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The overwhelming horror would leave no room for your own death. On another level you wanted to use him to grow in significance and strength. This comports with the pervasive trope of containment that inheres to the family, the town, and shopping. Even within the inner sanctum of his protective occupational sphere, death is ceaselessly in circulation.

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To become a crowd is to keep out death. To break off from the crowd is to risk death as an individual, to face dying alone. It was not a small matter. We all had an aura to maintain, and in sharing mine with a friend I was risking the very things that made mine untouchable. Not that I needed a 67 crowd around me now.

Death was strictly a professional matter here. In the middle of it all is Hitler, of course. Jack's failure to recognize proto-fascist urges in an aestheticized American consumer culture is all the more striking since he emphasizes in his course Hitler's manipulation of mass cultural aesthetics uniforms, parades, rallies. The mechanism erected to shield his life from the forces of annihilation and uncertainty channels it through a new array of cybernetic pathways.

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These insidious totalitarian potentials mobilize intensely at the coalescence of these channels. Duvall observes that Jack falls into his role as a consumer when his auratic self as Hitler scholar is threatened by a chance encounter with a colleague off campus. Without his academic robe and dark glasses, the colleague notes that Jack is just "a big, harmless, aging, indistinct sort of guy" This deflation of self puts Jack "in the mood to shop" and the ensuing sense of power and control is immense.

I filled myself out, found new aspects of myself, located a person I'd forgotten existed. His sense of power in the mall, a physical space as self-contained and self-referential as the psychic space of television, is illusory for if Jack "rejects" one corporation, another is surely served by his purchases. Jack says, "The more money I spent, the less important it seemed. I was bigger than these sums. These sums poured off my skin like so 71 much rain. These sums in fact came back to me in the form of existential credit. A remnant of some prehistoric period when dinosaurs roamed the earth and men fought with flint tools?

When to kill 72 was to live?

Périodiques - Persée

As a component of the Hitler node, its primary intended function is clearly to protect Jack from the deracinating incursion of parasitic noise into his media network. Throughout this operation, retrofitted cargo planes sprayed hundreds of tons of so-called Agent Orange over hundreds of square miles of Vietnamese countryside. Not only was the campaign a dismal failure, it also backfired: Many American soldiers suffered toxic carcinogenic contamination through direct contact with Agent Orange.

This is the nature of plots. We edge nearer death every time we plot. It is like a contract that all must sign, the plotters as well as those who are the targets of the plot. Why did I say it? What does it mean? A surge, a will, an agitation of the passions. I 77 reached into my pocket, rubbed my knuckles across the grainy stainless steel of the Zumwalt barrel. With each separate step, [he] bec[omes] aware of processes, components, things relating to other things.

Water f[a]ll[s] to earth in drops. Upon meeting Mink, his enlightening state of consciousness becomes explicitly mediatic: I sensed that I was a part of a network of structures and channels. I knew the precise nature of events. I was moving closer to things in their actual state as I approached a violence, a smashing intensity. Water fell in drops, surfaces gleamed. Things glowed, a secret life rising out of them. Water struck the roof in elongated orbs, splashing drams.


I knew for the first time what rain really was. I knew what wet was. I understood the neurochemistry of my brain, the meaning of dreams the waste material of premonitions. Great stuff everywhere. A richness, a density. What is the geography of a spoon-shaped face? Was he a composite? Everything they said was true. Why are you here, white man? Once again, this makes sense within the governing re-medial logic whereby every would-be panacea to the dread of death only re-mediates this dread, contorting and reconstituting it anew. Sound all around. I took out the Zumwalt.

Great and nameless emotions thudded on my chest. I knew who I was in the network of meanings. Water fell to earth in drops, causing surfaces to gleam. I saw things new. In this, White Noise seems to be both theorizing and enacting a narratology whose relation to that proposed by psychoanalytic critic Peter Brooks merits explication. The travails of protagonists such as Gladney sustain what Brooks might call the com-pulsion of the text, the forward movement of the plot in tandem with the readerly desire to achieve proper closure, or so to speak.

This subtle interplay of forward-moving pulsion Eros and ultimate closure Thanatos engenders the libidinal economy of narrative. For Brooks, narrative desire is the desire for the end, but not just any end; it must be an end arrived at by way of the right intermediary path. The reader is driven by the need to circumscribe the unwieldy ambient noise of life within a coherent, bounded, totalizing order.

