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  Who, who, who?
gary e. davis
April 17, 2016

Old life that’s survived more than can be represented needs differences between authoriality (long lived, broken, healed, and scarred) and authorhship, as if
“the author,” the imputable creator of narrative (selfidentity as authorship),
needs no difference between that and Sophial authoriality (given no difference evidenced to the reader), concealing the difference in pretenses of narrative
control (poiesis of logos) that pretend to be pure SelfS worlding (logos of poiesis),
as if
characters are born by the signifier rather than channeled.

What else can be done but confess to “being The Art” (keeping the quote marks invisible?), make the best of what others read—writing their own authorship as creator of the story they find—in any case collaborating in prospects for new ways of being fruitful.

The Issue is less “What was said?” than “Why would someone say that (or do that;
or write that)?”

“Confess to having been the author—if not lastingly (evident authorship evolves),
at least for a happy license we make.”

Narrational self-differentiation is so therapeutic. For instance, I can overcome embarrassment that I’m responsible for a view, by recognizing that: “O!, it was just
the author’s stance,” and I’m happy again to realize I’m just a narrative line.

Are there two readers who read the same Modernist novelist (Joyce, Nabokov!... )
or poet (Eliot, Stevens) very similarly?

Or pick any major philosopher. In academia, playing “Who Is The Author?” is just common business (tenure track, preferrably), because you write in reading, just as
I read in writing.

Is the diaryist confessing a view or en-stancing a view that “they” take?
Same with conceptual inquiry: “It is the case that...” is prospective.

Deconstruction unwittingly turns textuality into perpetual modernism (small ‘m’), such that the notion of “post-modernism” deconstructs itself as being largely resistance to perpetual modernity (i.e., proffering resentment that formalism deconstructed itself). What, then, would actual postmodernism be? What else but
the living condition of perpetual modernity, i.e., the evolving of everything? Literature lives in the developmentality of authorship and evolutionarity of reading? —evo-devo creativity striving for audacious devo-evo lastingness or artistic / scientific monumentality?

Any text might be read to deconstruct its own pretenses, not because there’s
no ground to stand on, but because we already always were developing, an evolving form of life where the ground is evolving, too. Learning never ends, thank goodness.

So, here we are, inwordly together.



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