Archive for the ‘Jean Baudrillard’ Category

Cool Memories 27

December 27, 2007

Cool Memories 27


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


Ethical hummingbird

Surrealist mercenary

the automaton of one’s own pleasure

     a subject without other

             Without Other

             Without otherness

             Without unconscious

Metamorphosis: only other, then Subject/ Other: metaphysics

Then only the subject without other: Metastasis

     A past, recycled, narcissistic, refreshed subject

     Without transcendence

     Paralyzed self-fascinated metastatized metastabilized


No Otherness     no alternative

Autarkic nebulosity of subsystems: politics ethnic groups

                     Psychic language

No one talks here anymore

No one exists—me included

                       Ab-solute centripetal involuted writing

Then return of the absolute

Other of seduction ……of

Surprise and of Rapture

                    Pure event      pure object

                    Putting an end to this

Introverted and ultimately melancholy fascinated

Autorepetition of a subjectivity without desire.















沒有大它者       沒有替代品









            純粹事件    純粹客體






Cool Memories 涼爽的回憶

By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


Cool Memories 26

December 17, 2007

Cool Memories 26


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


  She can jettison her existence, her plans and her passions at a single stroke. She is only committed to reality through a secret electoral pact, by which she will stand down if she is losing. She never assumes responsibility for her existence, which allows her to wipe out at a stroke and to slide, like a good hysteric, towards another life. A strange life, spun out entirely towards a goal of transaction. Let a man ask her to give it up, to sacrifice the whole of it, and it all cases to exist.



  The Epeda Multispire mattress. Everyone can have their own night, their own sleep thanks to the 3,6000 spiral springs which guarantee everyone complete autonomy. The ideal mattress. You can make love to someone on it without them even noticing. As the automaton of his own pleasure, each person’s experience of their sexuality is like their experience of a night on a Multispire mattress. It isn’t even loneliness, since there is someone else there. It’s more something of the order of the independent lunar module. Tristan and Isode each dreaming to themselves, on either side of their sexual console.



   The seduction is the seduction of the uterine Mother and that all attraction merely masks the attraction of the primal abyss are platonic ideas. The cavity of the womb has taken over from the Cave in the Realm of Ideas. Once again, the real woman, her anatomy, serves as a sacred referent for a platonic ideology. The vertigo of seduction is here vulgarly phantasized into the hollow of a woman’s womb. This is to move from the most subtle game to the most profound—and hence the most stupid—phantasm.



    Everyday experience falls likes snow, immaterial, crystalline and microscopic, it enshrouds all the features of the landscape. It absorbs sounds, the resonance of thoughts and events; the wind sweeps across it sometimes with unexpected violence and it gives off an inner light, a malign fluorescence which bathes all forms in a crepuscular indistinctness. Watching time snow down, ideas snow down, watching the silence of some aurora borealis light up, giving in to the vertigo of enshrouding and whiteness.




   Little catastrophe scenario.



   I.  Losing one’s identity papers—your whole being refuses to believe in this, just as it refuses to believe in the death of a loved one. You search for hours before reconciling yourself to the idea, and even then you keep alive a hope of seeing them reappear miraculously, like a woman who has left you. The fact is that they have become your shadow in the sunny world of capital. You are an orphan—and indeed the people who hang around in lost property offices look like shadows themselves. There is a logic in this: the loss of your papers is never innocence, it is a sign of ruination. It is an alarm signal. Many will have been saved in this way from much  more serious trouble.



   II. Lost passport dream. It turns out to have been true: when I wake up, I can’t find it ( what would happen if I dreamt I was dead?). The day before, in the search for my identity ( papers), I’m told that a passport isn’t a true certification of existence, but merely an international transit document. I lost it a quarter of an hour late, and I lost it in the police station, where it remained, like the purloined letter, in full view of everyone.



