I did not want children, Bhikku, and I did not want to file tax returns. That left only two career options: I could become a philosopher or a monk. I took the less loony one.
-- The Diary, March 501 BC
All this instant blogging is not our style, but there are times when one cannot wait to break the news.
This is to inform all readers that Jean Baudrillard (pronounced Zhawn Bodhri-yard) is a pootta case. Poye pochi. Poyindi. Choligache. It's gone, maa.
He was one of the leading intellectuals of our age, or so everyone says, now that he is well and truly dead. According to him, a tree falling down in a forest makes no sound if there's noone around to hear it. Or as he himself would put it, "The irreference of the simulacrum to Objective reality undermines reality, not the simulacrum itself." We just cooked this up ourselves, but we challenge anyone to read Baudrillard and prove that he did not say it.
But as we were saying, the lad's gone and kicked the bucket.
We were going to offer a tearful tribute to him, but we realized that he himself was never sure that he was alive. At any rate, he would have maintained that our writing about his life would create his life. We are Rome's last Caesar, but one thing we shall not have said of us, that we created Baudrillard by writing blogs. So there! No tearful tribute. Let's get on with the program.
PS: Blokes are requested to show some respect to the possibly Dead and not snigger at the word Irreference. Irreference is a good word. It is the sort of word we would use ourselves if we were in a particularly naughty mood.
PPS: Actually, we rather like the chap. He was a good chap. It's a pity he is gone. The world will be more real and more depressing without him in it. If he really is dead, that is.
-- The Diary, March 501 BC
All this instant blogging is not our style, but there are times when one cannot wait to break the news.
This is to inform all readers that Jean Baudrillard (pronounced Zhawn Bodhri-yard) is a pootta case. Poye pochi. Poyindi. Choligache. It's gone, maa.
He was one of the leading intellectuals of our age, or so everyone says, now that he is well and truly dead. According to him, a tree falling down in a forest makes no sound if there's noone around to hear it. Or as he himself would put it, "The irreference of the simulacrum to Objective reality undermines reality, not the simulacrum itself." We just cooked this up ourselves, but we challenge anyone to read Baudrillard and prove that he did not say it.
But as we were saying, the lad's gone and kicked the bucket.
We were going to offer a tearful tribute to him, but we realized that he himself was never sure that he was alive. At any rate, he would have maintained that our writing about his life would create his life. We are Rome's last Caesar, but one thing we shall not have said of us, that we created Baudrillard by writing blogs. So there! No tearful tribute. Let's get on with the program.
PS: Blokes are requested to show some respect to the possibly Dead and not snigger at the word Irreference. Irreference is a good word. It is the sort of word we would use ourselves if we were in a particularly naughty mood.
PPS: Actually, we rather like the chap. He was a good chap. It's a pity he is gone. The world will be more real and more depressing without him in it. If he really is dead, that is.
6 comments:
How you manage the pretense at profundity and humour, is beyond me.
In essence then, you are the gone case
PS: If you are wondering, that was a compliment. Thats as close, as someone from the same sex, comes to getting it.
:D
For all you people out there who read Badri's blog and rediscover the light side of yourselves, the irredeemably tragi-comic, for those of you who feel young again reading this blog that throbs with youthful rashness, heady brilliance
Jean Baudrillard, the inventor of the Simulacrum, hyper-reality, hyper-text, irreference, may be credited with three things
He asked the world to stop taking itself seriously, (hint, hint, wink, wink)
He asked the world to believe in conspiracy theories
He asked the world to stop obsessing with their fart jokes.
D~,
Yup. J. B. did all that. And he also made us giggle uncontrollably. Long may he die. And as for you, you grow more and more like Narasimha Rao with each passing day. [scowling]
Jake,
Thanks, my lad. I see that you are not the same Jake as another lad who read(s) these pages too. And as we interrogated him, so shall we do unto you. If you are a Mallu lad who worked in DC and studied later in IIMA, howdy. Your search for your long-lost roommate has just ended. And don't even think of sending us some of that ghastly tapioaca pudding of yours. Diamonds express love better. Cash does it best.
There are two possible reactions to wit and intelligence superior to one's own: one can humbly acknowledge and admire, and try to imitate, OR one can assassinate.
Which would you prefer? --- A
Albus,
I think it was Dostoyevsky who said that all of Russian literature came from under Gogol's Overcoat. Well, as far as wit and art go, we--all of us from Hogwarts--came from under your Tantex jatti. You'll always be ahead of us. Of course, we get to have dinner with the Lord every Saturday, and you don't. Too bad. There's only so far all your culture and intellect will take you. But you have our blessings. If you stay a good boy for the next 5 janmas or so, maybe you'll be one of the Chosen too.
MAAMA NI SOOPER MAAMA !!
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