Derrida’s dead, apparently. But then, as this is a text, perhaps he isn’t.
I spent some time trying to read his impenetrable tosh before I gave up and I once met someone who’d photographed him. The photo was a monochrome, backlit, sage head resting on hand pile of crap, the visual equivalent of a Hallmark card’s verse, that even Derrida wouldn’t have had any difficulty deconstructing.
The Beeb is reporting him as an ‘influential philosopher’ but, of course, they’re interviewing some bod from the ICA rather than a philosopher to review his life and ‘work’.
If you’d like to read how very, very bad his writing was, try something similar (but funnier) from The Postmodernism Essay Generator.
Derrida’s dead. The dodo’s dead. Dodi’s dead. Di’s dead. Dido must be worried.