   III. The stolen/non-stolen car. I learn that my own car has been stolen for four years. So they can’t give me a vehicle registration document. So I’m driving round in my own stolen car and I have no identity papers. Who am I? The disconnected computer cannot recognize the existence of a real object in the absence of a Search Termination procedure. But all the documents have disappeared. The unfathomability of machines, the expectancy of men. On the other hand, for the last four years, all traffic offences have been cancelled by the computer because my ca was stolen. Moral of the story: it’s the art of disappearing that brings total impunity.



    IV. In the end, everything turns up again. Happy end. I even find myself –reverse catastrophe—with a double identity: two vehicle registration documents, two driving licenses two identity cards, etc.




Cool Memories 26


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


Cool Memories 25

December 16, 2007

Cool Memories 25


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯

    The nuclear is like revolution. Nothing is gained from hoping for the one or fearing the other, since both have already happened. Everything is already liberated, changed, subverted. What more do you want? There’s no use hoping: the things are there, born or stillborn, already in the past—it’s exasperating, but what can you do about it? No future. No cause for panic either: everything’s already nuclearized, enucleated, vaporized. The explosion has already happened, the bomb is only a metaphor. What more do you want: everything is already wiped off the map. It’s no good dreaming: the confrontation has already happened quietly, everywhere. Yet  isn’t it enough for things to have happened: we also want to see within things, before it broke out as spectacle. The people wanted the spectacle of the revolution. Things themselves also want to experience the rapture of a spectacular metaphor. This is the revenge of the objectivity in which we have confined them.

    核武就像革命。希望前者或害怕後者是不切實際,因為兩者俱已發生。每一樣都已經解放,改變,顛覆。除外你還想要什麼?希望是無用的,因為事情就在那裡,出生或胎死腹中,已經是過去,令人驚心動魄,但除外你還能做什麼?沒有未來,也沒有驚恐的道理。每件事都已核武化,已釋出,已蒸發。爆炸已經發生,炸彈只是隱喻。除外,你還想要什麼? 每件事情都已經被從地圖上抹除掉。夢想是無用的,因為衝突已經悄悄地發生在每個地方。可是讓事情已經發生難道還不夠嗎?我們還想看到事情內幕,在爆發成景象之前。人們想要看到革命的景象。事情本身也想要經驗到景象隱喻的爆發。我們限制事情的客觀性,這就它的報復。

    What will become of the nuclear? Will we insist on having the grand spectacle of the atomic confrontation for the beauty of it? If that happens, it will not be for the reasons currently advanced—the fatal dynamic of he use-value of the weapons or the species becoming resigned to its own destruction—but from the irresistibility of the spectacle of destruction and the necessity, for us, of deriving some enjoyment from it.


  The only response to the missiles: decoys and simulation. An aircraft carrier, a nuclear power station, a simulated metropolis with the same mass, the same potential energy and the same temperature profiles—ultimately every target could surround itself with an infinite number of decoys serving as a protective halo. This was Numa’s idea, when, as king of Rome, he had twelve identical shields made in order to prevent the original sacred one sent by the gods from being stolen.


   The fact is that the universe was like this in the beginning: undecided as to the authenticity of things. Out of the twelve shields were born the twelve kingdoms and no one knows which is the real one, nor—subtle perfidy of Numa—if there ever was a real one.


   If war did break out, it still isn’t clear why the missile would choose to hit the decoy rather than the target? Only a man, a conscious being who has passed through the mirror phase, would almost unfailingly choose the decoy ( the power of seduction!) But won’t a machine, which is an artifact, let itself be lured by the real target? We should therefore be using the most sophisticated military technology we possess to build missiles which are subjects and capable of being lured away by decoys.


   It feels so good to disappear among the masses! Even better than getting high on transcendence ( God), is to wallow in the nausea of immanence. The Masses. A dream opportunity for the individual to disappear and yet still be able to lament his alienation and his lost subjectivity. Isn’t this just what the masses were invented for? Because we did invent them, just as we invented the cold, blue light of television, so that, gazing deep into the screen, we could await the dazzling sign of a definitive event.


