September 2011


The Language of Where Food Comes From
“Thus we can hope to discover for each specific case how the cooking of a society is a language in which it unconsciously translates its structure—or else resigns itself, still unconsciously, to revealing its contradictions” – Claude Levi Strauss

Levi Strauss’s interesting culinary triangle looks at how societies’ methods of cooking are a language that reveals universal truths about societies. According to Levi Strauss, all societies “…cook in some manner at least some of its food.” Boiling, roasting, or smoking and a society’s application of language to these methods reveal certain universal traits about society. Susan Honeyman’s study of lure foods in narratives indirectly supports Levi Strauss’s thesis. A society’s discussion and use of lure food in society reveal society’s attitude toward children; it is a language the same way that cooking is a language. Tales of food and food itself are used as an Althusserian ideological state apparatus to “…socialze their [the texts’] audience as consumers first and workers incidentally or not at all” (Honeyman 211). These studies reveal how food and the story societies tell about food reflect on the societies as a whole; therefore, cannot the production of food and the distribution of food also reveal societal attitudes? If the ways a society talks about food and cooks food is a language, the way a society produces and distributes food is also a language that needs to be explored. The way Levi Strauss and Honeyman explore food illustrates an outdated relationship with food; a relationship that has been replaced with mass production of factory farmed food, which is now cooked by microwave and oven, not boiled or roasted.

Honeyman’s exploration illustrates the transition between a society where food is scarce, which is a society that more closely represents Levi Strauss’s study, to a society which views food as a commodity to be mass produced, which is the society that Mead is exploring. If Levi Strauss is making the distinction between culture and nature by looking at boiled versus roasted food, what kind of distinction can be made between societies that care for their food—ethically treats their food with respect and inflicts the least amount of harm possible to the meat they eat—versus Mead’s description of a society that has a disease of affluence and has seen the rise of commercial agriculture? For Mead, the ethical problem is how so many people with so much can ignore so many people with so little. Technology lets society know that there are many people around the world (and in society’s own backyard) starving, and technology has the capability to feed all these starving people but somehow does not.

However, I believe the problem is much more complicated than what Mead outlines, and that the problem is much more complicated than simply recognizing the reality of the problem as she implies (Mead 18). The only reasonable way to feed the growing population of earth is through factory farming, and factory farming accounts for more greenhouse gasses than the cars we drive and the energy we use, according to Jonath Safren Foer’s study Eating Animals. As Foer points out, “Globally, roughly 50 billion land animals are now factory farmed every year. (There is no tally of fish). Ninety-nine percent of all land animals eaten or used to produce milk and eggs in the United States are factory farmed” (34). Without getting into the details, I want to point out that because so many birds are packed so tightly together, the birds have to be fed antibiotics in order not to get sick, which means we are breading a super-influenza that will be resistant to medicine. The same goes for most of the animals we ingest; the animals have been fed synthetic food and nutrients and medicine, but this method is the only way to produce enough food to feed the world. Therefore, Mead’s ethical problem appears much more complicated than merely feeding thousands of starving people around the world. There is probably a way for technology to figure out how to get all this food to the starving millions, but will this solution merely keep millions of starving people alive just to have them die later of a super-flu? What does the language of our factory farming practices say about the society we have become? More than having enough food to feed millions of starving people, we need to ask how we have so much food? At what environmental and health cost are the animals we eat getting to our plates? If Levi Strauss can categorize society into nature versus culture by analyzing the manner in which the society cooks its meat, what would he say about our soceity’s treatment of the animals that are cooked? Certainly, eating animals that have been fed synthetic feed and medicine and processed into chicken nuggets falls under Levi Strauss’s “cultural” category but with much more negative implications than what he outlined as culture in his study.

Symons begins his essay with what he says is a silly critique: “How could you be so interested in food when half the world is starving.” I do not understand what is so “silly” about the question. I understand his implication. He is interested in the aesthetics of food as food employed in and through the meal; he finds value in this exploration and perceives the meal as a space for ethical and political thought as Epicurus taught. However, are current thinkers not thinking about “the pleasure of their own stomachs” because those pleasures are so hard to discuss (as Hume points out)? Additionally, Symons goes on to say there needs to be more talk about food, “both dinner parties and Third World hunger;” however, he never addresses Third World hunger. While I agree with (some of) his conclusions, I disagree with his attitude towards the ethical question of meals. Moreover, I disagree with how he is exploring his subject matter.

