I feel that my brain is swollen with information about Chinese history, economy and politics.. There’s a dull throbbing pain and it’s probably in the memory storage department. I cannot believe KC set a compulsory question on peasants.. nearly killed myself… to think I’ve underestimated those peasants… He set the question on first five year plan when I freaking read the second five year plan.. Worried about the Taiwan and democracy question too.. *Keeping fingers crossed*
Archive for April, 2007
Political Science
MSN of the Day: Brain-Fried Chinese Politics. It sounds so much like the name of a dish. I wish I would stop thinking of it as dead history because it must had been a half a century of raving madness, live, for the Chinese people. But it’s too hard, with a 5cm tall set of notes, it’s just bordering on boredom and perfunctoriness. Let me try to entertain myself.
Political Science & Me
1. PS fried my brain.
2. I developed a phobia called tramatophobia i.e. phobia of war.
3. How the hell did the world go through so many wars and survive?
4. I can’t joke after 2 years of PS.
5. PS is not study of politics. It is the study of politics, history and current affairs. Damn.
6. No one is going to be a politician just because they did PS.
7. The world is a scarier place after I did PS.
8. I am not sure what PS can do for office-politics.
9. Out of the 8 PS modules I’ve taken, only 1 had any element of science.
10. PS is a sham. But I love lies.
Persevere!
408 hours of anticipation. 4 rounds of paper. 1 ultimate goal.
That’s in a summary what my fourth round of exams in NUS will be -a marathon. The only difference is that in this endeavour brute strength alone will only get me to the door of the exam hall, to get through the papers, I need an understanding, cooperative and enlightened neurosystem. Most important of all, I need to f.o.c.u.s. I have to stop visiting frienders, opening the MSN window, fetch food from the kitchen , say hi to Edwin and blog on wordpress. That’s it. I’m out of here.
Derrida’s Deconstruction
At its core, if it can be said to have one, deconstruction is an attempt to open a text (literary, philosophical, or otherwise) to several meanings and interpretations. Its method is usually based on binary oppositions within a text — for example inside and outside or subject and object, or male and female. ‘Deconstruction’ then argues that such oppositions are culturally and historically defined, even reliant upon one another, and seeks to demonstrate that they are not as clear-cut or as stable as it would at first seem. On the basis that the two opposed concepts are fluid, this ambiguity is used to show that the text’s meaning is fluid as well.
This fluidity stands against a legacy of traditional metaphysics (that is, Platonist thought) founded on oppositions, that seeks to establish a stability of meaning through conceptual absolutes where one term, for example “good,” is elevated to a status that designates its opposite, in this case “evil,” as its perversion, lack or inferior. These “violent hierarchies,” as Derrida termed them, are taken as structurally unstable within the texts themselves, where the meaning strictly depends on this contradiction or antinomy.
Derrida insisted that deconstruction was never performed or executed but “took place” through “memory work”: in this way, the task of the “deconstructor” was to show where this oppositional or dialectical stability was ultimately subverted by the text’s internal logic. Meticulous readings find philosophy anew. The result of this renewal is often to find striking interpretations of texts. No “meaning” is stable: Derrida called the “metaphysics of presence” the thing that keeps the sense of unity within a text; where presence was granted the privilege of truth.
To understand this argument, one may need to explore Derrida’s deconstruction of the speech/writing opposition, of which Of Grammatology is perhaps the clearest study. Derrida’s critique of oppositions may be partly inspired by Nietzsche’s genealogical reconsideration of “good” and “evil” (see, in particular, Beyond Good and Evil and On the Genealogy of Morals).
Derrida’s practice of reading raises the question of the relationship between deconstruction and literary theory. Within literary studies, deconstruction is often treated as a particular method of reading — in contrast to Derrida’s claims that deconstruction is an “event” within a text, not a method of reading it. Despite this apparent contradiction, the literary sensibilities of Derrida cannot be ignored, as many of his deconstructions were of poems and literary texts.