   To be erotic, the objects of your interest have to be in a state of sexual ease, more dreaming than desiring, lying back nonchalantly, asleep, or miles away, wrapped in some narcissistic concern. They have to have forgotten about you and yet offer themselves to you in some strange way, with a sort of indifferent animality, gentle folly and involuntary nakedness. Only the body without desire is truly deserving of pleasure.


   To make you wish to seduce her, a woman should not show herself too inclined toward rape or toward giving herself to you. She must give out not signs of defeat, but of passing weakness, which are so many ways of saying: I am allowing you to seduce me.


   The man is dependent on the woman in all this: without this tiny, ultraviolet sign of weakness, he cannot even be tempted to seduce. Perhaps blue eyelashes are this allusive sign, virginal behavior this fragile allusion. The initiative seduction always consists in awakening slumbering appearances. And you can guess that a woman will be–or wants to be—seduced by the fact that, as in a lover’s snare, she gives herself the appearance of sleep.



Cool Memories 25


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


Cool Memories 25


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯




Cool Memories 24

December 13, 2007

Cool Memories 24


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯

   That face. Even in ten years’ time, I shall still not know the color of its eyes. But I see it in the street, in my dreams and just beneath the surface of a great number of other faces which suddenly start to resemble it.


   The panic of coming upon a transvesitite in the Bois de Boulogne. It is not the specter of homosexuality, but the distortion of signs that spreads terror. Not the fact of mistaking one sex for another, which is close to vaudeville, but the game of signifying woman out of nothing, the signs of woman without woman.


   Only the feminine can surrealize its effects in this way without bringing upon itself that ridicule which immediately threatens masculine values when they attempt the same. Besides, the masculine version of the transvestite has become passé; it was merely in appendage of homosexuality.


   It is obvious that a woman will always know better how to caress another woman than any man will. This is true, no doubt, of the other sex too. Each sex would thus be like a particular species and the caress a kind of basic language peculiar to the specie.


   There is no point in building. There is no more real estate, no more life annuities. There are no more concessions in perpetuity in any cultural cemeteries. Isn’t it better that way? When a meteorite breaks up in space, it is the dazzling trace of its end which stands out. With a celestial body in orbit, it is the ellipse that is the most precious. No ancestors, no heritage, no heirs, no capital. For centuries we have had to accumulate. It is equally obvious that we have to squander everything in a single generation.


    The future belongs to those who have accumulated everything, then unburdened themselves of it in a single lifetime. You have to move quickly. Ten years to soak up a culture, twenty years to expel it, spew it out ( this part always takes longer). Nothing is interesting unless it passes through the entire cycle of the symbolic murder of culture.


   The ultimate bomb, the one no one talks about, would be the one which, not content simply to disperse things in space, would disperse them in time. The temporal, palinodic, anachronistic bomb. When it explodes everything is thrown back into the past and, the more powerful the bomb, the further back it is thrown. Or better still, when it explodes some fragments are thrown into the past, others into the future.

   最後的炸彈,沒有人談到的炸彈,將不滿足於僅僅在空間擴散,而將在時間擴散。這個炸彈炸掉時間,取消時間,使時間錯亂。當炸彈爆炸,每件事都拋回過去。炸彈力量越強,拋回得更遠。或更好的是,當它爆炸時,有些 碎片拋回過去,還有些拋到未來。

   But just take a look around: this explosion has already occurred. There is no bomb which hasn’t already exploded before being technologically invented: the real is always ahead of technology and war. In a world without memory like ours, everything is already projected live into the past; it is as if things had been precipitated into a dimension where they have no meaning other than when they are fixed by a definitive revolution of time.


   That, in fact, is the real bomb, the one which immobilizes things in a spectral recurrence. All you hope for is that some fragments—aeroliths or meteorites—many have passed into the dimension of the future where we will run into them one day with a sense of deja-vu.



Cool Memories 24


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


Cool Memories 23

December 12, 2007

Cool Memories 23


Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯

 Female mud wrestling

The female in Quest for Fire. Goldfinger

Sweet Movie: the woman in liquid chocolate

Natives in their masks of mud

Blacks with glistening skins

Bodies greased with suntan oil on the beaches.







