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Jean Baudrillard-The Perfert Crime

Jean Baudrillard-The Perfert Crime

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Published by Riccardo Mantelli

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Published by: Riccardo Mantelli on Apr 01, 2008
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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facing the problem of God's existence. Behind each one, infact, God had disappeared. Hewasn't dead, he had disappeared; that is, theproblem no longer presented itself. The problem of the existence or inexistenceof God had been resolved through simulation. Justas we have done with theproblem of truth or with the fundamental illusion of the world:we have resolvedit through technical simulation, and through the profusion of images inwhichthere is nothing to see.But one might think that it's the strategy of God himself to disappear, andprecisely behindimages. God takes advantage of the images in order todisappear, himself obeying theimpulse to not leave traces. And so the prophecyis realized: we live in a world where thehighest function of the sign is tomake reality disappear, and to mask at the same time thisdisappearance. Artdoes none other than this. The media today do none other than this.This is whythey are consigned to the same destiny.Because nothing, not even painting, wants anymore exactly to be looked at,but only to bevisually absorbed and circulated without leaving traces --tracing in a way, under cover of the colors of simulation, the simplifiedaesthetic form of impossible exchange --, it isdifficult today to recaptureappearances. Such that the language that would best accountfor this would be alanguage in which there is nothing to say, which would be theequivalent of apainting in which there is nothing to see. The equivalent of pure object, of anobject that is not an object.But an object that is not an object is precisely not nothing. It's an objectthat doesn't let upobsessing you with its immanence, its empty and immaterialpresence. The whole problem is, at the confines of nothingness, to materializethis nothingness -- at theconfines of emptiness, to trace the after-image ofemptiness -- at the confines of indifference, to play according to themysterious rules of indifference.The world is like a book. The secret of a book is always inscribed on asingle page. Therest is nothing but gloss and repetition. The ultimate finesseis to make this page disappear once the book is complete. Hence no one willguess what it is about (always the perfectcrime). Yet this page remainsdispersed within the book, between the lines; the bodyremains dispersedthroughout its scattered limbs, and one ought to be able to reconstituteitwithout the secret being lifted. This anagrammatic dispersion of things isessential totheir symbolic absence, to the force of their illusion.Identification of the world is futile. One must seize upon things in theirsleep, or in atotally other contingency where they are absent from themselves.Like in Kawabata's
TheSleeping Beauties
, where the old men spend thenight beside the sleeping bodies of thesewomen, mad with desire, but withouttouching them, and depart before they awake. Theytoo are stretched out next toan object that is not one, and whose total indifference, insleep, sharpens theerotic sense. But most enigmatic in Kawabata's story, and whichcreates thismarvelous irony, is that nothing finally, right through to the end of thetale,allows one to know whether the women are really sleeping or whether theyaren'tslyly getting off, from the depths of their simulated sleep, from theirseduction andfrom their own deferred desire.Those not sensitized to the illusion of amorous feeling, to the degree ofirreality and play,

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