And they assembled against Moses and Aaron
and said to them, “You are too great.
Is not everyone—the entire community—holy?
And Does God not also dwell amongst them?
Why do you lift yourselves above the assembly of God?”
The moral of Fight Club, says Badiou, is that the narrator’s nemesis is himself.
The distinction between protagonist and narrator is an optical illusion
Produced by the reader’s inability to understand narrative as inherently fictional.
The newly renovated, high-tech room is filled
With bespectacled graduate students, trust-fund bohemians,
And some working class kids from Ohio.
Adorned in tattered jeans and anarchist buttons
The faithful congregation of the Church of Critical Theory sits
Spellbound by the Master’s vaguely utopian, vaguely despairing gospel.
In the corner of his mouth, some foam appears
Resembling a piece of cornished hen.
He speaks from his notes, rarely looking up.
He pauses on the word, “Occupy”
Like a preacher waiting for his “Amen”
But receives only shuffled nods.
The students doodle in jargon
Preparing their next order
The message cannot be found
but the enemy is clear:
anything big + Mark Zuckerberg.
Defenders of Korach compare him to Ché.
Critics see him more like Trump.
Everyone thinks the story is about politics.
But Ibn Ezra says the reality is far more tragic.
Korach was Moshe’s inner critic.
The voice that always said, “Who am I to do or think X?”
Moses couldn’t deal, so he banished it to the depths.
Of course, every time he lashed out
This was really Korach, protesting from within.
Levinas offers a more charitable reading.
Korach represents the voice of science
While Moses and Aaron, phenomenology.
The tale is a gigantomachia between the first-person
And the third.
“Redemption will come not when we banish Korach
But when we teach him humility.”
Dennett says it is Moses who must learn from Korach:
“Humility is in the scent of the frying pan.”
Tell me something you have not learned
From a book, and I will ask myself
Into your heart.
Don’t say, “Neurosis and prophecy are one.”
Or, “If I could take one book I don’t believe in
it would be Ecclesiastes.”
Most poetry is noise, you say.
I say most language is the ruffle
Of false friends.
But I say there is a spirit in us
Which sees before knowing
What it sees. A spirit which is a machine
Like no one can produce.
The walls won’t interrupt me
Though I doubt they can be turned.
The soft earth is open.
Let us climb into it
And return without report.