Symons’s exploration of friendships formed at meals is insightful (if not obvious), but what he does not explore in meals is more insightful. The silly question comes up again: what about families who cannot afford meals? What does Symons mean by “meal?” The meals Symons discusses appear to be elaborate dinning experiences that are shared in community and where there is more than enough food for everyone. However, in spite of Symons’s oversights, I agree that friendships are “maintained at the table.” I also agree that sharing food requires “a sensible etiquette that adds up to a view of ethics.” However, the ethics inspired by sharing food are limited. One of the greatest pleasures I have when I visit friends and family at home is eating with them, but it is a pleasure because we get to decide when and where to have our meals. What about people who do not have the pleasure or privilege of deciding when and where to eat?

It is through food that I build relationships with my friends and family. Every trip home involves sharing a decadent meal at a Cuban restaurant with friends; most of the time I spend with my family is sitting around a table, whether at my brother’s house or at a fancy establishment my aunt recommends. Sharing foods and places to eat and exploring new places to eat involves me in an entire process of building friendships and strengthening familial bonds. Furthermore, going to places to eat enhances my taste for fine foods. As Hume would point out, I can only know what fine food is—the art of food—by engaging in that standard, and I have been fortunate enough to have an aunt who has impeccable taste in cuisines. However, these relationships and exposures to fine foods, my ability to engage in the pleasures of my stomach (and palate), are only possible because I am privileged, and my problems with Symons’s analysis and exploration of Epicurus is his oversight of this privilege.

Symons’s oversight to the ethical of food choices is most acute when he criticizes scholars who examine food as a sign of social and cultural status. He appears to deny Barthes’s reading of food as signification. Food does mean, and the upper-crust drinking champagne “to demonstrate their social superiority” is not a deceptive way of reading food as Symons would imply; furthermore, inverting this approach, “as if people could be said to eat gruel to show they were poor” does not work in the same manner. The poor eating gruel is not a choice in the same way that the rich drinking champagne is. The poor eat gruel, precisely, because they are poor. I understand that Symons is implying that a rich person eating gruel would not signify poor-ness; however, a poor person can’t even afford champagne in an attempt to signify rich. On a basic level, these foods do signify a social status. Even a rich person eating gruel would signify the rich person’s connection to “the people” or “the street” or to some romantic past when his or her family was poor and had to work hard. This signification works the same way as when a rapper from a poor background raps about drinking Cristal or Don P.

Symons appears to want to justify his studies of the pleasures of the meal by trying to force a faux ethical stance when he should just assert that his thinking aligns with his elitist stomach. I don’t mean to say “philosophizing” food in the manner Symons wants to is bad. The basic difference here is one that can parallel literature: it is the difference between W.B. Yeats who wanted an art that can affect the world and change it, against an Oscar Wildean view of art for art’s sake. Of course, “eating is living, and living is eating,” but Symons’s tautology fails to explore the implications of those who do not get to eat, who do not get to share meals, who do not get to drink mimosas with their Sunday brunch with friends and family.

I am getting my butt kicked this semester. I feel like the word: hurtling.

I read half of “But as for Me, Who Am I (following)” and I’ll post on that soon enough. I also read the first chapter of Matthew Calarco’s Zoographies. Calarco writes clearly and very well, but of course I had to question some of his Heideggerian readings.

This is sloppy– I just don’t feel like I have the time to work it out. For now, as always: here are my fragments:

Zoographies:

Matthew Calarco examines Heideggerian thought in order to examine the animal and to illustrates the manners in which Heidegger both opened up a space to talk about animals while also marginalizing animals. However, I believe that Calarco’s analysis misses some of Heidegger’s more subtle points about Dasein being uniquely human (of course, I have not read Heidegger’s lectures where he deals with animals). Addtionally, this is not to say that Calarco’s examination is not fruitful and interesting, but I feel he attacks Heidegger too harshly (and again, this is my opinion not having read the essay that Calarco examines).

