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Finally managed (or forced myself) to read this famous book cover to cover—and it’s even worse than I expected. From the very first page, it’s an endless stream of—there’s no polite way to say this—verbal diarrhea: aggressively pretentious, deliberately obscure, almost totally incoherent. And when it is more or less intelligible, it’s tedious and predictable: ➡️capitalism / bourgeois / modernity / family = BAD ➡️disruption / revolution / deterritorialization = GOOD Even Michel Foucault’s fawning introduction comes across as lucid and almost reasonable by comparison. And while Gilles Deleuze struck his “radical chic” pose, he himself lived a thoroughly bourgeois life in Paris and barely ventured beyond his own doorstep. I mentioned this to a friend of mine, a philosophy professor and renegade psychoanalyst who was knee-deep into this shit early in his career. His reaction: “You actually READ that book? Even I couldn’t stomach it back then.” It’s astonishing that this kind of drivel was ever taken seriously—and still is, in some quarters. (Anti-Oedipus by Gilles Deleuze & Felix Guattari)




Peter Falk and director John Cassavetes on the set of A WOMAN UNDER THE INFLUENCE [1974]

cara mais engraçado do mundo queria ser assim




















