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CRASH (Chapter 1)

6/5/2018

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J.G.Ballard
Picture
VAUGHAN died yesterday in his last car-crash. During our friendship he had rehearsed his death in many crashes, but this was his only true accident. Driven on a collision course towards the limousine of the film actress, his car jumped the rails of the London Airport flyover and plunged through the roof of a bus filled with airline passengers. The crushed bodies of package tourists, like a haemorrhage of the sun, still lay across the vinyl seats when I pushed my way through the police engineers an hour later. Holding the arm of her chauffeur, the film actress Elizabeth Taylor, with whom Vaughan had dreamed of dying for so many months, stood alone under the revolving ambulance lights. As I knelt over Vaughan's body she placed a gloved hand to her throat.

Could she see, in Vaughan's posture, the formula of the death which he had devised for her? During the last weeks of his life Vaughan thought of nothing else but her death, a coronation of wounds he had staged with the devotion of an Earl Marshal. The walls of his apartment near the film studios at Shepperton were covered with the photographs he had taken through his zoom lens each morning as she left her hotel in London, from the pedestrian bridges above the westbound motorways, and from the roof of the multi-storey car-park at the studios. The magnified details of her knees and hands, of the inner surface of her thighs and the left apex of her mouth, I uneasily prepared for Vaughan on the copying machine in my office, handing him the packages of prints as if they were the instalments of a death warrant. At his apartment I watched him matching the details of her body with the photographs of grotesque wounds in a textbook of plastic surgery.

In his vision of a car-crash with the actress, Vaughan was obsessed by many wounds and impacts – by the dying chromium and collapsing bulkheads of their two cars meeting head-on in complex collisions endlessly repeated in slow-motion films, by the identical wounds inflicted on their bodies, by the image of windshield glass frosting around her face as she broke its tinted surface like a death-born Aphrodite, by the compound fractures of their thighs impacted against their handbrake mountings, and above all by the wounds to their genitalia, her uterus pierced by the heraldic beak of the manufacturer's medallion, his semen emptying across the luminescent dials that registered for ever the last temperature and fuel levels of the engine.
It was only at these times, as he described this last crash to me, that Vaughan was calm. He talked of these wounds and collisions with the erotic tenderness of a long-separated lover. Searching through the photographs in his apartment, he half turned towards me, so that his heavy groin quietened me with its profile of an almost erect penis. He knew that as long as he provoked me with his own sex, which he used casually as if he might discard it for ever at any moment, I would never leave him.

​Ten days ago, as he stole my car from the garage of my apartment house, Vaughan hurtled up the concrete ramp, an ugly machine sprung from a trap. Yesterday his body lay under the police arc-lights at the foot of the flyover, veiled by a delicate lacework of blood. The broken postures of his legs and arms, the bloody geometry of his face, seemed to parody the photographs of crash injuries that covered the walls of his apartment. I looked down for the last time at his huge groin, engorged with blood. Twenty yards away, illuminated by the revolving lamps, the actress hovered on the arm of her chauffeur. Vaughan had dreamed of dying at the moment of her orgasm.

Before his death Vaughan had taken part in many crashes. As I think of Vaughan I see him in the stolen cars he drove and damaged, the surfaces of deformed metal and plastic that for ever embraced him. Two ​months earlier I found him on the lower deck of the airport flyover after the first rehearsal of his own death. A taxi driver helped two shaken air hostesses from a small car into which Vaughan had collided as he lurched from the mouth of a concealed access road. As I ran across to Vaughan I saw him through the fractured windshield of the white convertible he had taken from the car-park of the Oceanic Terminal. His exhausted face, with its scarred mouth, was lit by broken rainbows. I pulled the dented passenger door from its frame. Vaughan sat on the glass-covered seat, studying his own posture with a complacent gaze. His hands, palms upwards at his sides, were covered with blood from his injured knee-caps. He examined the vomit staining the lapels of his leather jacket, and reached forward to touch the globes of semen clinging to the instrument binnacle. I tried to lift him from the car, but his tight buttocks were clamped together as if they had seized while forcing the last drops of fluid from his seminal vesicles. On the seat beside him were the torn photographs of the film actress which I had reproduced for him that morning at my office. Magnified sections of lip and eyebrow, elbow and cleavage formed a broken mosaic.
For Vaughan the car-crash and his own sexuality had made their final marriage. I remember him at night with nervous young women in the crushed rear compartments of abandoned cars in breakers' yards, and their photographs in the postures of uneasy sex acts. Their tight faces and strained thighs were lit by his polaroid flash, like startled survivors of a submarine disaster. These aspiring whores, whom Vaughan met in the all-night cafés and supermarkets of London Airport, were the first cousins of the patients illustrated in his surgical textbooks. During his studied courtship of injured women, Vaughan was obsessed with the buboes of gas bacillus infections, by facial injuries and genital wounds.

