The Trump Cult as Body without Organs

It has been clear to me a for a long time that Trump is a cult leader; his followers behave exactly like cult members, deflected all information that might undermine their faith in their leader or present cognitive dissonance. They find endless excuses for Trump’s offensive conduct and incompetence. If he hasn’t fulfilled a campaign promise, such as bringing back manufacturing jobs or building the border wall, his followers tell that you “he’s working on it; he’s doing the best be can, but there are lot of enemies blocking his efforts.” The same behavior is seen in QAnon and every other cult.

Desiring-Machines

Desiring-machines are binary machines, obeying a binary law or set of rules governing associations: one machine is always coupled with another. The productive synthesis, the production of production, is inherently connective in nature: “and . . .” “and then . . .” This is because there is always a flow-producing machine, and another machine connected to it that interrupts or draws off part of this flow (the breast-the mouth).

Faulkner’s Benjy as Body without Organs

When other characters interpret Benjy’s sounds–saying what he allegedly means or speaking for him–they are writing on the smooth surface, or turning it into striated space. They are making links or articulations, connecting his sounds to known language or stories, “making sense” of his sounds. The characters thus interrupt Benjy’s sounds, as when Luster tells him to “shut up that slobbering and moaning.”

Language is not (fundamentally) informational

” Language is not made to be believed but to be obeyed, and to compel obedience. . . . We see this in police or government announcements, which often have little plausibility or truthfulness, but say very clearly what should be observed and retained. The indifference to any kind of credibility exhibited announcements often verges on provocation. This is proof that the issue lies elsewhere.”

The fiction of knowledge

To be lifted to the summit of the World Trade Center is to be lifted out of the city’s grasp. One’s body is no longer clasped by the streets that turn and return it according to an anonymous law; nor is it possessed, whether as player or played, by the rumble of so many differences and by the nervousness of New York City traffic. When one goes up there, he leaves behind the mass that carries off and mixes up in itself any identity of authors or spectators. As Icarus flying above these waters, he can ignore the devices of Daedalus in mobile and endless labyrinths far below.