Is Jacques Derrida happy? It's hard to say. There were happier pictures of him, but this picture sums up the real issue at hand. Jacques Derrida will seduce you. His terrorist-obscurantist gaze has already deconstructed your soul. "There's no structure here, baby, we've moved past all that," he whispers in your ear, sounding much more like Serge Gainsbourg than you would expect, "just go with it. I know your mother thinks I'm just a nihilist who doesn't make sense. I know she wants you to go with Lacan. But this is the real thing! There's no room for here for that kind of meaningless opposition. It's just you and me now. Let's deconstruct." Before you know what's happened, you're at The Book*, dancing the night away. You can't be sure of anything anymore. Maybe it was just the champagne, but it seems like the foundations of society no longer exist. It's just you, experimental music, and Jacques Derrida's eyes. You'd always thought this sort of thing was just for undergrads, but now you know it's real.
*If you're not in The Book, everyone's favorite fictional nightclub, you're out.
In other news, this picture of Jacques comes to us from some apparent kindred spirits with a blog about haircuts. This particular post features the haircuts of plenty of 19th and 20th Century greats, lovingly described in Spanish. It seems that they, too, find the Arthur Rimbaud cut irresistible. I'd certainly recommend that over the Charles Baudelaire "face in front, hair behind" look.
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