Through Vaughan I discovered the true significance of the automobile crash, the meaning of whiplash injuries and roll-over, the ecstasies of head-on collisions. Together we visited the Road Research Laboratory twenty miles to the west of London, and watched the calibrated vehicles crashing into the concrete target blocks. Later, in his apartment, Vaughan screened slow-motion films of test collisions that he had photographed with his cinecamera. Sitting in the darkness on the floor cushions, we watched the silent impacts flicker on the wall above our heads. The repeated sequences of crashing cars first calmed and then aroused me. Cruising alone on the motorway under the yellow glare of the sodium lights, I thought of myself at the controls of these impacting vehicles.

​During the months that followed, Vaughan and I spent many hours driving along the express highways on the northern perimeter of the airport. On the calm summer evenings these fast boulevards became a zone of nightmare collisions. Listening to the police broadcasts on Vaughan's radio, we moved from one accident to the next. Often we stopped under arc-lights that flared over the sites of major collisions, watching while firemen and police engineers worked with acetylene torches and lifting tackle to free unconscious wives trapped beside their dead husbands, or waited as a passing doctor fumbled with a dying man pinned below an inverted truck. Sometimes Vaughan was pulled back by the other spectators, and fought for his cameras with the ambulance attendants. Above all, Vaughan waited for head-on collisions with the concrete pillars of the motorway overpasses, the melancholy conjunction formed by a crushed vehicle abandoned on the grass verge and the serene motion sculpture of the concrete.
Once we were the first to reach the crashed car of an injured woman driver. A middle-aged cashier at the airport duty-free liquor store, she sat unsteadily in the crushed compartment, fragments of the tinted windshield set in her forehead like jewels. As a police car approached, its emergency beacon pulsing along the overhead motorway, Vaughan ran back for his camera and flash equipment. Taking off my tie, I searched helplessly for the woman's wounds. She stared at me without speaking, and lay on her side across the seat. I watched the blood irrigate her white blouse. When Vaughan had taken the last of his pictures he knelt down inside the car and held her face carefully in his hands, whispering into her ear. Together we helped to lift her on to the ambulance trolley.

On our way to Vaughan's apartment he recognized an airport whore waiting in the forecourt of a motorway restaurant, a part-time cinema usherette for ever worrying about her small son's defective hearing-aid. As they sat behind me she complained to Vaughan about my nervous driving, but he was watching her movements with an abstracted gaze, almost encouraging her to gesture with her hands and knees. On the deserted roof of a Northolt multi-storey car-park I waited by the balustrade. In the rear seat of the car Vaughan arranged her limbs in the posture of the dying cashier. His strong body, crouched across her in the reflected light of passing headlamps, assumed a series of stylized positions.

​Vaughan unfolded for me all his obsessions with the mysterious eroticism of wounds: the perverse logic of blood-soaked instrument panels, seat-belts smeared with excrement, sun-visors lined with brain tissue. For Vaughan each crashed car set off a tremor of excitement, in the complex geometries of a dented fender, in the unexpected variations of crushed radiator grilles, in the grotesque overhang of an instrument panel forced on to a driver's crotch as if in some calibrated act of machine fellatio. The intimate time and space of a single human being had been fossilized for ever in this web of chromium knives and frosted glass.
A week after the funeral of the woman cashier, as we drove at night along the western perimeter of the airport, Vaughan swerved on to the verge and struck a large mongrel dog. The impact of its body, like a padded hammer, and the shower of glass as the animal was carried over the roof, convinced me that we were about to die in a crash. Vaughan never stopped. I watched him accelerate away, his scarred face held close to the punctured windshield, angrily brushing the beads of frosted glass from his cheeks. Already his acts of violence had become so random that I was no more than a captive spectator. Yet the next morning, on the roof of the airport car-park where we abandoned the car, Vaughan calmly pointed out to me the deep dents in the bonnet and roof. He stared at an airliner filled with tourists lifting into the western sky, his sallow face puckering like a wistful child's. The long triangular grooves on the car had been formed within the death of an unknown creature, its vanished identity abstracted in terms of the geometry of this vehicle. How much more mysterious would be our own deaths, and those of the famous and powerful?

​Even this first death seemed timid compared with the others in which Vaughan took part, and with those imaginary deaths that filled his mind. Trying to exhaust himself, Vaughan devised a terrifying almanac of imaginary automobile disasters and insane wounds - the lungs of elderly men punctured by door handles, the chests of young women impaled by steering-columns, the cheeks of handsome youths pierced by the chromium latches of quarter-lights. For him these wounds were the keys to a new sexuality born from a perverse technology. The images of these wounds hung in the gallery of his mind like exhibits in the museum of a slaughterhouse.