    The lubricious is that which is lubricated. Which slides. Which looks like a sex emerging from a sex, or a child emerging from its mother. When the skin puts on show the inside of the body, with its mucous membranes turned inside out, the moistness of sexual arousal.


    A sweating body already offers a show of erotic repulsion and attraction. The body’s primordial temptation to cover itself with its secretions. A mere trickle of water flowing over a smooth stone is enough to make it erotic. Everything that slides evokes sexual pleasure, even the wind. Why not oil or mud?


   The body in its liquid form is life itself. The opposite of Goldfinger, in which it dies transfixed within its film of gold.


   But the fluid must not be too fluid. It is the viscosity of mud which gives pleasure, even one’s gaze slides and becomes viscous. Sliding would thus seem to be the source of all pleasure, and perhaps of meaning.


   In just one week, winter, spring and summer one after the other. Hence the dreamy mists of the St Lawrence, caused by the tepid rain falling on the ice. On the other side of the lake, the Indian village takes on the dramatic form of the Great North, of exile and snow. But here, in the city, everything takes on the dramatic form of ennui. There are two forms of energy in Montreal, the electric energy of the Great lakes and the psychological energy of monotony.


   There is a vigorous and a languid way to conduct politics. The same applies to lovemaking. The conjunction of the two styles produces the best effects and the best-looking children.


   This is the secret of a life: how many faces and bodies would you recognize by caressing them with your eyes closed? From whom would you accept anything with your eyes closed? Have you ever closed your eyes, have your ever acted blindly, have you loved blindly and sensed, in the dark, the tactile windings of ideas?


   Seduction is the direct and murderous irradiation of the object, the end of metaphor, the strategy of an enchanted world, the triumphant resurrection of an illusion which puts an end to the dialectical swoonings of sense and the all too naïve ruses of history.


   If you wish to speak of fiction, the text must obliterate all reference. If you are speaking of simulation, the text must scoff at meaning, while at the same time being completely true. If you are speaking of seduction, language has to pervert something or other in elliptical ways. Otherwise, what would language be there for?


   Language is a woman: it seduces you by metamorphosing into what it says. It is a woman also in that it will never stop its taking its revenge if it does not succeed in seducing you. It will avenge itself by saying only what you make it say, like a woman who only satisfies what you ask of her.


    The Suicide Academy: you go there to take refresher courses in will power. Which is indeed a very academic subject. In the Suicide Motel ( a project never fulfilled in the grandiose form in which it was conceived) the verdict of the client who comes to hire the motel’s services is irrevocable. He is not given back any free choice ( this would be to do him scant honor!) Wine, women and philosophy, etc., are lavished upon him. But, on the appointed day, he is executed, in accordance with his own wishes, in what are the best conditions for him.



Cool Memories 23

By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


Cool Memories 22

December 11, 2007

Cool Memories 22


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


The repetition of days is interminable, that of nights less so. It is probable that the succession of nights has a meaning, whereas that of the days lead us nowhere. The day should simply break, and then immediately come to an end. Things should just appear, and be immediately abolished.



The loss of virile mythologies, and also of feminine emblems, with the concomitant rise of transsexual, narcissistic mirage common to both sexes, which only falsely assumes an air of homosexuality.



The seductive power of the feminine bends back on itself. As for men, they can only have recourse o the mirror of woman, but this is already occupied.



    Pompeii: we are indebted to a catastrophe for having reserved the most extraordinary piece of our classical heritage. But for Versuvius we would not have had this living hallucination of antiquity. As we owe the preservation of mammoths in the sudden onset of the Ice Age. Today, it is all our artificial memory systems that play the museum-building role of natural disasters.



   At male stripshows, it is still the women that we watch, the audience of women and their eager faces. They are more obscene than if they were dancing naked themselves. This is so because of the hysterical overflow from their sexes into their faces, but particularly because what they are looking for is a right of revenge over men. What is obscene more than anything else in all this is the egalitarian demand for the right to pleasure.