Calarco points out how Heidegger never directly deals with the question of animal Dasein, but he points out how Heidegger does deal with the question of the animal in general and is therefore useful to begin examining the animal question. Heidegger did not want to equate the animal with human: “In the case of undertaking a properly biological and zoological analysis of animals, the risk for Heidegger would be either reducing animals to mechanistic entities or conflating them with human beings” (20). Calarco examines this distinction that Heidegger is making, and goes on to emphasize, “whether such a distinction between human beings and animals can or even should be drawn is never raised for serious discussion” (23).

Furthermore, I agree with Calarco when he says that the distinctions should not “serve as a guide for further thought in philosophy or science” (23); however, I feel he is being a little unfair to Heidegger’s project of returning to the question of being. For instance, Calarco points out how Heidegger claims that animals are “poor in world,” but I think Calarco is misunderstanding Heidegger’s concept of world. At the very least, Calarco is not examing the distinctions Heidegger tirelessly examined in his concept of world.

I want to examine some of these points Calarco makes because while I agree with him that the question of the animal needs to be re-thought, I feel he could be using Heidegger to re-think the question of the animal in a more fruitful manner. For instance, when Calarco points out that Heidegger says the animal is poor in world, what “world” is Calarco examining? For Heidegger, there are four distinct meanings of world. Additionally, world is broken up into categorical world and world as object. With in these two categories are the four distinctions of world: One, is the world as universe and all the entities present-at-hand with in the universe. Second, the way of being of the universe—entities that do not relate to us. Third, the world we inhabit in everydayness, such as the academic world, business world, etc.—the worlds we cope in. Finally, the world of structures and background—the world that gives us the know how of how to cope in the world. These worlds are very different, and I think it is fair to say that under these terms, the animal, maybe is not “poor” of world, but has a different world than the one human’s inhabit. An animal does not have to decide if it is going to go into the academic world or the world of business. The animal, probably, does not care about the universe and the tools it uses in the world. The difference here is between the world of physics—what physicist engage in and are absorbed in and understand themselves in, and the physical world—the substance that physicist take a stand in/on. A rock has no world for Heidegger because a rock cannot take a stand on its existence. The question should be: can animals take a stand on their being? If one really examines the concept of world in Heidegger, Heidegger actually says Dasein is never “at home,” which is part of the anxiety Heidegger will examine.

The critique of Heidegger not wanting to equate animals to humans, and the distinction Heidegger upholds is more complicated than Calarco relates. That is to say, Calarco does examine how and why the distinction is complicated, but not within a Heideggerian context. Calarco also discusses the “as” structure that animals lack while also returning to the question of world by looking at Heidegger’s discussion of a domesticated animal. His conclusions here, in my reading of Heidegger, are very misleading. He claims that Heidegger’s conclusion is that to some extent, human’s can relate to (empathize with) animals but that the Dasein of humans is different from that of animals. And this is correct, I believe, but I think that the way Calarco outlines this conclusion is misleading. He is looking at these conclusions without examining why Heidegger would reach these conclusions.

The passage Calarco examines needs to be analysed closer and with Heidegger’s question of Dasein in mind. What Heidegger means when he says that the animal lives “with us” in the house, beloning to the house, but not as the roof the house, Heidegger is making a distinction between the way of being of the house and the way of being of a dog. The way of being of a roof is as equipment, which is different than the mode of being of an animal and the mood of being of humans. Furthermore, we “enable [animals] to move within our world.” The last two statements are contentious for Calarco because they specifically point out that animals do not have Dasein. However, looking at how Heidegger examines Dasein, then I would argue that animals, indeed, do not have Dasein because animals cannot comport themselves in the world; Calarco’s Heidegger quote addresses this: “we consider the dog itself—does it comport itself towards the table, towards the stairs as stairs?” Hubert Dreyfus explains comportment: “Heidegger uses ‘comportment’ to refer to our directed activity…He thus takes comportment or intentionality as a characteristic not merely of acts of consciousness, but of human activity in general” (Dreyfus 51). Therefore, the question is if animals can comport themselves, and I do not see how they could. Comportment is an activity that is entrenched in culture and the “as” structure of the world.

