Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.64.0803180922010.12120@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>, Wryting-L <WRYTING-L@listserv.wvu.edu>
Subject: He died in her sleep.
Date: Tue, 18 Mar 2008 09:22:12 -0400 (EDT)
He died in her sleep. (or: She died in his sleep.) 'For vices all have different ends, But virtue still to virtue tends.' (Swift) The long and narrow road, catastrophe theory's fragility of good things, beset on every side by the efflorescence, fecundity, of vice; if Heaven is pure substance, Vice is impure inscription; if Heaven is continuous, Vice is discrete; if Heaven is discrete, Vice is the heart of indiscretion itself. He died in their sleep. In their longing for rest, he was one of the forgotten, his body withering away to practically nothing, his data-base entries under erasure, digitally smudged, evaporated. Perhaps he said something, anything, at one point, but pronouns long since disappeared. '_The chora,_ which is neither "sensible" nor "intelligible," belongs to a "third genus" (_triton genos,_ 48e, 52a). One cannot even say of it that it is _neither_ this _nor_ that or that it is _both_ this _and_ that." (Derrida) Sheffer added another before his death, not _both_ this _and_ that. I added these comments, as well, before my death, which I await, again, in someone else's sleep, that unknown of dreaming I shall never greet.