To be honest, I never thought I'd found myself talking this much about modernity and capitalism. I don't even know if this trend of thought is part of my personal life, part of those intense bed talks with my boyfriend, a chapter or my PhD dissertation or it's just that life has pushed me here for no reason at all. But the facts are the facts, and here's where I am now.
A couple of months ago, I published some personal opinion about Foucault's hype. And here I go again, finding myself through the wise words of Marshall Bernan. Amen.
After being subjected to this for a while, we realize there is no freedom in Foucault's world, because his language forms a seamless web, a cage far more airtight than anything Weber ever dreamed of, into which no life can break. The mystery is why so many today's intellectuals seem to want to choke in with him. The answer, I suspect, is that Foucault offers a generation of refugees from the 1960's a world-historical alibi for the sense of passivity and helpless that gripped so many of us in the 1970's [I rather say today]
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