not. The abject, Kristeva wrote, was “the in-between, the ambiguous, the composite. ) and placed into this copy of ) reminded me of watching those Lynch short films back in 1989, and of Thomas Y.’s bandaged girlfriend, whom at the time we never imagined was being abused by him, the most enlightened and bohemian of our group, a true clove cigarette smoker.
Her eyes have just glanced something too beautiful and terrible for forget. The traitor, the liar, the criminal with a good conscience, the shameless rapist, the killer who claims he is a savior. Although he never came out and said it, Thomas had insinuated that his girlfriend (I’m reluctant to give her name, or to give her a false name, so I’ll call her by her first initial, A.) had made the wounds beneath her bandages herself. was generally very quiet and, had this been the time of political turmoil or revolution, I might have suspected her of being an informer among us. really wounded beneath the bandages, and it was Thomas who had made those wounds.
The gashes in the dilapidated bus seats—the yellow Styrofoam pushing out—and the smears across the enormous flat windshield, and the screeching of the brakes, this all reminded me of something ancient, something too horrible to remember.
For a moment I imagined myself in a knife-fight with A.
It seemed to me, back then during that first year of grad school, that Kristeva was staring out of the book and into the world, into the present-day world that existed as I was holding the book . That same week, or perhaps the week after or several weeks later, our friend Thomas Y., whose girlfriend wore bandages, screened several infamous short films by David Lynch in an empty classroom on a Saturday night.He has potential, but he has a lot of catching up to do in terms of theory. Kristeva, of course, was not the one following me in the dark across campus, fading into the shadows of arches and doorways each time I looked behind me.I was reluctant to share the evaluation with my wife for a while, and told her I had received “A’s’ in my other two seminars (which I had) and that I was not alone in earning a “B” in the Intro. Although I understood my professors were right (the course was team taught by a good cop and bad cop; I’m convinced that the good cop made sure my grade was not lower and basically saved my rear for long enough that I could prove myself) I didn’t understand what they meant about theory. I found out the next semester—winter term 1989—and I want to say that that’s when I fell in love with Julia Kristeva’s words. Many years later (last year in fact, or the year before last) I came across a copy of at a used book store in Ann Arbor.There is one more incident, probably insignificant, and yet the more I think about it the larger it looms, like some dark storm cloud expanding at a science fictional rate.The last time I saw A., probably around 1991 or 1992, she was free of bandages and seemed happier than before. Her hair was short, and dyed red, and she no longer wore her old hippie clothes.
The bus moved through the dark parts of the town and I imagined A.