​Thinking of Vaughan now, drowning in his own blood under the police arc-lights, I remember the countless imaginary disasters he described as we cruised together along the airport expressways. He dreamed of ambassadorial limousines crashing into jack-knifing butane tankers, of taxis filled with celebrating children colliding head-on below the bright display windows of deserted supermarkets. He dreamed of alienated brothers and sisters, by chance meeting each other on collision courses on the access roads of petrochemical plants, their unconscious incest made explicit in this colliding metal, in the haemorrhages of their brain tissue flowering beneath the aluminized compression chambers and reaction vessels. Vaughan devised the massive rear-end collisions of sworn enemies, hate-deaths celebrated in the engine fuel burning in wayside ditches, paintwork boiling through the dull afternoon sunlight of provincial towns. He visualized the specialized crashes of escaping criminals, of off-duty hotel receptionists trapped between their steering wheels and the laps of their lovers whom they were masturbating. He thought of the crashes of honeymoon couples, seated together after their impacts with the rear suspension units of runaway sugar-tankers. He thought of the crashes of automobile stylists, the most abstract of all possible deaths, wounded in their cars with promiscuous laboratory technicians.
Vaughan elaborated endless variations on these collisions, thinking first of a repetition of head-on collisions: a child-molester and an overworked doctor reenacting their deaths first in head-on collision and then in roll-over; the retired prostitute crashing into a concrete motorway parapet, her overweight body propelled through the fractured windshield, menopausal loins torn on the chromium bonnet mascot. Her blood would cross the over-white concrete of the evening embankment, haunting for ever the mind of a police mechanic who carried the pieces of her body in a yellow plastic shroud. Alternatively, Vaughan saw her hit by a reversing truck in a motorway fuelling area, crushed against the nearside door of her car as she bent down to loosen her right shoe, the contours of her body buried within the bloody mould of the door panel. He saw her hurtling through the rails of the flyover and dying as Vaughan himself would later die, plunging through the roof of an airline coach, its cargo of complacent destinations multiplied by the death of this myopic middle-aged woman. He saw her hit by a speeding taxi as she stepped out of her car to relieve herself in a wayside latrine, her body whirled a hundred feet away in a spray of urine and blood.

I think now of the other crashes we visualized, absurd deaths of the wounded, maimed and distraught. I think of the crashes of psychopaths, implausible accidents carried out with venom and self-disgust, vicious multiple collisions contrived in stolen cars on evening freeways among tired office-workers. I think of the absurd crashes of neurasthenic housewives returning from their VD clinics, hitting parked cars in suburban high streets. I think of the crashes of excited schizophrenics colliding head-on into stalled laundry vans in one-way streets; of manic-depressives crushed while making pointless U-turns on motorway access roads; of luckless paranoids driving at full speed into the brick walls at the ends of known culs-de-sac; of sadistic charge nurses decapitated in inverted crashes on complex interchanges; of lesbian supermarket manageresses burning to death in the collapsed frames of their midget cars before the stoical eyes of middle-aged firemen; of autistic children crushed in rear-end collisions, their eyes less wounded in death; of buses filled with mental defectives drowning together stoically in roadside industrial canals.

​Long before Vaughan died I had begun to think of my own death. With whom would I die, and in what role – psychopath, neurasthenic, absconding criminal? Vaughan dreamed endlessly of the deaths of the famous, inventing imaginary crashes for them. Around the deaths of James Dean and Albert Camus, Jayne Mansfield and John Kennedy he had woven elaborate fantasies. His imagination was a target gallery of screen actresses, politicians, business tycoons and television executives. Vaughan followed them everywhere with his camera, zoom lens watching from the observation platform of the Oceanic Terminal at the airport, from hotel mezzanine balconies and studio car-parks. For each of them Vaughan devised an optimum auto-death. Onassis and his wife would die in a recreation of the Dealey Plaza assassination. He saw Reagan in a complex rear-end collision, dying a stylized death that expressed Vaughan's obsession with Reagan's genital organs, like his obsession with the exquisite transits of the screen actress's pubis across the vinyl seat covers of hired limousines.
After his last attempt to kill my wife Catherine, I knew that Vaughan had retired finally into his own skull. In this overlit realm ruled by violence and technology he was now driving for ever at a hundred miles an hour along an empty motorway, past deserted filling stations on the edges of wide fields, waiting for a single oncoming car. In his mind Vaughan saw the whole world dying in a simultaneous automobile disaster, millions of vehicles hurled together in a terminal congress of spurting loins and engine coolant.

I remember my first minor collision in a deserted hotel car-park. Disturbed by a police patrol, we had forced ourselves through a hurried sex-act. Reversing out of the park, I struck an unmarked tree. Catherine vomited over my seat. This pool of vomit with its clots of blood like liquid rubies, as viscous and discreet as everything produced by Catherine, still contains for me the essence of the erotic delirium of the car-crash, more exciting than her own rectal and vaginal mucus, as refined as the excrement of a fairy queen, or the minuscule globes of liquid that formed beside the bubbles of her contact lenses. In this magic pool, lifting from her throat like a rare discharge of fluid from the mouth of a remote and mysterious shrine, I saw my own reflection, a mirror of blood, semen and vomit, distilled from a mouth whose contours only a few minutes before had drawn steadily against my penis.

