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Machai


Hbomberguy posted:

Most KLK characters, even small background one-episode ones, are designed as references to a genre/show/anime-concept already well-known to viewers. The show is directly engaging with 'anime' and its problems. There is a scene in Kill La Kill where the main characters watch a scene from Kill La Kill on a television and are disgusted by it.
Partway through the show it starts to tear itself free of the narrative contrivances and explore a solution beyond those concepts. Television - Anime - is revealed to be a tool of the bad guys, and they fight against it by working together. A lot of folks have mistaken this totally cool shift as a mistake, even though the characters go on pretty clear speeches about how they're embracing the inherent madness of human beings.

I dunno why so many people want to keep talking about tits.


lol


"Anime...a tool of the bad guys"
-forums poster Hbomberguy

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Pro Target


Evangelion is the only show ive seen that engages the problems with anime honestly

i am he


Kill la Kill is ok

Salmiakki

christmas is coming the goose is getting fat


well, it sure is an anime

Pro Target


everything else is masturbatory backpatting by perpetrators

Sleepy Owl


i cant believe people still care about kill al kill

Salmiakki

christmas is coming the goose is getting fat


heres a still from an anime that i actually enjoyed:

dopepope

"Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Pearl...."
Someone in real life tried to give me that same kind of argument about KLK, basically "It's a satire so it's okay."

Which seems to me like bullshit, although I admit I haven't seen it myself.

Pro Target


everything by masaaki yuasa is fuckign dope

Salmiakki

christmas is coming the goose is getting fat


Pro Target posted:

everything by masaaki yuasa is fuckign dope

oh yeah, cat soup the movie rocks

i am he


anime has the power to heal this broken world

dopepope

"Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Pearl...."

Pro Target posted:

everything by masaaki yuasa is fuckign dope
I did enjoy Tatami Galaxy a lot. It's the only anime of which I've watched more than a few episodes.

my new dog

butt of tut


      

Salmiakki posted:

heres a still from an anime that i actually enjoyed:



whats this from. asking for a friend

Salmiakki

christmas is coming the goose is getting fat


my new dog posted:

whats this from. asking for a friend

nekojiru gekijou. the animation is very crude but i still like it http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SWnkOvi4i6c

Pedantra
Probation
Can't post for 7 days!

Pro Target posted:

everything else is masturbatory backpatting by perpetrators

The Death of the Author
In his story Sarrasine Balzac, describing a castrato disguised as a woman, writes the following sentence: ‘This was woman herself, with her sudden fears, her irrational whims, her instinctive worries, her impetuous boldness, her fussings, and her delicious sensibility.’ Who is speaking thus? Is it the hero of the story bent on remaining ignorant of the castrato hidden beneath the woman? Is it Balzac the individual, furnished by his personal experience with a philosophy of Woman? Is it Balzac the author professing ‘literary’ ideas on femininity? Is it universal wisdom? Romantic psychology? We shall never know, for the good reason that writing is the destruction of every voice, of every point of origin. Writing is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative where all identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body writing.

No doubt it has always been that way. As soon as a fact is narrated no longer with a view to acting directly on reality but intransitively, that is to say, finally outside of any function other than that of the very practice of the symbol itself, this disconnection occurs, the voice loses its origin, the author enters into his own death, writing begins. The sense of this phenomenon, however, has varied; in ethnographic societies the responsibility for a narrative is never assumed by a person but by a mediator, shaman or relator whose ‘performance’ - the mastery of the narrative code -may possibly be admired but never his ‘genius’. The author is a modern figure, a product of our society insofar as, emerging from the Middle Ages with English empiricism,

...The author is a modern figure, a product of our society...
French rationalism and the personal faith of the Reformation, it discovered the prestige of the individual, of, as it is more nobly put, the ‘human person’. It is thus logical that in literature it should be this positivism, the epitome and culmination of capitalist ideology, which has attached the greatest importance to the ‘person’ of the author. The author still reigns in histories of literature, biographies of writers, interviews, magazines, as in the very consciousness of men of letters anxious to unite their person and their work through diaries and memoirs. The image of literature to be found in ordinary culture is tyrannically centred on the author, his person, his life, his tastes, his passions, while criticism still consists for the most part in saying that Baudelaire’s work is the failure of Baudelaire the man, Van Gogh’s his madness, Tchaikovsky’s his vice. The explanation of a work is always sought in the man or woman who produced it, as if it were always in the end, through the more or less transparent allegory of the fiction, the voice of a single person, the author ‘confiding’ in us.

