sister-in-law, Gary and Caroline, owned a great deal of W——stock) “is to build bigger houses and buy bigger SUVs and consume even more of the world’s finite resources.”
“What’s wrong with making a living?” Melissa said. “Why is it inherently evil to make money?”
“Baudrillard might argue,” Chip said, “that the evil of a campaign like ‘You Go, Girl’ consists in the detachment of the signifier from the signified. That a woman weeping no longer just signifies sadness. It now also signifies: ‘Desire office equipment.’ It signifies: ‘Our bosses care about us deeply.’”
The wall clock showed two-thirty. Chip paused and waited for the bell to ring and the semester to end.
“Excuse me,” Melissa said, “but that is just such bullshit.”
“What is bullshit?” Chip said.
“This whole class,” she said. “It’s just bullshit every week. It’s one critic after another wringing their hands about the state of criticism. Nobody can ever quite say what’s wrong exactly. But they all know it’s evil. They all know ‘corporate’ is a dirty word. And if somebody’s having fun or getting rich—disgusting! Evil! And it’s always the death of this and the death of that. And people who think they’re free aren’t ‘really’ free. And people who think they’re happy aren’t ‘really’ happy. And it’s impossible to radically critique society anymore, although what’s so radically wrong with society that we need such a radical critique, nobody can sayexactly. It is so typical and perfect that you hate those ads! ” she said to Chip as, throughout Wroth Hall, bells finally rang. “Here things are getting better and better for women and people of color, and gay men and lesbians, more and more integrated and open, and all you can think about is some stupid, lame problem with signifiers and signifieds. Like, the only way you can make something bad out of an ad that’s great for women—which you have to do, because there has to be something wrong with everything—is to say it’s evil to be rich and evil to work for a corporation, and yes, I know the bell rang.” She closed her notebook.
“OK,” Chip said. “On that note. You’ve now satisfied your Cultural Studies core requirement. Have a great summer.”
He was powerless to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He bent over the video player and gave his attention to rewinding and re-cuing “You Go, Girl” and touching buttons for the sake of touching buttons. He sensed a few students lingering behind him, as if they wanted to thank him for teaching his heart out or to tell him they’d enjoyed the class, but he didn’t look up from the video player until the room was empty. Then he went home to Tilton Ledge and started drinking.
Melissa’s accusations had cut him to the quick. He’d never quite realized how seriously he’d taken his father’s injunction to do work that was “useful” to society. Criticizing a sick culture, even if the criticism accomplished nothing, had always felt like useful work. But if the supposed sickness wasn’t a sickness at all—if the great Materialist Order of technology and consumer appetite and medical science really was improving the lives of the formerly oppressed; if it was only straight white males like Chip who had a problem with this order—then there was no longer even the most abstract utility to his criticism. It was all, in Melissa’s word, bullshit.
Lacking the spirit to work on his new book, as he’dplanned to do all summer, Chip bought an overpriced ticket to London and hitchhiked to Edinburgh and overstayed his welcome with a Scottish performance artist who had lectured and performed at D——the previous winter. Eventually the woman’s boyfriend said, “Time to be off now, laddie,” and Chip hit the road with a backpack full of Heidegger and Wittgenstein that he was too lonely to read. He hated to think of himself as a man who couldn’t live without a
“What’s wrong with making a living?” Melissa said. “Why is it inherently evil to make money?”
“Baudrillard might argue,” Chip said, “that the evil of a campaign like ‘You Go, Girl’ consists in the detachment of the signifier from the signified. That a woman weeping no longer just signifies sadness. It now also signifies: ‘Desire office equipment.’ It signifies: ‘Our bosses care about us deeply.’”
The wall clock showed two-thirty. Chip paused and waited for the bell to ring and the semester to end.
“Excuse me,” Melissa said, “but that is just such bullshit.”
“What is bullshit?” Chip said.
“This whole class,” she said. “It’s just bullshit every week. It’s one critic after another wringing their hands about the state of criticism. Nobody can ever quite say what’s wrong exactly. But they all know it’s evil. They all know ‘corporate’ is a dirty word. And if somebody’s having fun or getting rich—disgusting! Evil! And it’s always the death of this and the death of that. And people who think they’re free aren’t ‘really’ free. And people who think they’re happy aren’t ‘really’ happy. And it’s impossible to radically critique society anymore, although what’s so radically wrong with society that we need such a radical critique, nobody can sayexactly. It is so typical and perfect that you hate those ads! ” she said to Chip as, throughout Wroth Hall, bells finally rang. “Here things are getting better and better for women and people of color, and gay men and lesbians, more and more integrated and open, and all you can think about is some stupid, lame problem with signifiers and signifieds. Like, the only way you can make something bad out of an ad that’s great for women—which you have to do, because there has to be something wrong with everything—is to say it’s evil to be rich and evil to work for a corporation, and yes, I know the bell rang.” She closed her notebook.
“OK,” Chip said. “On that note. You’ve now satisfied your Cultural Studies core requirement. Have a great summer.”
He was powerless to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He bent over the video player and gave his attention to rewinding and re-cuing “You Go, Girl” and touching buttons for the sake of touching buttons. He sensed a few students lingering behind him, as if they wanted to thank him for teaching his heart out or to tell him they’d enjoyed the class, but he didn’t look up from the video player until the room was empty. Then he went home to Tilton Ledge and started drinking.
Melissa’s accusations had cut him to the quick. He’d never quite realized how seriously he’d taken his father’s injunction to do work that was “useful” to society. Criticizing a sick culture, even if the criticism accomplished nothing, had always felt like useful work. But if the supposed sickness wasn’t a sickness at all—if the great Materialist Order of technology and consumer appetite and medical science really was improving the lives of the formerly oppressed; if it was only straight white males like Chip who had a problem with this order—then there was no longer even the most abstract utility to his criticism. It was all, in Melissa’s word, bullshit.
Lacking the spirit to work on his new book, as he’dplanned to do all summer, Chip bought an overpriced ticket to London and hitchhiked to Edinburgh and overstayed his welcome with a Scottish performance artist who had lectured and performed at D——the previous winter. Eventually the woman’s boyfriend said, “Time to be off now, laddie,” and Chip hit the road with a backpack full of Heidegger and Wittgenstein that he was too lonely to read. He hated to think of himself as a man who couldn’t live without a
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