Now that, Vaughan has died, we will leave with the others who gathered around him, like a crowd drawn to an injured cripple whose deformed postures reveal the secret formulas of their minds and lives. All of us who knew Vaughan accept the perverse eroticism of the car-crash, as painful as the drawing of an exposed organ through the aperture of a surgical wound. I have watched copulating couples moving along darkened freeways at night, men and women on the verge of orgasm, their cars speeding in a series of inviting trajectories towards the flashing headlamps of the oncoming traffic stream. Young men alone behind the wheels of their first cars, near-wrecks, picked up in scrap-yards, masturbate as they move on worn tyres to aimless destinations. After a near collision at a traffic intersection semen jolts across a cracked speedometer ​dial. Later, the dried residues of that same semen are brushed by the lacquered hair of the first young woman who lies across his lap with her mouth over his penis, one hand on the wheel hurtling the car through the darkness towards a multi-level interchange, the swerving brakes drawing the semen from him as he grazes the tailgate of an articulated truck loaded with colour television sets, his left hand vibrating her clitoris towards orgasm as the headlamps of the truck flare warningly in his rear-view mirror. Later still, he watches as a friend takes a teenage girl in the rear seat. Greasy mechanic's hands expose her buttocks to the advertisement hoardings that hurl past them. The wet highways flash by in the glare of headlamps and the scream of brake-pads. The shaft of his penis glistens above the girl as he strikes at the frayed plastic roof of the car, marking the yellow fabric with his smegma.
The last ambulance had left. An hour earlier the film actress had been steered towards her limousine. In the evening light the white concrete of the collision corridor below the flyover resembled a secret airstrip from which mysterious machines would take off into a metallized sky. Vaughan's glass aeroplane flew somewhere above the heads of the bored spectators moving back to their cars, above the tired policemen gathering together the crushed suitcases and handbags of the airline tourists. I thought of Vaughan's body, colder now, its rectal temperature following the same downward gradients as those of the other victims of the crash. Across the night air these gradients fell like streamers from the office towers and apartment houses of the city, and from the warm mucosa of the film actress in her hotel suite.
​
I drove back towards the airport. The lights along Western Avenue illuminated the speeding cars, moving together towards their celebration of wounds.
excerpt from the book: Crash by J. G. Ballard
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    Georges battaille - Nietzschean Chronicle
    GILLES DELEUZE - On Spinoza (Part 1)
    GILLES DELEUZE - On Spinoza (Part 2)
    GILLES DELEUZE - On Spinoza (Part 3)
    GILLES DELEUZE - On Spinoza (Part 4)
    GILLES DELEUZE - On Spinoza (Part 5)
    GILLES DELEUZE - On Spinoza (Part 6)
    GILLES DELEUZE - On Spinoza (Part 7)
    GILLES DELEUZE - On Spinoza (Part 8)
    GILLES DELEUZE - On Spinoza (Part 9)
    GILLES DELEUZE - Capitalism, flows, the decoding of flows, capitalism and schizophrenia, psychoanalysis, Spinoza.
    Gilles deleuze -DIONYSUS AND CHRIST
    Gilles Deleuze - Dionysus and Zarathustra
    Gilles Deleuze - Repetition and Difference (Part 1)
    Gilles deleuze - Repetition and Difference (Part 2)
    Gilles Deleuze - D as in Desire
    Gilles Deleuze - A Portrait Of foucault
    Gilles Deleuze - The Philosophy of The Will
    Gilles Deleuze - Characteristics of Ressentiment
    Gilles Deleuze - Is he Good ? Is he Evil
    Gilles Deleuze - The Dicethrow
    Gilles Deleuze - Postscript On The Societies Of Control
    Gilles deleuze - The Types Of Signs
    Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari - The Imperialism of Oedipus
    Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari ​ - The Experience of Delirium
    Deleuze and Guattari - From Chaos to the Brain
    Deleuze and Guattari - The Plane of Immanence (Part 1)
    Deleuze and Guattari - The Plane Of Immanence (Part 2)
    Deleuze and Guattari - The War Machine is exterior to the State apparatus
    Deleuze and Guattari - Immanence and Desire
    Deleuze and Guattari - The Body Without Organs
    Deleuze and Guattari - Year Zero: Faciality
    Deleuze and Guattari - Desiring-Production
    Deleuze and Guattari - How do you make yourself a 'Body without Organs'?
    Deleuze and Guattari - Memories of a Sorcerer
    Deleuze and Guattari - Memories Of A Haecceity
    Deleuze and Guattari - Memories and Becomings, Points and Blocks