The dog cannot comport itself to the table or the stairs because those objects are outside of the dog’s mental structure. This goes back to the concept of the world. Dasein knows that the table is for eating and the chair is for sitting; furthermore, Dasein knows that the “as structure” of the chair is for eating. The question for the animal must become if the dog has objects in its world that it uses in order to take a stand on its being. For humans, I use a table to sit and eat a healthy meal because the way I take a stand on my being is by being someone who eats healthy. In order to do so, I need a table to eat at, a chair to sit in, etc., and I comport myself to these activities using this tools in the world.

Calarco goes on to explore Heidegger’s reading of Rilke and Nietzsche and Heidegger’s disproval of equating animal to human and of reversing animal and human. However, again, Calarco appears to be missing Heidegger’s basic project in exploring the being of humans. Calarco is right in highlighting Heidegger’s anthropormorcism, but Calarco fails at examining why Heidegger does so. Dasein is a being that makes its being an issue for it. Dasein can take a stand on its being. Furthermore, Calarco’s constant critique of Heidegger’s essentialism is troublesome because Heidegger did not believe in essentialism. Heidegger explored how there are many different views of what our “nature” is, which led him to conclude that our nature (essence) is simply to be the kind of being that through activity gives themselves a nature. Whatever the culture we are thrown in tells us we are, we get socialized into it and take that to be our nature. For instance, I am a grad student, so I take a stand on being a grad student by reading everyday, going to class, teaching, and preparing myself for my future. I cope in the world with computers, books, pencils, pens, and others in such a way so as to project myself into my future possibilities. Furthermore, while there is an ultimate goal to my dealings in the world, I just do them because it is how I have taken a stand on my existence. Can an animal be said to do the same? Can an animal chose how it will be in the world? Does an animal comport itself in the world towards a future directed self? I want to say no, but I cannot be certain. Can animals get outside of their “nature?” That is, can a dog, for instance, chose one way of being over another, something beyond training? Although here again, is our socialization just training? I do not know what analogy can be used here between humans and animals? I can decide tomorrow that I want to be a racecar driver and begin to comport myself towards that identity. I can begin to learn about cars, watch Nascar, learn to be a mechanic, and change my way of being, but can an animal do anything analogous?

This analysis of Dasein is what Calarco is missing in his critique of Heidegger. Ek-sistance for Heidegger is uniquely human because humans exist in a unique fashion. For Dasein, probability is higher than actuality. For instance, being a professor with tenure does not give your life meaning but being an educator does. The label does not define who a person is rather life defines who a person is. Teaching is something without a goal that can be actualized. There will never be a point where you can say that teaching is over. It is the thing which gives life meaning in and of itself. It organizes one’s behavior—being a teacher means you have to prepare lectures and read books and so you organize your life around these task. If I say I am a grad student but never go to class or open a book, then I am not actually a grad student. In this way, existence is uniquely human. This look at Dasein is not to defend Heidegger against all of the criticism that Calarco makes. Heidegger, as Derrida had pointed out, is Dasein-centric, and this Dasein-centrism does not bode well for animals. It does mean that animals cannot have Dasein though. Can an animal decide not to be or to be something?

The Letter
by Amy Lowell

Little cramped words scrawling all over
the paper
Like draggled fly’s legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncertain window and the
bare floor

Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing
in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth,
virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart
against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.

One of the most amazing lines I have ever read: “I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you.”

Who hasn’t felt that pain? Who has realized how futile a situation is?

“Love is like a puzzle. When you’re in love, all the pieces fit but when your heart gets broken, it takes a while to get everything back together.” ~Author Unknown

This quote summarizes the problem with heartbreak. There is something [a piece] missing once love is over. Furthermore, the problem of the missing piece is the problem of desire. Once desire is satisfied, the person is no longer desiring. Then how can heartbreak be explained, I wonder? I believe that the missing piece explains the pain of heartbreak, which is the paradox that I can not be complete with an other nor can I be complete on my own, and this idea comes from the mirror stage.

The mirror stage begins when the subject sees himself complete in the mirror; the subject forms an imago of himself on the Imaginary level, and then the subject moves into the symbolic stage when it learns language. As one enters the social symbolic (through language), one will lose this Imago (this wholeness) one has created and will spend the rest of its life trying to find this wholeness again. The subject is no longer whole but rather broken– split.