   No one has any right to pleasure, any more than to water or to life. Let us leave this form of legality to the emancipated slaves. Enjoying life has already been rendered obscene by the right to leisure. This time it is sex that is being rendered obscene by the right to sexuality. Obscenity threatens everything that claims to be considered as a legal right.



   The right to pleasure and the right to suffering usher in a civilization of hysteria and gaudy vulgarity. The ecstasy of the female strip clients is akin to the ecstasy of the holy women of Lisieux. The same form of voracity is directed towards the masculine sex or the Sacred Heart of Jesus.



   The body on stage is never obscene. The only thing that is is the cannibalistic gaze of these women absorbed in their own symbolic revenge and the living derision of their sex. Man is a touching sight in his contemplative pornography ( peep show, live show, etc.). He confusedly pays homage with his gaze to the perfection of a body which lacks nothing. For men do not believe in this business of the castrated woman. They know woman has a perfect body and that her body will never lack anything. And their gaze reflects this: if the feminine body can offer itself naked in this way, deliver itself up to the eyes without withholding anything, this is the sign of a great power. The power of prostitution which man will never know, any more than he will know that of parturition.



   Whereas what women come to look at in a masculine striptease is precisely castration, deep down, they are the only ones who really believe in it. That is why the gaze has no option but to turn back upon them, these women who are madly keen on castration and who have become the impure subjects of castration, instead of shining forth as pure objects, in their nudity, with their powers of illusion, on the pornographic stage of the body.




Cool Memories 23


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero雄伯


Cool Memories 21

December 11, 2007

Cool Memories 21


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated Springhero 雄伯


  When the force of love is spent, there comes the serenity of the state of weakness. When the crime has been committed, there comes the serenity of expiation. In all things, once should only concern oneself with the effects and leave the causes to the Last Judgment.



   Hegel: the injustice of society is that it is the subordinate who has to understand what power is.

   Aristotle: all organic existence proceeds from two sources—on the one hand, from its natural causes and, on the other, from the necessary intervention of the sun.




   I have the impression—more or less—that this abject and glorious mercenary has a dual nature, that she is torn between the two sides of the same character—Leo rising in Leo—time alone, or depressive illness being able to distinguish in her heart between the two rivals, who in reality are only one. In mythological terms, I see this creature of the sea undulating like a suicidal Aphrodite between two opposite poles, fleeing on an invisible wire as far as the luminous escarpment of the lower world, where lurks the touching brute who will kill her.



  In astral terms, I see the pendulum in her heart hesitating like a metronome out of kilter—magnetic hesitation of the needle between two signs, femininity floating in the double helix of the will to power.



   Sublime epigraph on seduction on Omar Khayyam:

   ‘ It is better for you to have reduced a single free man to slavery by gentleness than to have freed one thousand slaves.”




   Organic and sepulchral mystery of concupiscence.

   Crucial and imponderable universe of concomitance.






   Only cats leave the total imprint of their sleeping bodies on the sand or the bed. Man does not know how to abandon himself to the form of his body, so as to experience total abandon. He does not know the inertia from which the cat draws its felinity, its vivacity, its formal cruelty. He does not know that mystic elasticity, the dissolution of the body into its various members, which enables the cat to fall without being crushed as it lands. For in itself each part is light; it is the heaviness of the whole which is our perdition.



   Why did we have to leave the perfect, silent indifference of the plant kingdom? Why did we have to abandon the immobility of the mineral kingdom, the swiftness of the animal kingdom? In man, the metamorphosis reaches its end. Yet the animals still speak to us of it: a cat, a horse, a bird, an octopus, what are these forms unintelligible to human understanding but the signs of a lineage whose powers of fabulation end with our species?



  But perhaps women retain something of this enigma, something of the immobility and swiftness.