    Deleuze and Guattari - Fear, clarity, power and death
    Deleuze In Conversation With Negri
    Edmund Berger - DELEUZE, GUATTARI AND MARKET ANARCHISM
    Edmund Berger - Grungy “Accelerationism”
    Edmund Berger - Acceleration Now (or how we can stop fearing and learn to love chaos)
    Edmund Berger - Compensation and Escape
    Jasna Koteska - KAFKA, humorist (Part 1)
    Obsolete Capitalism: The strong of the future
    Obsolete Capitalism - THE STRONG OF THE FUTURE. NIETZSCHE’S ACCELERATIONIST FRAGMENT IN DELEUZE AND GUATTARI’S ANTI-OEDIPUS
    Obsolete Capitalism - Acceleration, Revolution and Money in Deleuze and Guattari's Anti-OEdipus (Part 1)
    Obsolete Capitalism - Acceleration, Revolution and Money in Deleuze and Guattari's Anti-OEdipus (Part 2)
    Obsolete Capitalism: Acceleration, Revolution and Money in Deleuze and Guattari's Anti-OEdipus (Part 3)
    Obsolete Capitalism - Acceleration, Revolution and Money in Deleuze and Guattari's Anti-OEdipus (Part 4)
    Obsolete Capitalism: Acceleration, Revolution and Money in Deleuze and Guattari's Anti-OEdipus (Part 5)
    Obsolete Capitalism - Deleuze and the algorithm of the Revolution
    Obsolete Capitalism - Dromology, Bolidism and Marxist Accelerationism (part 1)
    Obsolete Capitalism - Dromology, Bolidism and Marxist Accelerationism (part 2)
    Obsolete Capitalism - Edmund Berger: Underground Streams (Part 1)
    Obsolete Capitalism - Edmund Berger: Underground Streams (Part 2)
    obsolete capitalism - Emilia Marra: COMMIT MOOSBRUGGER FOR TRIAL
    Obsolete Capitalism - McKenzie Wark - BLACK ACCELERATIONISM
    Occult Xenosystems
    QUENTIN MEILLASSOUX AND FLORIAN HECKER TALK HYPERCHAOS: SPECULATIVE SOLUTION
    Ray Brassier Interviewed by Richard Marshall: Nihil Unbound: Enlightenment and Extinction
    Rick McGrath - Reconstructing High-Rise
    Robert Craig Baum - Non-Normal Living at the Ross School
    Robert Craig Baum - Arrivals (Part 1)
    Robert Craig Baum ​- Delays (Part 2)
    Robert Craig Baum ​​- Delays (Part 3)
    Robert Craig Baum - Departures (Part 4)
    Robert Craig Baum ​​- The Last God (Part 5)
    Sean Kohingarara Sturm - NOO POLITICS
    Sean Kohingarara Sturm - NOO POLITICS 2
    Simon Reynolds - Energy Flash
    Stephen Zepke - “THIS WORLD OF WILD PRODUCTION AND EXPLOSIVE DESIRE” – THE UNCONSCIOUS AND THE FUTURE IN FELIX GUATTARI
    Stephen Craig Hickman - A Rant...
    Steven Craig Hickman - Children of the Machine
    Steven Craig Hickman - Corporatism: The Soft Fascism of America
    Steven Craig Hickman - Is America Desiring Fascism?
    Steven Craig Hickman - Paul Virilio: The Rhythm of Time and Panic
    Steven Craig Hickman - Kurt Gödel, Number Theory, Nick Land and our Programmatic Future
    Steven Craig Hickman - Speculative Posthumanism: R. Scott Bakker, Mark Fisher and David Roden
    Steven Craig Hickman - Techno-Sorcery: Science, Capital, and Abstraction
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze & Guattari: Abstract Machines & Chaos Theory
    Steven Craig Hickman - JFK: The National Security State and the Death of a President
    Steven Craig Hickman - Against Progressive Cultural Dictatorship
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Great Sea Change
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Daemonic Imaginal: Ecstasy and Horror of the Noumenon
    Steven Craig Hickman - William S. Burroughs: Drugs, Language, and Control
    Steven Craig Hickman - William Burroughs: Paranoia as Liberation Thanatology
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Mutant Prophet of Inhuman Accelerationism: Nick Land and his Legacy
    Steven Craig Hickman - Nick Land: On Time – Teleoplexy & Templexity
    Steven Craig Hickman - Philip K. Dick & Nick Land: Escape to the Future
    Steven Craig Hickman - Philip K. Dick: It’s Alive! – It came here from the future
    Steven Craig Hickman - Fantastic Worlds: From the Surreal to the Transreal
    Steven Craig Hickman - David Roden: Aliens Under The Skin
    Steven Craig Hickman - David Roden and the Posthuman Dilemma: Anti-Essentialism and the Question of Humanity
    Steven Craig Hickman - David Roden on Posthuman Life
    Steven Craig Hickman - David Roden’s: Speculative Posthumanism & the Future of Humanity (Part 2)
    Steven Craig Hickman - Ccru : The Hyperstitional Beast Emerges from its Cave
    Steven Craig Hickman - Sacred Violence: The Hyperstitional Order of Capitalism
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Apocalypse Happened Yesterday
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Intelligence of Capital: The Collapse of Politics in Contemporary Society
    Steven Craig Hickman - Nick Land: Time-Travel, Akashic Records, and Templexity
