By Lars Iyer
A wickedly humorous and satisfyingly intellectual black comedy concerning the cave in of Western educational associations below the burden of neoliberal economics and crushing, frequent idiocy.
summary: A wickedly humorous and satisfyingly intellectual black comedy in regards to the cave in of Western educational associations below the load of neoliberal economics and crushing, frequent idiocy
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But he knows, like the Red Death of Poe’s story, that I’m in there already, that my reading is eating away at those oeuvres like cancer. Twickenham. Putney. And Clapham Junction, where the track braids together with a myriad of others, and trains like ours run a parallel course. My life in Manchester, in old Manchester, before the regeneration. , W. wonders. What, as cold air poured into my room from the crack in the wall? Kafka, of course. Kafka, spuriously. W. read Kafka as he travelled through Europe, as he surveyed the European scene from his train window.
W. feels the hatred of past generations, he says. Of our ancestors who thought something good might come out of their struggles. Of our forebears who lived and died in the hope that life in this world might be bettered. , W. says. We’ve stamped on their dreams! And W. feels the hatred of our descendants, of the ones who are not yet born. We’ve stolen their hope, W. says. The very grounds of their hope. We’ve stolen their world! He hears their cries, W. says. He hears their wailing. They’re not yet born; they’ve yet to appear on their scorched and burning earth: but he can feel their hatred even now.
The clattering of metal poles being thrown onto metal poles. A heavy chugging in the distance. The faraway throbbing of engines … They’re rebuilding the campus, I tell W. They’re putting up new office blocks for the private partners of the university. He requires silence when he works, W. says. Silence and calm, in his study in the pre-dawn morning, just the pigeons flapping their wings and cooing to annoy him, and Sal asleep in the other room. Stand well clear, vehicle reversing: a warning from a tannoyed male voice.
Exodus by Lars Iyer