The mental dread of the tree with ice-laden branches

The paradoxical dread of the woman disrobed

The mental dread of the naked truth

The paradoxical dread of the waking dream






   When the night is as long as the day, then the storms of the equinox begin to get up, when artificial light is as strong as the violence of the sun, then the passion for gambling is unleashed, when two women equal each other in your mind, then the equinox of pleasure begins.



   For some, life is interminable, and what is interminable no longer makes sense. How are they to find time to live? For others, life is over right from the outset. It has ended before it has begun. It unfolds on a sort of abstract strip, without any temporal dimension. In this way, some lives sacrifice their own ends uselessly, and lose even the memory of their origins.



  If there were a secret, no one, not even the person who knew it, would be able to divulge it.



  We must keep watching, from the depths of a definitive silence, for the definitive event.




Cool Memories


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯



Cool Memories 20

December 10, 2007

Cool Memories 20


By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯

Brilliant little irruptions

Brilliant little connections

Brilliant little illusions

Brilliant little lips

Brilliant little altercations

Very brilliant little honey combs

Brilliant little adversities

Very brilliant little ravages

Brilliant little cogs

Brilliant little circumvolutions

           Around a vertical axis












   Why has the deficiency of the mentally deficient become a cultural fact, whereas the very much more terrible fact of ordinary stupidity strikes no one as very odd?


   Moscow Airport. Bureaucratic stupidity knows no bounds once it has aestheticized itself in the performance, once it is raised to the aesthetic power of a old-war rhetoric. A cold war waged by the state against each citizen, all the more odious for being artificially sustained. A simulacrum of stupidity which has become the only vehicle of social life. A whole society with its eyes popping out beneath the mask of military power, a whole civil society reduced to blandness beneath the mask of bureaucracy. A dead society, clinging on to the appearance of death, to a final performance which it cultivates as bitter denial of its own reality.


   The only historical advantage that comes from Soviet society is that certain characteristics, certain customs of the human race will be found saved and preserved there, as mammoths were saved by the ice age, when they will have disappeared everywhere else.


   The workers, once the heroes of historical negativity, have become the transparent unemployed workforce of factories that are but simulacra. The intellectual, once the herald of historical negativity, has become the transparent clown of dissidence.


   Bureaucracy had found the best way of exploiting cadaveric rigidity in the social world. We found something better: cadaveric flexibility which had already been adopted by the efficient Jesuits, supple as corpses, helping grace to flow in worldly circles. Today electronics has replaced grace; it circulates in the semi-tetanic, semifluid networks of the immense and flexible mortification system which serves as our driving force. And the same Jesuitical strategy, indifference, works a treat there.


   The insomniac dreams of a loss of consciousness, which would allow him to sleep; in the same way, the acrobat dreams of a failure of gravity, which would allow him never to fall again.


    You can dream of a theory which would work like acupuncture, by the fainted touching, by an unexpected correlation of sensitive spots over a distance, using its gold needles to create short-circuits across them.


    In any system there must be a nerve centre which, if you touch it in some way, causes the whole system to contract and implode, as with a crystalline solution, just as, when a particular spot in the brain is touched, it immediately plunges the body into sleep.


    There must be a somnambulic lucidity which allows you to go right to the heart of things just as there must also be a particular position of the body which would put you to sleep instantly.



Cool Memories 20

By Jean Baudrillard 巴舍拉

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


Cold Memories 19

December 9, 2007

Cool Memories 19


By Jean Baudrillard  布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


Bright, icy sunshine like moonlight on snow or the tragic cry of seagulls over the green sea of a February twilight.



   The choice would be between a woman who would be happy to give you an assurance of uninterrupted sexual potency ( and where does this sensual genius come from in a woman?) and a woman so mentally enigmatic as to frighten off the slightest caress.



   Accumulation is a paralytic’s dream. When you accelerate, everything starts swirling around.