And this drive for order is most feasible and gratifying when directed through the peripatetic detours and repetitions of plot. What did it mean, this little rotary blur? As my media-centric analysis will show, however, this emphasis on postmodern parody occludes other important currents from plain view. Through the lens of a reading that recognizes the role of white noise in the narrative, the final scene of the novel should register as more than mere parody.

Father Damien

The scene takes place, appropriately, in the supermarket, where the regular customers are lost and confused because the shelves have been reorganized according to binary codes: In the altered shelves, the ambient roar, in the plain and heartless fact of their decline, they try to work their way through the confusion. The terminals are equipped with holographic scanners, which decode the binary secret of every item, infallibly.

WN Perhaps even more important here than the intertextual resonances that DeLillo sets up in this passage are the intratextual ones. In a network with limitless storage capacity, the supposedly secular stuff of digital technoscience, religious spirituality, and the flotsam and jetsam of pop culture are shelved in the same aisle according to an algorithmic rationality that resists empirical scrutiny.

In psychoanalytic-narratological terms, Jack is imbued with a transferential aura on account of his privileged status as the narrator and primary mediator of his tale for the reader. His phlegmatic narration and refusal to engage in extradiegetic apostrophe imbue the narrative with yet another fold of re-medial ambiguity. This litany of tonal ambiguities, in fact, radiates out of every word of White Noise and constitutes its distinct mood. As with all of the members of this turn-of-the-millennium American genre whose contours I am attempting to articulate, a seemingly modernist form of focalization is used to dupe the reader into thinking she has a stable foothold on simulacral terrain.

And, deliberately or otherwise as though such ambiguities can be resolved in this re-medial nexus , he colludes with DeLillo in staging an elaborate media network that is every bit as refractory for the reader as he would have us believe that postmodernity is for him. And, to paraphrase both Heinrich Gladney and Peter Sloterdijk, maybe it never stops.

After DeLillo, I'm not sure I can be influenced by a writer anymore. You develop your own style. As a consequence of this uproar of misreading, it is only recently that the fog has begun to part and the book—along with the rest of Easton Ellis' oeuvre—has started to garner the more trenchant analyses it merits. As in Jack Gladney's universe, this immunizing measure is bound up with a pervasive environmental sensitivity; this manifests itself in American Psycho through the leitmotiv of the AIDS virus, a then-newly-emergent autoimmunitary contagion.

As my analysis will demonstrate, this auto-immunitary virus troubles the prophylactic logic of Bateman's 's yuppie occupational universe, a cloistered community organized around co-immunity from the incursion of the perceived filth of the city. And, most importantly, apropos of White Noise, Bateman's occupation is intricately bound up with violence in a fashion that demands nuanced unpacking.

As my analysis will show, Bateman is so ventriloquized by dominant racist, sexist, classist discourses that circulate in the mediasphere that his travails must be read, against the grain of its critics, as a symptom rather than a celebration of their metastases. Instead, he devotes the majority of his time and cognitive bandwidth engaging in what Spaces of Violence author James R.

But instead of a unified categorical imperative, Bateman is indentured to a spectral tribunal, an "uneasy chorus of voices" Storey 61 demanding increasingly distinguished and intense forms of patriarchal enjoyment from the simulacral spoils of 's New York existence as Bateman moves about in a continuous "cocoon" Murphet 25 of limousines, office spaces, opulent apartments, and elite luxury bars and restaurants.

The schism in Patrick Bateman's soul, then, his schizoid narcissistic personality disorder, is both dis-ease and cure, within the broader milieu of 's New York 95 City, figured as very much a variant of what American Pastoral's Zuckerman will refer to as "the plague America.

Gay Ghosting

Price, who is engaged in the same occupation as Bateman and may actually be one of Bateman's many alternate personalities is complaining about how much he dislikes his job, for which he feels he is not sufficiently appreciated, which is to say, compensated though, as this analysis will show, in the simulacrally gluttonous world of American Psycho, no amount is ever enough : I'm resourceful. I'm creative, I'm young, unscrupulous, highly motivated, skilled. In essence what I'm saying is that society cannot afford to lose me.

I'm an asset.