Wednesday, July 8, 2009

In this marx is right...

This last point of Marx of course has a great del of power to it. The self as in the pompous hegelian this is ME might be highly problematic. It is that bit of a me that drives bourgeois society on, and makes it function as it does. It make it demanding.
However the second rubric of the self, which ted it to the gentle empiricist pitching what they are in the world, opens one up to the idea that ones identity does always bleed across the world. Modesty demands as much. That is it demands not that I am, but rather that what I am mves and shifts across a world. What I then feel about myself and my actions, about what i is to have an effect, and what it is to be effected in todays world, is rather different from what it was before. My actions have different effects, my power toreach others is different, my realtion with any sort of external world is also very very diffeent.
l of which goes with out saying: Well after Marx said it we all took it as read.
That this in a sense is the problem with the history of a future. he novels written their are frustrating in that one reads them, one takes on what they are saying on board, if becomes a ready platitude and one forgets its fiery origins. the world is full of Marxists who know it not...
But here Max licks his lips.He knows he always aims to say something richer in his works. That is to have odd treasures hidden within the long and complex prose that most simply will never read. ha way one reward those who actually study with other truths than the one that is readily accepted, other insists into the re-vamping o the self within the machine.
However it needs to be said that although Dickens accept the logic of the empirical changing human and the machine, he doubts where any series of changes will ever be enough to mitigate that bourgeois self-man and self conciousness: If a revolution works peoples must act to make it happen, and what will they think about those actions?
Will they be merely bound by determinism?
Bound by pride? Or bound by some unspecified feeling of the future - but where then Dickens asks can one get this feeling? where does it come from?
How acan ti be born?

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