Though the sway of the Author remains powerful (the new criticism has often done no more than consolidate it), it goes without saying that certain writers have long since attempted to loosen it. In France, Mallarme was doubtless the first to see and to foresee in its full extent the necessity to substitute language itself for the person who until then had been supposed to be its owner. For him, for us too, it is language which speaks, not the author; to write is, through a prerequisite impersonality (not at all to be confused with the castrating objectivity of the realist novelist), to reach that point where only language acts, ‘performs’, and not ‘me’. Mallarme’s entire poetics consists in suppressing the author in the interests of writing (which is, as will be seen, to restore the place of the reader). Valery, encumbered by a psychology of the Ego, considerably diluted Mallarme’s theory but, his taste for classicism leading him to turn to the lessons of rhetoric, he never stopped calling into question and deriding the Author; he stressed the linguistic and, as it were, ‘hazardous’ nature of his activity, and throughout his prose works he militated in favour of the essentially verbal condition of literature, in the face of which all recourse to the writer’s interiority seemed to him pure superstition. Proust himself, despite the apparently psychological character of what are called his analyses, was visibly concerned with the task of inexorably blurring, by an extreme subtilization, the relation between the writer and his characters; by making of the narrator not he who has seen and felt nor even he who is writing, but he who is going to write (the young man in the novel - but, in fact, how old is he and who is he? - wants to write but cannot; the novel ends when writing at last becomes possible), Proust gave modern writing its epic. By a radical reversal, instead of putting his life into his novel, as is so often maintained, he made of his very life a work for which his own book was the model; so that it is clear to us that Charlus does not imitate Montesquiou but that Montesquiou - in his anecdotal, historical reality - is no more than a secondary fragment, derived from Charlus. Lastly, to go no further than this prehistory of modernity, Surrealism, though unable to accord language a supreme place (language being system and the aim of the movement being, romantically, a direct subversion of codes-itself moreover illusory: a code cannot be destroyed, only ‘played off’), contributed to the desacrilization of the image of the Author by ceaselessly recommending the abrupt disappointment of expectations of meaning (the famous surrealist ‘jolt’), by entrusting the hand with the task of writing as quickly as possible what the head itself is unaware of (automatic writing), by accepting the principle and the experience of several people writing together. Leaving aside literature itself (such distinctions really becoming invalid), linguistics has recently provided the destruction of the Author with a valuable analytical tool by showing that the whole of the enunciation is an empty functioning perfectly without there being any need for it to be filled with the person of the interlocutors. Linguistically, the author is never more than the instance writing, just as I is nothing other than the instance saying I: language knows a ‘subject’, not a ‘person’, and this subject, empty outside of the very enunciation which defines it, suffices to make language ‘hold together’, suffices, that is to say, to exhaust it.

Pedantra
Probation
Can't post for 7 days!

The removal of the Author (one could talk here with Brecht of a veritable ‘distancing’, the Author diminishing like a figurine at the far end of the literary stage) is not merely an historical fact or an act of writing; it utterly transforms the modern text (or - which is the same thing -the text is henceforth made and read in such a way that at all its levels the author is absent). The temporality is different. The Author, when believed in, is always conceived of as the past of his own book: book and author stand automatically on a single line divided into a before and an after. The Author is thought to nourish the book, which is to say that he exists before it, thinks, suffers, lives for it, is in the same relation of antecedence to his work as a father to his child. In complete contrast, the modern scriptor is born simultaneously with the text, is in no way equipped with a being preceding or exceeding the writing, is not the subject with the book as predicate; there is no other time than that of the enunciation and every text is eternally written here and now. The fact is (or, it follows) that writing can no longer designate an operation of recording, notation, representation, ‘depiction’ (as the Classics would say); rather, it designates exactly what linguists, referring to Oxford philosophy, call a performative a rare verbal form (exclusively given in the first person and in the present tense) in which the enunciation has no other content (contains no other proposition) than the act by which it is uttered-something like the I declare of kings or the I sing of very ancient poets. Having buried the Author, the modern scriptor can thus no longer believe, as according to the pathetic view of his predecessors, that this hand is too slow for his thought or passion and that consequently, making a law of necessity, he must emphasize this delay and indefinitely ‘polish’ his form. For him, on the contrary, the hand, cut off from any voice, borne by a pure gesture of inscription (and not of expression), traces a field without origin-or which, at least, has no other origin than language itself, language which ceaselessly calls into question all origins.

We know now that a text is not a line of words releasing a single ‘theological’ meaning (the ‘message’ of the Author-God) but a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash. The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture. Similar to Bouvard and Pecuchet, those eternal copyists, at once sublime and comic and whose profound ridiculousness indicates precisely the truth of writing, the writer can only imitate a gesture that is always anterior, never original. His only power is to mix writings, to counter the ones with the others, in such a way as never to rest on any one of them. Did he wish to express himself, he ought at least to know that the inner ‘thing’ he thinks to ‘translate’ is itself only a ready-formed dictionary, its words only explainable through other words, and so on indefinitely; something experienced in exemplary fashion by the young Thomas de Quincey, he who was so good at Greek that in order to translate absolutely modern ideas and images into that dead language, he had, so Baudelaire tells us (in Paradis Artificiels), ‘created for himself an unfailing dictionary, vastly more extensive and complex than those resulting from the ordinary patience of purely literary themes’. Succeeding the Author, the scriptor no longer bears within him passions, humours, feelings, impressions, but rather this immense dictionary from which he draws a writing that can know no halt: life never does more than imitate the book, and the book itself is only a tissue of signs imitation that is lost, infinitely deferred.