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Holographic Universe: Black Holes, Information, and the Mathematics
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Machinic Unconscious: Enslavement and Automation
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Carnival of Globalisation: Hyperstition, Surveillance, and the Empire of Reason
    Steven Craig Hickman - Gun Crazy Nation: Violence, Crime, and Sociopathy
    Steven Craig Hickman - Shaviro On The Neoliberal Strategy: Transgression and Accelerationist Aesthetics
    Steven Craig Hickman - La Sorcière: Jules Michelet and the Literature of Evil
    Steven Craig Hickman - American Atrocity: The Stylization of Violence
    Steven Craig Hickman - Lemurian Time Sorcery: Ccru and the Reality Studio
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Consumertariat: Infopocalypse and the Pathologies of Information
    Steven Craig Hickman - Hyperstition: The Apocalypse of Intelligence
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Neoliberal Vision: The Great Escape Artist
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Next Stage
    Steven Craig Hickman - Why Am I Writing Country Noir?
    Steven Craig Hickman - Bataille’s Gift: Wealth, Toxicity, and Apocalypse
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze & Guattari: The Eternal Return of Accelerating Capital
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze & Guattari On the Empire of Capital: The Dog that wants to Die
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze & Guattari: The Eternal Return of Accelerating Capital
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze & Guattari: The Subterranean Forces of Social Production
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Betrayal of Leaders: Reading the Interviews with Deleuze and Guattari
    Steven Craig Hickman - J.G. Ballard: Sleeplessness and Chronotopia
    Steven Craig Hickman - J.G. Ballard: The Carnival of Time
    Steven Craig Hickman - J.G. Ballard: The Fragile World
    Steven Craig Hickman - J.G. Ballard: The Calculus of Desire and Hope
    Steven Craig Hickman - Ballard’s World: Reactivation not Reaction
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Necrophilic Vision of J.G. Ballard
    Steven Craig Hickman - Crash Culture: Panic Shock, Semantic Apocalypse, and our Posthuman Future
    Steven Craig Hickman - J.G. Ballard: The Journey to Nowhere
    Steven Craig Hickman - J.G. Ballard: Chrontopia and Post-Consumerist Society
    Steven Craig Hickman - J.G. Ballard: Chronopolis – Time Cities and the Lost Future
    Steven Craig Hickman - Neurototalitarianism: Control in the Age of Stupidity
    Steven Craig Hickman - Thomas Ligotti: The Abyss of Radiance
    Steven Craig Hickman - Thomas Ligotti: The Red Tower
    Steven Craig Hickman - Thomas Ligotti: Dark Phenomenology and Abstract Horror
    Steven Craig Hickman - Thomas Ligotti: The Frolic and the Wyrd (Weird)
    Steven Craig Hickman - Thomas Ligotti, Miami: The Collapse of the Real
    Steven Craig Hickman - Thomas Ligotti: Vastarien’s Dream Quest
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Epoch of Care: Transindividuation and Technical Individuals
    Steven Craig Hickman - Rethinking Conceptual Universes
    Steven Craig Hickman - Bataille’s Revenge
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Excess of Matter: Bataille, Immanence, and Death
    Steven Craig Hickman - Hyperstition: Metafiction and the Landian Cosmos
    Steven Craig Hickman - Babalon Rising: Amy Ireland, Artificial Intelligence, and Occulture
    Steven Craig Hickman - R. Scott Bakker: Reviews of Yuval Noah Harari’s Homo Deus
    Steven Craig Hickman - R. Scott Bakker: Medial Neglect and Black Boxes
    Steven Craig Hickman - Let Death Come Quickly
    Steven Craig Hickman - Hyperstition Notes: On Amy Ireland
    Steven Craig Hickman - Amy Ireland: Gyres, Diagrams, and Anastrophic Modernism
    Steven Craig Hickman - Accelerationism: Time, Technicity, and Superintelligence
    Steven Craig Hickman - Death & Capitalism: The Sublime War Machine
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze & Guattari: Accelerationism – Diagnosis and Cure?
    Steven Craig Hickman - BwO – Deleuze and Guattari: The Impossible Thing We Are Becoming
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze & Guattari: Culture of Death / Culture of Capital
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze & Guattari & Braidotti: On Nomadic vs. Classical Image of Thought
    Steven Craig Hickman - Vita Activa: Deleuze against the Contemplative Life?
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze’s Anti-Platonism
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze: Transcendental Empiricist? – Fidelity and Betrayal
