Simon Taylor

This is the police mortuary, the tradesmen’s entrance to the Court, as it were. Here are delivered the raw materials of justice, corpses that are precipitates of strange experience, alloys of fear and hate and anger and love and viciousness and bewilderment, that the Court will take and refine

Hochuli, Hoare and Cunliffe write that the social order has been “entrusted to lawyers, activists, remote governmental experts on transnational commissions, central bankers, technocrats, the market, CEOs… not to ordinary citizens” and that how production functions, is organised and distributed is left to “supply chain managers, investors and trade negotiators,

in an excellently titled early section, “I hate myself and I want to buy,” quoting Hobsbawm: the “short twentieth century” “ended in a global disorder whose nature was unclear, and without an obvious mechanism for either ending it or keeping it under control.” This impotence was not, however, only due

Since you asked (my little joke), my writing is going a lot better, thank you, more smoothly. Foucault required of his writing style that it feel like velvet, that it have a velvet surface. This velvet-surfaced prose for some reason, perhaps because of the expression velvet-tongued, makes me think of

“Our vast imaginations pull in the opposite direction from our small, frail bodies.” – from here Consciousness covers itself. Consciousness covers itself with abstractions, with the abstract, as much with materialities, in the pragmatics of everyday life. In the pragmatics of everyday life, the “social absolute”–Seitaro Yamazki’s fossils of