Fifty-four years ago, in a Ljubljana barr…
‘So fucking tired of all this cowshit, comrade. Nobody listens to philosophers anymore. Nobody cares about cultural theory or Hegel or Bōl or Kapok or anything. Why do we bother? I could’ve been an architect. Could’ve redesigned this whole pocket city, but no, no, I chose the insanity path. Cultural theory. Who beyond Allah has time for that? Ah, I know, I know, English graduates, reams of them. Infinite chutes pumping them straight out into my seminars. Honest talk, comrade, you have no idea how small the philosophy circle truly is…no idea how wankish it is. How chok. Sorry, Cantonese word, my fault.’
The comrade took a sip of his cranberry juice and told Žižek not to worry, there were always ways to become relevant.
‘Yes, I know. I could go on TV, say something provocative. Get my dick out and-…’
‘No, not that.’
The comrade smiled. ‘Movies.’
‘Huh? Make movies?’
‘No, talk about them. Write about them. The proles watch movies, you analyse them through a theoretical lens, there’s your relevance.’
Žižek stroked his chin and nodded.
‘Also,’ added the comrade, staring at Žižek’s chin. ‘Grow a beard. A giant one.’
‘And spit more.’
One year later, after taking a stab at Die Hard and the comfort of crisis, Žižek broke out of the small [wankish] circle of philosophy and became an international luminary.
In the same barr, with a bear-like beard, he told his old comrade he was a genius.
‘It was a simple idea, really,’ replied the comrade, stirring his cranberry juice. ‘I’m just glad I could help.’
‘No, not you…me. It was my idea if you recall.’
‘Fairly certain it wasn’t.’
‘What, do you not remember? You said, movie reviews are interesting, then I said, ja, why don’t I analyse movies? And then you said, ja, it could be a good idea.’
‘I remember it quite differently.’Continue reading