‘The orphaned fervour...[1] Or: the truth of knowledge.[2]
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This essay has nothing to do with Jacques Rancière, but this sentiment, ‘the orphaned fervor…’, which occasionally does the rounds, can stand as epithet for what I am going to say about what is said. It’s not a description or a polemic: at least not anymore. It is the embedded real of what passes as critical in what used to be called ‘the human sciences’. In another register, this real is what we might call the
‘The orphaned fervour...[1] Or: the truth of knowledge.[2]
…
‘The orphaned fervour...[1] Or: the truth of knowledge.[2]
This essay has nothing to do with Jacques Rancière, but this sentiment, ‘the orphaned fervor…’, which occasionally does the rounds, can stand as epithet for what I am going to say about what is said. It’s not a description or a polemic: at least not anymore. It is the embedded real of what passes as critical in what used to be called ‘the human sciences’. In another register, this real is what we might call the