such an innocent-sounding slogan. The maintenance
of the self in a permanent state of deterioration, in
a chronic state of near-collapse, is the best-kept
secret of the present order of things. The weak,
depressed, self-critical, virtual self is essentially that
endlessly adaptable subject required by the ceaseless
innovation of production, the accelerated obsolescence
of technologies, the constant overturning of
social norms, and generalized flexibility. It is at the
same time the most voracious consumer and, paradoxically,
the most productive self, the one that will
most eagerly and energetically throw itself into the
slightest project, only to return later to its original
larval state.
"WHAT AM I," then? Since childhood, I've been
involved with flows of milk, smells, stories, sounds,
emotions, nursery rhymes, substances, gestures,
ideas, impressions, gazes, songs, and foods. What am
I? Tied in every way to places, sufferings, ancestors,
friends, loves, events, languages, memories, to all
kinds of things that obviously are not me. Everything
that attaches me to the world, all the links that
constitute me, all the forces that compose me don't
form an identity, a thing displayable on cue, but a
singular, shared, living existence, from which
emerges-at certain times and places-that being
which says "1." Our feeling of inconsistency is simply
the consequence of this foolish belief in the permanence
of the self and of the little care we give to
what makes us what we are.
Invisible Committee, The Coming Insurrection