   There is a particular kind of provocative moodiness which has something of the daydream about it, something of the defiant gesture of loving without being loved or of any kind of intense feeling so long as it is willing to take everything and to sacrifice itself, which can only be compared to a sort of ether, a mental elixir, a firing of the nerve-ends and the elation of an intelligence happy in its own duplicity. A woman in such a state is so beautiful you have to seduce her. The world in such a state is so beautiful you have to destroy it.



   What one dreams of is a beautiful, formal style of thinking, which despairs of its object clearly and takes its revenge without hypocrisy, by pulling aside the veil of jealousy.



If you don’t have to be missed by someone, it is no use slipping away.

If you do not have to love her, it is no use being missed by her.

If you do not have to destroy her, it is no use loving her.





   What else was it that charmed me if not that passionate affection, which I have only ever been able to absorb, without being able to reciprocate? I lacked passion when it mattered, but she too lacked originality when it mattered.



   Jealousy gets the same results as passion, but it gets them cold, like in a dream. Might it be the basic passion of the age of psychology, that is, of a fate always deferred and indifferent? For psychology itself is only a belated perception of the obvious.



   Every man has an intense fear that he will no longer be taken in charge by some woman or female image. No one can live without the absolution of a female image.




Cold Memories 19

By Jean Baudrillard

Translated by Springhero


Cool Memories 18

December 7, 2007

Cool Memories 18 涼爽的回憶

By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


   Here begins my delirious self-criticism ( all self-criticism is delirious, the worst form of the critical spirit being that which claims to be directed against itself). Nonetheless, I accuse myself of:



–having surreptitiously mixed my phantasies in with reality and, more precisely, with the little amount of reality available at this most mediocre moment in history

–having systematically opposed the most obvious and well-founded notions, in the hope that they would fall into the trap of this radicalism, which has not occurred

–having dreamt of a different world which—whether women or concepts—would have been that of a sacred form of prostitution

–having subtly drawn my energy from the energy of others according to a mentallaw of derivation

–having cultivated a twilight zone of thought the more effectively to disguise the difference between night and day

–never having been tempted to throw everything away, but merely obsessed by a sense of frustration and having sublimated all cowardice in theoretical radicalism

–having sinned by omission of references









  Of being profoundly carnal and melancholy

  Of having withdrawn from things to the extent that any judgment I make is merely the word of a phantom

    But where are the blinding insights of yesteryear? Around me I see nothing but groundless hysteria and unscrupulous vitality





Two inalienable skins rigged out in opposing kinds of cynicism and considered as masks. Respect for the mask. Submission to unlimited reciprocal judgment. Total commitment and total egoism: distances are kept.



The final implied effusion is like a last judgment. Meanwhile, meticulous precautions are taken towards the mask, which is not a function of presence, since this is unceasing and haunts us like a slow-burning, indirectly fueled flamed. No longer any distinction between body and soul, but only between created things such as the color of eyes. And yet, a painstaking and persistent hostility.



Proximity hostility tension distance.

The distance between soul and mask is maintained by a lengthy apprenticeship to work up their silences into a proper duel.

The atmosphere also involuntarily affected by what surrounds them and denying this to each other in a judgment long since adapted to the dissimulation of people and animals. In everything—distance, complicity, hostility, judgment—the same schema within one’s self, within the other—and within all the rest, which is judged in terms of this.





Constantly lying in wait. Constant fear that the other may have switched allegiances one day and that their judgment of what is good and bad may have altered. Because their intervention is fundamental in the most important questions. Yet I resolve these by myself. And he is different and leaves me feeling lonely. This is the way a duel suzerainty of understanding comes about. When we clash, it is to train our two shadows to coincide. When we agree, it is because we have judged on our own. The two cynicisms must be properly differentiated.



The complicity in all this is so precious that it seems to creep around on tiptoe and to be ashamed of and superstitious about itself, recognizing that it represents the highest court of judgment in both our cases: he is judged and so am I; there can be no escape. That is why this complicity keeps such a watch on itself and avoids its own reflection, because it is aware of itself as an imaginary solution, and not the only one possible.




Cool Memories 18

By Jean Baudrillard 布希亞

Translated by Springhero 雄伯