By Alphonso Lingis
Half travelogue, half meditation, Abuses is a daring exploration of primary issues in Continental philosophy by way of the most passionate and unique thinkers in that culture writing today.A gripping checklist of wishes, obsessions, our bodies, and areas skilled in far away lands, Alphonso Lingis's publication bargains a minimum of a brand new method of philosophy--aesthetic and sympathetic--which departs from the phenomenology of Levinas and Merleau-Ponty. "These have been letters written to friends," Lingis writes, "from areas i discovered myself for months at a time, approximately encounters that moved me and afflicted me. . . . those writings additionally grew to become now not my letters. i discovered myself basically attempting to converse for others, others greeted basically with passionate kisses of parting."Ranging from the increased Inca fort of Machu Picchu, to the dwelling rooms of the Mexican elite, to the streets of Manila, Lingis recounts incidents of state-sponsored violence and the revolutionary incorporation of third-world peoples into the circuits of trade of overseas capitalism. Recalling the paintings of such writers as Graham Greene, Kathy Acker, and Georges Bataille, Abuses comprises impassioned money owed of silence, eros and identification, torture and battle, the chic, lust and pleasure, and human rituals surrounding carnival and demise that happened in the course of his trips to India, Bangladesh, Thailand, Bali, the Philippines, Antarctica, and Latin the US. A deeply unsettling ebook via a thinker of bizarre mind's eye, Abuses will attract readers who, like its writer, "may wish the enigmas and wish the discomfiture inside oneself."
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Extra resources for Abuses
I asked a researcher if diseases do not decimate these colonies as overcrowded as American poultry farms; he said that, after all, bacteria and viruses do not survive in this climate. I, who do not listen to heavy metal at disco volumes in my house, but Messiaen's Chronochromie , wondered if those early explorers simply could not relate to birds, like the city slickers who used to visit the farm I grew up on, with their carnivore's ideology of the sloven stupidity of cackling chickens (chickens, I knew, are a species of pheasant).
It is one thing to find that the structure of a flower, its stamen and its protective and insect-supporting petals, is fashioned so as to fit perfectly our notion of the function of a flower; it is another to find its form and colors beautiful. We really do not possess a set of concepts that determine our judgment as to what is beautiful; as we go we find that the plastic forms of human bodies, their contours, their surfaces are beautiful like we come to see the beauty of sand dunes and the geometry and sheen of lilies; we find beauty in somber, blotched, or veined skin like we had come to see the beauty of mottled flowers or fallen leaves.
He pictured his own lungs growing outside himself like a blossoming of purple-tinted flesh, living polyparies of coral with pink membranes, sponges of human tissue. .  Lust is not a movement issuing from us and terminating in the other. It is the tree that draws Robinson, holds him, caresses his breath with its million fingers.  Lust of the sea, of the polyps liquefying the coral cliffs, of the rain dissolving the temples of Khajuraho, of the powdery gypsy moths disintegrating the oak forests, of the winter winds crystallizing the air across the windowpanes.