Further, deconstruction’s sensitivities to philosophical efforts at defining limits have been taken by some to imply a deconstructive agenda for the ultimate reversal of order. This agenda would cover: philosophy’s claim to be the first of all academic disciplines; holding out hopes of uniting all; delineating what is proper to each as they remain apart; and expelling from itself non-philosophy (via judgements which irreducibly take part in violence and hinge on matters of interpretation made through language). This has been seen as the privilege of the non-serious and the literary over a humbled philosophy.
Although its influence on literary studies is probably the most well-known and well-reported effect of deconstruction, its roots are more philosophical than literary, although it is also tied to distinct but abutting academic disciplines such as linguistics, women’s studies, and anthropolgy. Derrida’s examination of the latter’s philosophical foundations, both conceptual and historical, and their continued reliance on philosophical argument (whether consciously or not), was an important aspect of his thought.
This relationship with the Heideggerean term was chosen over the Nietzschean term “demolition”, as Derrida shared with Heidegger an interest in renovating philosophy to allow it to treat increasingly fundamental matters.
Auguries of Innocence - William Blake
I like William Blake’s ‘Auguries of Innocence’. The imagery in the first four lines of his work is most unparalleled. To see the vast, unfathomable expanse of a universe in a microcosm is a virtual impossibility yet when one reads the poem, it’s as if he can get a glimpse of that unthinkable eternity, that never seen before realm. The rest of the poem sounds uncharacteristically different. It’s almost like the apocalyse in the Bible. Full of rage and indignance…
To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour. A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage. A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons Shudders hell thro’ all its regions. A dog starv’d at his master’s gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight Does the rising sun affright. Every wolf’s and lion’s howl Raises from hell a human soul. The wild deer, wand’ring here and there, Keeps the human soul from care. The lamb misus’d breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher’s knife. The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won’t believe. The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever’s fright. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be belov’d by men. He who the ox to wrath has mov’d Shall never be by woman lov’d. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider’s enmity. He who torments the chafer’s sprite Weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the last judgement draweth nigh. He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar. The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat, Feed them and thou wilt grow fat. The gnat that sings his summer’s song Poison gets from slander’s tongue. The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of envy’s foot. The poison of the honey bee Is the artist’s jealousy. The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags Are toadstools on the miser’s bags. A truth that’s told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent. It is right it should be so; Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know, Thro’ the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. The babe is more than swaddling bands; Every farmer understands. Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright, And return’d to its own delight. The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar, Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore. The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes revenge in realms of death. The beggar’s rags, fluttering in air, Does to rags the heavens tear. The soldier, arm’d with sword and gun, Palsied strikes the summer’s sun. The poor man’s farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric’s shore. One mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hands Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands; Or, if protected from on high, Does that whole nation sell and buy. He who mocks the infant’s faith Shall be mock’d in age and death. He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne’er get out. He who respects the infant’s faith Triumphs over hell and death. The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. The questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to reply. He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out. The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar’s laurel crown. Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour’s iron brace. When gold and gems adorn the plow, To peaceful arts shall envy bow. A riddle, or the cricket’s cry, Is to doubt a fit reply. The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile Make lame philosophy to smile. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne’er believe, do what you please. If the sun and moon should doubt, They’d immediately go out. To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you. The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation’s fate. The harlot’s cry from street to street Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet. The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse, Dance before dead England’s hearse. Every night and every morn Some to misery are born, Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. We are led to believe a lie When we see not thro’ the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light. God appears, and God is light, To those poor souls who dwell in night; But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day.
The Meaning of a New Beginning
What do all beginnings mean? A changed person, a denounced past, a fresh perspective, a different future and a second chance. I am not sure how to make a new beginning in my life, for everything seem so coterminous and inter-related that to invent a breaking point anywhere would seem awkward. Thus, maybe as all things, it is good to start small. And what could be better than doing it through a blog since sometimes I feel that words are all that I have to ensure that I’m not drowned out by the world. The gaiety, the tragedies, the people, the events. I love the world but yet I find myself reclining instinctively from it. I hope that through a blog, which is akin to a lens, I would sieve out greater meaning in life instead of focusing on the festering parts of it. May this blog be a documentation of some observations, some realisations and some awakenings. From the smallest things in life to the larger questions in life. From love to politics, from literature to science. A world, in this miniature form of a blog.