    Steven Craig Hickman - Poetic Thought for the Day : A Poetics of Sense & Concepts
    Steven Craig Hickman - Wild Empiricism: Deleuze and the Hermetic Turn
    Steven Craig Hickman - A Short History of the City and the Cathedral
    Steven Craig Hickman - Future Society: The Cathedral of Managed Society
    Steven Craig Hickman - Nick Land and Teleoplexy – The Schizoanalysis of Acceleration
    Steven Craig Hickman - Felix Guattari: The Schizo, the New Earth, and Subjectivation
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Gnostic Vision in the Sciences
    Steven Craig Hickman - François Laruelle: Future Struggle, Gnosis, and the last-Humaneity
    Steven Craig hickman - Smart Cities and Dark Neoliberalism
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Governance of the World
    Steven Craig Hickman - ON Dark Realism - Part One
    Steven Craig Hickman - ON Dark Realism: Part Two
    Steven Craig Hickman ​- ON Dark Realism: Part Three
    Steven Craig Hickman - In the time of capital
    Steven Craig Hickman - Niklas Luhmann: Mass-Media, Communications, and Paranoia
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze/Guattari: ‘Stop the World!’
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Schizorevolutionary Project : Escaping to the Future of New Earth
    Steven Craig Hickman - Deleuze/Guattari: The Four Schizoanalytical Thesis
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Dark Side of Time
    Steven Craig Hickman - Digital Dionysus: R. Scott Bakker
    Steven Craig Hickman - Hyperstition: Technorevisionism – Influencing, Modifying and Updating Reality
    Steven Craig Hickman - Paul Virilio: The Anti-City
    Steven Craig Hickman - Maurizio Lazzarato: Homage to Felix Guattari
    Steven Craig Hickman - Phantom Monsters: Nationalism, Paranoia, and Political Control
    Steven Craig Hickman - Memory, Technicity, and the Post-Human
    Steven Shaviro - Accelerationism Without Accelerationism
    Steven Craig Hickman - Posthuman Accelerationism
    Steven Craig Hickman - The Age of Speed: Accelerationism, Politics, and the Future Present
    Steven Craig Hickman - Weird Tales: Essays and Other Assays
    Thomas Nail on Deleuze and Badiou - Revolution and the Return of Metaphysics
    Terence Blake - LOVECRAFT NOETIC DREAMER: from horrorism to cosmicism (Part 1)
    Terence Blake - LOVECRAFT NOETIC DREAMER: from horrorism to cosmicism (Part 2)
    Terence Blake - SYSTEM AND CLARITY IN DELEUZE’S OPUS
    Terence Blake - UNCONSCIOUS JUNGIANS
    Terence Blake - BADIOU’S HORSESHOE: substance vs sparks
    Terence Blake - ZIZEK, DELEUZE, JUNG: the analogical self versus the digital ego
    Terence Blake - THERE IS MADNESS IN THIS METHOD
    Terence Blake - IS OLD AGE A CONCEPT?: Notes on Deleuze and Guattari’s “What is Philosophy?” (1)
    Terence Blake - CONCEPTS OUT OF THE SHADOWS: Notes on Deleuze and Guattari’s “What is Philosophy?” (2)
    Terence Blake - TRANSVALUE DELEUZE: an ongoing project
    Terence Blake - DELEUZE: philosopher of difference or philosopher of multiplicity
    Terence Blake - CONVERSATION WITH DELEUZE: pluralist epistemology and life
    Terence Blake - LARUELLE AND DELEUZE: from difference to multiplicity
    Terence Blake - LARUELLE’S “QUANTUM”: nostalgic obscurity and the manipulation of stereotypes
    Terence Blake - LARUELLE AND WAVE ABSOLUTISM: against quantum integrism
    Terence Blake - LARUELLE’S BLINDSPOTS: Deleuze on style, heuristics, and the topography of thought
    Terence Blake - LARUELLE’S DE-PHILOSOPHY: confirmation bias legitimated
    terence blake - DELEUZE’S REPLY (1973) TO LARUELLE’S CRITIQUE (1995)
    Terence Blake - FROM NON-STANDARD TO SUB-STANDARD: Laruelle’s syntax of scientism
    Terence Blake - STIEGLER, “IDEOLOGY”, AND POST-STRUCTURALISM
    Terence Blake - Deleuze, Klossowski, and Hillman on psychic multiplicity
    Terence Blake - DELEUZE, BADIOU, LARUELLE, CIORAN: a plea for polychromatic vision
    Terence Blake - Do we need to escape from metaphysics?
    Terence Blake - DELEUZE’S PLURALIST AUTO-CRITIQUE
    Terence Blake - DELEUZE’S AGON: schizophrenising Lacan
    Terence Blake - GUATTARI “LINES OF FLIGHT” (1): the hypothesis of modes of semiotisation
    Terence Blake - GUATTARI’S LINES OF FLIGHT (2): transversal vs transferential approaches to the reading contract
    Terence Blake - Felix Guattari and Bernard Stiegler: Towards a Post-Darwinian Synthesis
    Terence Blake - EXPLAINING A SENTENCE BY GUATTARI
    Terence Blake - CLEARING DELEUZE: Alexander Galloway and the New Clarity
    Terence Blake - DELEUZE: HOW CAN YOU STAND THOSE SCHIZOS?
    Terence Blake - No Cuts!: Deleuze and Hillman on Alterity
