Do we say the cogs have a conscience because the voice allows them to groan?
Prison note: the despot permits the subjects to talk themselves to death; it is called discourse. And so another significance of the rational subjects comes to light: there are merely the idea which allows the reality of the process to remain hidden. It obscures the movement by which the despots voice is fragmented and “passed around”, and loudspeaker through which the people “police” each other. Clear now is the sense in which language has been reduced to the order-word, that the imperative out-growths of language should sink to the center of language, ossifying the ranks and chains of signification into a skeleton, a grammar for the zombie grammarians, which animates itself and walks around!
How can the zombie grammarians be sure that they are not acting on unheard-of instructions from the despot? How can they be sure the despot has not provoked an attack to set an example? Is their goal to be like pain to the body, borrowing the voice in order to speak-up, request extra attention in order to restore balance to the whole body? Or is it to inflict pain on the body, punish it for its neglect or its excessive attention, or purely out of cruelty? Out of a desire to push the body to a crisis point? Simply, they cannot be sure, any more than they can clarify their intentions or their function without recourse to technicalism or ideologies. And this is self-evident in that the voice itself is the mechanism by which they are “allowed” or able refer to themselves as parts of the body.
A zombie grammarian places himself in a place where he knows his chance at the loudspeaker has the power to bind together a crowd of groans, massify and deterritorialize it. Unless this unleashes a powerful, even pathological new direction for the whole body, the organism dies. Perhaps the despot might turn against himself, like a true fascist, like Nero, burn Rome, burn his body. The despot must be forced to listen to his own voice! Cancer almost always turns fascist at the end, the growing tumor, the more self-efficient mini-despot which devours or pushes aside everything else. A madhouse is a madhouse no matter who is running it, but unlike the refuge of the absolute exterior, the body affords only one asylum—interiority, or the great enemy. The body’s sinking movement paradoxically guarantees that, like “the cure” is successful castration, the revolution may be just the dream-shadow cast by the looming reality of a sucessful cancer—the organism itself!
What happens to the body when it is pried out from the organism? We know the procedure can be done by applying pain, but are there other ways? What are the pros and cons? Can we free the zombie grammarians from their species-being long enough to ask them if they mind? Or should the brain seclude itself from the body and play grand inquisitor, taking on all suffering and pushing the whole question to the limit of bodily endurance?
Should we ask permission for vivisection? Is it a matter of choice?
Love only echoes in the hearts of fools. What machines ask permission? This disgusting discussion of rights and duties flatters only the despot, who is listening to this pillow-talk and finds it at all impressive given that every level is already in bed with each other, intertwined and yet lying next to each other and to its whole self, the body.
Error does not live in the ignorant—those who are able to perceive it in others without feeling their pain, and suppose it in their imaginations without experiencing it. This is not only because they so effectively avoid pain, but because the direct teaching-pain is not found in them. There is no communicating its transmissions back home through diverse modalities, with no hierarchy. Thus, a body without gravity, a body as labyrinth, as a ball of worms, a sponge of exponentially increasing dimensions.
Lost? Confused? There is a lateral line for you, a confirmation free from ideology and machining it. It is called the knife. It is the desertification of the body, the body in-exiled, leaving the delusional organs behind to manage the cancer patients, who now fight their ways to the center, or wander off leaving the body a husk of disorganized tissue—corpse, entrails, a sticky spot already turning back into worms.
The knife is not imperial, it is like the mirror or the manifestation rather than an orthodoxy imposed on error. Revelation. Inspiration. Aspiration. The knife have as one of its moments the first embryonic division, and as another the last disintegration of the organic materials of the corpse. The moments themselves are mere coagulations or tone-beats of movements which traverse the entire body, even its temporal and non-spatial dimensions. They have no internal essence of their own, they are never elevated to the level of being-subject, for they are painless, they never speak, they are flows which only become and never represent themselves, and they are freed by the knife, by pure difference which divides the body through all its layers. Unleashing the population into a wasteland, a desertified mind or socius which they must wander silent and disillusioned or take flight.
That’s how my ethics begins—knife in hand.