Monologue-ing Chris

When you decided to walk away and do something else for your own in your own life, not for anyone else, Derrida's come, after all these years. Then, you read him in tears, which were bitterly invisible to others. "Hell, is 'the others' (L'enfer, c'est les autres)", as in Sartre's extentialist play "Huis-clos". Your Sarthre. Your Roland Barthes. Your Simone de Beauvoir. Your Heidegger. They're never yours.

You remember when you did Culture Studies back then, Derrida's so much loved to some extent, since you were also such a player of words, in a sense, if you're regarded as a player doing well playing with words, the signs, signifers, signifed stuff in the academic 'field'. Samilly might forget about him, even in my memory if there's memory, she seemed to have more notes and marks on her piece of reading? And Cambridge might forget about when there were people debating his work as cheating by playing boringly vague language games without clear and exact expressions and regarding him unqualified to be named a philosopher. Well, he's awarded a honorary doctorates (in Philosophy or Poetry?), after all anyway.

2004's autumn, when you were ridiculously suffering from the subtleness of your 'field' of sorrow(s), he went away. From then on, there's seemed to be only Kant left, haunting with no one else. You're never a piece of academic being, as they would possibly suggest, according to your incomprehensibilities as incapabilities, although you're seldom a 'sinocentric(sic? superior or minor)' one. For you, to be in hell to be reborn, you have to thank others.

Further Readings (who do you think you are to put up these further readings):
An insightful piece of writing about Derrida's discourse on ghosts
A fan-like but fair enough piece of writing about Derrida

Quickly! Interpret me, in the way as I will never interpret myself.