    Terence Blake - NOTES ON DELEUZE’S “LETTER TO A SEVERE CRITIC” (1): against Zizek
    Terence Blake - PRINCIPLES OF NON-PHILOSOPHY: creative tension or self-paralysing conflict
    Terence Blake - NOTES ON DELEUZE’S “LETTER TO A SEVERE CRITIC” (2): against Laruelle
    Terence Blake - NOTES ON DELEUZE’S “LETTER TO A SEVERE CRITIC” (3): against Badiou
    Terence Blake - DELEUZE WITHOUT LACAN: on being wary of the “middle” Deleuze
    Terence Blake - ON THE INCIPIT TO DELEUZE AND GUATTARI’S “WHAT IS PHILOSOPHY?”
    Tithi Bhattacharya / Gareth Dale - COVID CAPITALISM. GENERAL TENDENCIES, POSSIBLE “LEAPS”
    The German Ideology - Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels (excerpts)
    Reza Negarestani - Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin (Reading Applied Ballardianism)
    Reza Negarestani - What Is Philosophy? Part 1: Axioms and Programs
    Reza Negarestani - What Is Philosophy? Part 2: Programs and Realizabilities
    H. P. Lovecraft - The Call of Cthulhu: Chapter 1: The Horror in Clay
    H. P. Lovecraft- The Call of Cthulhu: Chapter 2: The Tale of Inspector Legrasse
    H. P. Lovecraft - The Call of Cthulhu: Chapter 3: The Madness from the Sea
    Henry Bergson - One of the most famous and influential French philosophers
    Henri Bergson - Philosophical Intuition (Part 1)
    Henri Bergson - Philosophical Intuition (Part 2)
    Himanshu Damle - The Eclectics on Hyperstition. Collation Archives.
    Himanshu Damle - Killing Fields
    Himanshu Damle - Topology of Dark Networks
    Himanshu Damle - Games and Virtual Environments: Playing in the Dark. Could These be Havens for Criminal Networks?
    Himanshu Damle - OnionBots: Subverting Privacy Infrastructure for Cyber Attacks
    Himanshu Damle - Deanonymyzing ToR
    Himanshu Damle - A Time Traveler in Gödel Spacetime
    Himanshu Damle - Evolutionary Game Theory
    Himanshu Damle - 10 or 11 Dimensions? Phenomenological Conundrum
    Himanshu Damle - Geometry and Localization: An Unholy Alliance?
    Himanshu Damle - Typicality. Cosmological Constant and Boltzmann Brains.
    Himanshu Damle - Production of the Schizoid, End of Capitalism and Laruelle’s Radical Immanence
    Himanshu Damle - Where Hegel Was, There Deconstruction Shall Be:
    Himanshu Damle - Something Out of Almost Nothing. Drunken Risibility.
    ​Himanshu Damle - Hegelian Marxism of Lukács: Philosophy as Systematization of Ideology and Politics as Manipulation of Ideology.
    Himanshu Damle - Orthodoxy of the Neoclassical Synthesis
    Himanshu Damle - Intuition
    Himanshu Damle - Transcendentally Realist Modality
    Himanshu Damle - Dark Matter as an Ode to Ma Kali.
    Himanshu Damle - Knowledge Within and Without: The Upanishadic Tradition (1)
    Himanshu Damle - |, ||, |||, ||||| . The Non-Metaphysics of Unprediction.
    Himanshu damle - Philosophy of Dimensions: M-Theory.
    Himanshu Damle - Quantum Informational Biochemistry
    Himanshu Damle - Accelerated Capital as an Anathema to the Principles of Communicative Action
    Hyperstitional Carriers
    Hyperstition - Sorcerers and Necromancers: sorcery and the line of escape part II
    Hyperstition - Sorcerers and Necromancers: lines of escape or wings of the ground? part IV
    Nick Land - Cathedralism
    Nick Land - An Interview: ‘THE ONLY THING I WOULD IMPOSE IS FRAGMENTATION’
    Nick Land - Teleoplexy (Notes on Acceleration)
    Nick Land - The unconscious is not an aspirational unity but an operative swarm
    Nick Land - The curse of the sun (Part 1)
    Nick Land - The curse of the sun (Part 2)
    Nick Land - The curse of the sun (Part 3)
    Nick Land - Transgression (Part 1)
    Nick Land - Spirit and Teeth
    Nick Land - Occultures (Part 1)
    Nick Land - Occultures (Part 2)
    Nick Land - A Dirty Joke
    N Y X U S - Traffic
    Paul Virilio - Interview : TERROR IS THE REALIZATION OF THE LAW OF MOVEMENT
    Paul Virilio - Interview: ADMINISTRATING FEAR: TOWARDS CIVIL DISSUASION
    Paul Virilio - Interview : Speed-Space
    Paul Virilio - a topographical Amnesia
    Paul Virilio - Public Image
    Paul Virilio - The vision Machine ( Part 1)
    Paul Virilio - The Vision Machine (Part 2)
    Paul Virilio - The Information Bomb: A Conversation
    Peter Zhang - The four ecologies, postevolution and singularity
    Peter Zhang and Eric Jenkins - Deleuze the Media Ecologist? Extensions of and Advances on McLuhan
    vastabrupt - Time War // Briefing for Neolemurian Agents
    XENOBUDDHISM - NONORIENTED ACCELERATIONISM
    Xenosystems - Meta-Neocameralism
    XENOMACHINES - Fiction as Method: Bergson
    youandwhosearmy? - BERGSONIAN SCIENCE-FICTION: DELEUZE, ESHUN, AND THINKING THE REALITY OF TIME

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