This split marks the subject’s lack–we are always-already de-centered, and we can never reach any kind of self-same identity. Therefore, when the subject falls in love, it feels that it has found wholeness again. This idea is easily illustrated in the language people use about being in love:

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”
-Aristotle

“I love you, not only for what you are, But for what I am when I am with you.”
-Roy Croft

“You’re nothing short of my everything.”
-Ralph Block

“The only true gift is a portion of yourself.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one.”
-John Keats

“Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.”
-Alexander Smith

The language here is about being one or about possession. It is violent. Furthermore, it is this idea of looking for another to complete me– a subject-supposed to know– that will full(y)fill me which makes heartbreak so painful. When I am rejected, the experience is that I am not what the other desires. Lacan. precisely, discusses desire as being the desire of the other– I want to be what the other desires, and I have staked my identity in being what the other desires. I have found my missing piece and have become the missing piece to the other.

When the other rejects me, the other has denied my identity; once again I am split–fragmented. I have been reintroduced to the moment of language that split my after the mirror stage.

These again are my fragments. I just wanted to think about this for a moment.

From here, I would like to explore the phenomenological experience of heartbreak. That empty gut feeling one gets, which feels (literally) like a piece has been ripped out from inside of the heartbroken. In heartbreak, perception is completely skewed. Time becomes the time of waiting (see: Howard Schwiertzer). Everything–all experience–becomes soaked in heartbreak.

I am taking a food and theory class that is fascinating. I am really enjoying the class, but the professor has not been impressed with my responses to the readings at all. Hopefully, this one is better:

Because Pig is a Filthy Animal, and I Don’t Eat Filthy Animals: Why Do We Still Follow the Rules


This clip from Pulp Ficiton posted here ran through my head as I read Jean Soler and Marvin Harris. Dietary restrictions for religion have always fascinated me, and I finally have some answers as to where Kosher and Muslim laws come from; however, there was not much said about Catholicism. Growing up, I was always told that I could only eat once a day on Fridays during lent, and that when I did eat, I could not eat meat. Even today, while I no longer go to mass nor participate or believe in any of the catholic dogma I was taught, I still feel that tinge of guilt if I find myself eating meat on Friday during lent. This guilt goes beyond what Jules (Sam Jackson) is talking about in the clip (that I am eating something that is “filthy”). I do not feel bad because I believe meat is unclean, and after reading a decent amount of Derrida, I certainly don’t believe in the purity of food as discussed by Soler (64).

For instance, Soler points out that unleavened bread has not been fermented and is therefore clean and pure; however, as Derrida would assert, the idea of purity is a myth that has been socially constructed. In Dissemination, Derrida says “The purity of the inside can only be restored if the charges are brought home against exteriority as a supplement, inessential yet harmful to the essence, a surplus that ought never to have come to be added to the untouched plenitude of the inside” (128). Derrida argues that the Western philosophical tradition warns that a pure inside is always threatened by something form the outside, and this idea is what Soler is describing when he points out how unleavened flower “is true to its natural state” (Soler 62) and not changed by something from the outside. Therefore, one idea of food laws is to keep the body pure. However, a kosher food like coffee stains the idea of purity. Caffeine “alters a man’s judgment” (Soler 62), but because it comes from the earth, coffee is “pure.” While I know the myth of purity is simply a myth , and I can stand back and understand why Soler posits, “Uncleanness…is simply disorder” (64), I still feel that tinge of guilt when I break a dietary rule from a religion I no longer follow.

I also feel guilty if I do not have pork on New Year’s Eve. My family (as most Cuban families) has a long tradition of cooking an entire pig in a Caja China all day on New Year’s. The holiday would not be the same if I didn’t share this experience with my family. Food after all, is story; isn’t this idea what these articles are exploring: that the story we tell ourselves about food shapes our society, beliefs, and food restrictions ? While these articles do an excellent job of exploring the origins of these diet restrictions, my question is why these rules are followed today when we know the anachronisms of these rules? I believe that Derrida’s deconstructed reading of purity applies in my New Year’s example and breaking the rules example. The holiday’s purity depends on following a [pure] tradition older than my parents and my parents’ parents, just as following the rules do.