Once the Author is removed, the claim to decipher a text becomes quite futile. To give a text an Author is to impose a limit on that text, to furnish it with a final signified, to close the writing. Such a conception suits criticism very well, the latter then allotting itself the important task of discovering the Author (or its hypostases: society, history, psyche, liberty) beneath the work: when the Author has been found, the text is ‘explained’-victory to the critic. Hence there is no surprise in the fact that, historically, the reign of the Author has also been that of the Critic, nor again in the fact that criticism (be it new) is today undermined, along with the Author. In the multiplicity of writing, everything is to be disentangled, nothing deciphered; the structure can be followed, ‘run’ (like the thread of a stocking) at every point and at every level, but there is nothing beneath: the space of writing is to be ranged over, not pierced; writing ceaselessly posits meaning ceaselessly to evaporate it, carrying out a systematic exemption of meaning. In precisely this way literature (it would bebetter from now on to say writing), by refusing to assign a ‘secret’, an ultimate meaning, to the text (and to the world as text), liberates what may be called an anti-theological activity, an activity that is truly revolutionary since to refuse to fix meaning is, in the end, to refuse God and his hypostases-reason, science, law.

Let us come back to the Balzac sentence. No one, no ‘person’, says it: its source, its voice, is not the true place of the writing, which is reading. Another-very precise- example will help to make this clear: recent research (J.-P. Vernant) has demonstrated the constitutively ambiguous nature of Greek tragedy, its texts being woven from words with double meanings that each character understands unilaterally (this perpetual misunderstanding is exactly the ‘tragic’); there is, however, someone who understands each word in its duplicity and who, in addition, hears the very deafness of the characters speaking in front of him-this someone being precisely the reader (or here, the listener). Thus is revealed the total existence of writing: a text is made of multiple writings, drawn from many cultures and entering into mutual relations of dialogue, parody, contestation, but there is one place where this multiplicity is focused and that place is the reader, not, as was hitherto said, the author. The reader is the space on which all the quotations that make up a writing are inscribed without any of them being lost; a text’s unity lies not in its origin but in its destination. Yet this destination cannot any longer be personal: the reader is without history, biography, psychology; he is simply that someone who holds together in a single field all the traces by which the written text is constituted. Which is why it is derisory to condemn the new writing in the name of a humanism hypocritically turned champion of the reader’s rights. Classic criticism has never paid any attention to the reader; for it, the writer is the only person in literature. We are now beginning to let ourselves be fooled no longer by the arrogant antiphrastical recriminations of good society in favour of the very thing it sets aside, ignores, smothers, or destroys; we know that to give writing its future, it is necessary to overthrow the myth: the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.

Machai


Sleepy Owl posted:

kill al kill

cute anime girl


Don't lose your way


What's a Kill la Kill

i am he


kill le kill

Jett



lol no you see this anime is filled with gratuitous underage tits ironically and I masturbate to it ironically don't you understand satire

i am he


Jett posted:

lol no you see this anime is filled with gratuitous underage tits ironically and I masturbate to it ironically don't you understand satire

it isnt irony, it's art

Salmiakki

christmas is coming the goose is getting fat


sartire

Jett



i am he posted:

it isnt irony, it's art

brb, need to wash the art out of my artsock it's starting to get an artsy smell to it and mom might notice

Machai


keyboard goop is the apex of the modern art movement

Salmiakki

christmas is coming the goose is getting fat


this is the equivalent of censoring art

Machai


Broseph Brostar posted:

The best of kill la kill was when loadsamoney crab guy was assfucked by tiny penis guy's sword, and then some buzz kill was admonishing people in the thread for laughing at surprise sex

GODSPEED JOHN GLENN


Machai posted:

keyboard goop is the apex of the post-modern art movement

Pizzatime


Salmiakki

christmas is coming the goose is getting fat


i wish the anime was just about that skull on the right

Mike Maddux

nice guys finish first

cute anime girl posted:

What's a Kill la Kill

"An Anime that promotes misogyny" ~ADTRW

Captain No-mates


kill la kill

Pedantra
Probation
Can't post for 7 days!

Salmiakki posted:

nekojiru gekijou. the animation is very crude but i still like it http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SWnkOvi4i6c

i am watching this andc it owns a lot

Dotcom Jillionaire

Social distortion

sometimes i get upset that I'll never be as good kill ala kill

my new dog

butt of tut


      

why

Mike Maddux

nice guys finish first

Pro Target posted:

everything by masaaki yuasa is fuckign dope

Hello I like Hiroyuki Imaishi. How was your day?

Salmiakki

christmas is coming the goose is getting fat


Pedantra posted:

i am watching this andc it owns a lot

Damp Star Baby

Staying Legend. CA Exempt DEATH

yeah the cat stuff was pretty funny gently caress butaro in the rear end

Afro Doug

im real gay
http://www.buzzfeed.com/norbertobri...l-is-vicious-yo

Gross Dude

Gross Dude

I dunno, I got some heroin down south of the border once, pretty sure it was better than anime.

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Harime Nui

I go where I wanna go and nobody stops me!

Hbomberguy's posts are pretty classic

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