Nothing Mat(t)ers: A Feminist Critique of Postmodernism

4
NEUTRALITY AND DE/MEANING
Accordingly I shall now suppose, not that a true God, who as such must
be supremely good and the fountain of truth, but that some malignant
genius exceedingly powerful and cunning has devoted all his powers in
the deceiving of me; I shall suppose that the sky, the earth, colors,
shapes, sounds and all external things are illusions and impostures of
which this evil genius has availed himself for the abuse of my credulity;
I shall consider myself as having no hands, no eyes, no flesh, no blood,
nor any senses, but as falsely opining myself to possess all these things.
Further, I shall obstinately persist in this way of thinking; and even if,
while so doing, it may not be within my power to arrive at the
knowledge of any truth, there is one thing I have it in me to do, viz., to
suspend judgment, refusing assent to what is false. Thereby, thanks to
this resolved firmness of mind, I shall be effectively guarding myself
against being imposed upon by this deceiver, no matter how powerful or
how craftily deceptive he may be (Descartes: 1958, p. 181).
Columbine, my charming wife, the Columbine in the portrait, was
sleeping. She slept over there, in the big bed: I killed her. Why…. Ah,
here is why! My gold, she filched; my best wine, she drank; my back,
she beat, and hard, too: as for my forehead, she decorated it. A cuckold,
yes, that’s what she made me, and exorbitantly, but what does that
matter I killed her—because I felt like it, I am the master, what can
anyone say To kill her, yes…that pleases me. But how shall I go about
it… Of course, there’s the rope—pull it tight and blam! it’s done! yes,
but then the tongue hanging out, the horrible face no—the knife or a
sabre, a long sabre zap! in the heart…yes, but then the blood flows out
in torrents, streaming.— Ugh! what a devil of a…. Poison a tiny little
vial, quaff it and then…yes! then the cramps, the runs, the pains, the
tortures, ah! how awful (it would be discovered, anyway). Of course,
there’s the gun, bam! but bam! would be heard.—Nothing, I can think
of nothing. (He paces gravely back and forth, deep in thought.
By accident, he trips.) Ow! that hurts! (He strokes his foot). Oof! that
hurts! It’s not serious, it’s better already. (He keeps on stroking and
tickling his foot). Ha! ha! that’s funny! Ha! Ha! No, it makes me laugh.