The Pulp Fiction scene is a good starting point to begin discussing how these rules have survived because it illustrates a morally ambiguous character’s food restrictions. Besides the initial health reasons that Harris points out, these dietary restrictions are more complicated. For instance, my friends and I would go to bars and drink and smoke and ingest things that were by no means healthy or clean, yet on the way home, at Taco Bell at four in the morning on Friday, my lapsed Catholic friends would refuse to eat meat and remind me that I shouldn’t eat meat either . While the Pulp Fiction example is extreme, it relates. Jules is a hired killer, who, we see from the pervious scene, has no restrictions against eating meat (he takes a bite out of Brett’s burger). However, he won’t eat pork. Certainly, his reasons don’t concern health. He smokes and kills people, and yet he will refrain from eating pork because he views it as “filthy.” There are endless examples of people who do not believe in the religion they were brought up on, do not go to church, do not abide by any of their religion’s other rules and yet follow the dietary restrictions of their religion.

Slavoj Zizek has an interesting anecdote that I feel can be applied to explain why people hold on to dietary restrictions. Zizek describes his aversion to sharing food at a Chinese restaurant, which led to his friend’s psychoanalysis of Zizek’s fear to share a sexual partner. Zizek’s answer to this fear is a variation on De Quincey’s “art of murder.” The true horror for Zizek is “not sexual promiscuity but sharing a Chinese dish” (ix). What Zizek’s reading of De Quincey is describing is that art is amoral, so murders can be either mundane and dull or artistically beautiful in execution—murder can be art. De Quincey states, “If once a man indulges in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination” (2). That is to say, how many people have entered eternal punishment by some banal and innocent murder, which when perpetrated was no big deal to them, and ended up uncivilly eating meat on Friday during Lent .

Zizek’s reading of the “art of murder” can be applied to the non-religious who still follow religious food laws. The dietary restrictions followed today stem primarily from original sin. Forbidden food signifies the first sin humankind committed; therefore, lapsed Catholics still equate the food they are not supposed to eat with the introduction of pain and sin into the world. For example, after eating the fruit, woman has to feel pain during childbirth, man has to toil the ground, man rules over his wife, the snake has to crawl on the ground, and man and woman are thrown out of paradise. All for eating some fruit; meanwhile after murdering Abel, Cain gets a mark of distinction and “knows” his wife. It appears the punishment for eating the fruit might have been more severe than for murder, which is why I think lapsed Catholics won’t eat meat on Fridays despite not following any of the other rules, and the reason is because of De Quincey’s art of murder.

Zizek equates the idea of the art of murder to a “displacement” that underlies our Western philosophical attitude since the time of the Enlightenment and is why my lapsed Catholic friends refuse to eat meat while indulging in other sins. Zizek makes the connection between Immanuel Kant’s enlightenment ideas and the injunction to obey traditional authority. As Zizek describes: “We must be careful here not to miss what Kant is aiming at—he is not simply restating the common motto of conformism, ‘In private, think whatever you want, but in public, obey authorities!’ but rather its opposite: in public, ‘as a scholar before the reading public,’ use your reason freely, yet in private (at your post, in your family, i.e., as a cog in the social machine) obey authority” (ix-x). This idea is precisely what is happening with morally ambiguous characters, like Jules, and what is happening with people like friends of mine who will, in public, drink to excess, smoke, do drugs, but in private, will not eat meat during Lent. Furthermore, I believe that the food restrictions are followed because foods are a narrative; therefore, for example, part of my childhood memories are the smell of fish and chips and my mom’s special cocktail sauce after a day of playing outside on Lent Fridays. Following the rules is a way for one to remember the past so that it is not about the rule any longer but about the memory tied with food.

Works Cited:
Derrida, Jacques. Dissemination. Trans. Barbara Johnson. London: Continuum, 2004. Print.

Quincey, Thomas De. “On Murder Considered One of the Fine Arts.” W. W. Norton Company.
Books.wwnorton.com/books. Web. 3 Sept. 2011.

Foer, Jonathan Safran. Eating Animals. New York: Little, Brown and, 2009. Print.

Žižek, Slavoj. Enjoy Your Symptom!: Jacques Lacan in Hollywood and out. New York:
Routledge, 2008. Print.

This is a great mixture of image, sound, and words.

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