Michel Foucault (Critical Lives)
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There is no better thinker than Foucault with which to begin the "Critical Lives" series. Though reticent about his personal life for most of his career, Foucault, in the last years of his life, changed his stance on the relationship between the personal and the intellectual and began to speak of an "aesthetics of existence" in which "the life" and "the work" become one. David Macey, a renowned expert on Foucault, demonstrates that these contradictions make it possible to relate Foucault's work to his life in an original and exciting way. Exploring the complex intellectual and political world in which Foucault lived and worked, and how that world is reflected in his seminal works, Macey paints a portrait of Foucault in which the thinker emerges as a brilliant strategist, one who-while fiercely promoting himself as a maverick-aligned himself with particular intellectual camps at precisely the right moments.
Michel Foucault traces the philosopher's career from his comfortable provincial
background to the pinnacle of the French academic system, paying careful attention to
the networks of friendships and the relations of power that sustained Foucault's
prominence in the academy. In an interview in 1966, Foucault said, "One ought to read
everything, study everything. In other words, one must have at one's disposal the general
archive of a period at a given moment." It is precisely this archive that Macey restores
here, accessibly relating Foucault's works to the particular context in which they were
question to take up with the bangee,” I said. “Not the banger.” The lines around Chet’s mouth deepened. I could hear Susan’s voice in my brain: “Banger” and “bangee” are sexist distinctions, the voice said, implying aggression on the one side and passivity on the other. I know. I know. I can’t think of everything. Then I heard her laugh. “That’s probably true,” he said. “But?” “But I can’t,” he said. I nodded. “Because you love her,” I said. “Yes.” “Chet,” I said. “This is not between
asked me why I hadn’t done a better job of protecting him. She never asked if I knew who did it or if I thought we could catch them. Just wanted to experience it secondhand so she could make something out of it.” “Many people would have,” Susan said. “Many people,” I said. “How’d she feel to you?” “I know her husband has recently been murdered. I know grief makes people odd sometimes,” I said. “But she seemed to be dramatizing herself. She didn’t cry or, as far as I could tell, come close to
raveled sleeve of care,” she said. “What car?” “A car registered to Lloyd,” I said. “But he wasn’t driving it?” “No,” I said. “I talked with him,” Rita said. “Says he barely knows Prince. Says Prince came to him through a regular client; said he feared being slandered by Walford University, and if he were, he’d want to sue them, and he wanted to know that Mort would represent him.” “Lloyd recommended him to the museum to negotiate the return of the painting,” I said. “Really?” Rita said.
“talking with me doesn’t require a lawyer.” Richards nodded. He shifted a little in his chair and stared for a moment out the window. Behind the museum, the snow was still clean and looked relatively fresh. “Herzberg is the name of a former owner of Lady with a Finch,” he said. “A wealthy Dutch Jew who died in one of the Nazi death camps during the Second World War. Lady with a Finch was confiscated by the Nazis.” “Where did you get it?” I said. “It was donated to the museum, in his will, by
the garage. Checks in to the hotel. I wait awhile. She don’t come out, so I go home. Hawk’s still there. This morning I’m there when she comes out of the hotel. No suitcase. Gets in her car, drives to the college. Parks in the lot, gets out and starts for her building. Guy walks up behind her and shoots her in the back of the head. I put one in him. Go over and check. She’s dead. He’s dead. I get back in the car and watch for a little while. Nothing happens. No one comes out for a look. I don’t