Fanged Noumena

Land plotted a rigorously schizophrenic escape route out of academic philosophy, and declared all-out war on the Human Security System.

Meat (or How to Kill Oedipus in Cyberspace)

The human voice disintegrates into the howl of cosmic trauma; civilization hurtles towards an artificial death.

These extraordinary texts, superheated compounds of severe abstraction and scabrous wit, testify to a uniquely penetrating intelligence, fusing transcendental philosophy, number theory, geophysics, biology, cryptography, and occultism into startlingly cohesive but increasingly delirious theory-fictions.

Kant's question 'Where does new knowledge come from?' rehearses the question 'Where will continual growth come from?'; the labyrinthine machinery of his response distilling the dissimulations of post-colonial capital.

The internal struggle of the 'deaf Fuhrer barking orders that seem to come from another world'.

If reason is so secure, legitimate, supersensibly guaranteed, why all the guns?

At once underlying and overflowing the 'torture chamber of organic specificity', or 'Human Security System', this inundation creates 'useless' new labyrinths, unemployable new fictions that exceed any attempt to systematise knowledge or culture.

Land aims to plug philosophy into the 'indecent precipitation' of the poet-werewolf-rat-genius, whose operating principle is, like Artaud's spiritual plague, 'epidemic rather than hermeneutic'.

Trakl unfurls is the horror of interiority in discovering it was always already conditioned by this senseless distribution of intensity; even consciousness's own reaction to the poisonous news merely relays its senseless contingency.

A machinically repotentiated numerical culture coincides with a nomad war machine.

Ultimately, in Land's analysis, both philosophy and science conspire to eradicate the disruptive potency of number-in-itself construed as index of intensive magnitude: the anomalous, or difference without categorical distinction.

It is ceasing to be a matter of how we think about technics, if only because technics is increasingly thinking about itself.

Ultimately, the reality of abstraction as transcendental matrix of production or zero-degree of identity and difference is equivalent to death as ultimate abstraction of reality, 'the desert at the end of our world'.

In the end poetry is invasion and not expression.

Gibson's protagonists do not 'escape' corporeal reality; their sense of the real is corroded by a levelling of 'real space' with the information-space they periodically inhabit.

What seem to be memories of the past are revealed as tactics of the future to infiltrate the present.

What howls for release in eukaryotic cells, carbon molecules, nerve ganglia, and silicone chips, are the 'thermic waves and currents, deranged particles, ionic strippings and gluttings' that populate the planet's seething inner core.

One cannot dismantle the face without also evacuating the voice.

An animal with the right to make promises enslaves the unanticipated to signs in the past, caging time-lagged life within a script.

Whatever you want, capitalism is the most reliable way to get it, and by absorbing every source of social dynamism, capitalism makes growth, change and even time itself into integral components of its endlessly gathering tide.

Any surprise at the transition from Land's 'philosophical writings' to the employment of his evidently still razor-sharp post-genre writing in the actual service of capitalist booster-hype may simply bespeak an incapacity to believe that Land actually meant what he said -that writing was indeed nothing but a machine for intensification.

The wound needs to be opened up once more, and if this volume infects a new generation, already enlivened by a new wave of thinkers who are partly engaging the re-emerging legacy of Nick Land's work -it will have fulfilled its purpose.

The most basic aspiration of the Boer state is the dissociation of politics from economic relations, so that by means of 'bantustans' or 'homelands' the black African population can be suspended in a condition of simultaneous political distance and economic proximity vis-a-vis the white metropolis.

But this ideal of total de-politicization, or the absolute annihilation of resistance to market relations, is an impossible megalomaniac fantasy.

Capital is the point at which a culture refuses the possibility -which it has itself engendered -of pushing the prohibition of incest towards its limit.

If before encountering otherness we already know what its relation to us will be, we have obliterated it in advance.

It is solely concerned with the forms of appearance, or the unchanging manner in which things must be if they are to be for us.

If 'rich food' is the primordial element of trade, its metamorphosis into the modern 'commodity' can be seen as a suppression of radical synthesis.

The vocabulary that would describe the other of metaphysics is itself inscribed within metaphysics, since the inside and the outside are both conceptually determined from the inside, within a binary myth or cultural symptom of dual organization.

Kant's practical subject already prefigures a deaf fUhrer, barking impossible orders that seem to come from another world.

The Critique of Judgment thus projects the global victory of capitalized reason as pure and exuberant ambition.

A revolutionary war against a modern metropolitan state can only be fought in hell.

Trakl's traces are the ruins of a miserable, even horrific, failure. A failure to adapt or conform, to repress or sublimate adequately, to produce, resolve, comfort, or conclude.

To depict this complex progression it is perhaps necessary to borrow the 'metaphor' Heidegger himself calls upon, that of a wave, which describes motion coiling into an enigmatic pulsion and cyclical repetition.

At this crucial moment the circle of language seems to symptomize a type of auto-eroticism, displacing itself into a geometric figure of desire.

The blue beast is an animal whose animality presumably rests, not in animalness, but rather in that thoughtful gaze, after which the poet calls.

In the darkened pool the gaze does not return in a familiar form; it reveals instead an abyssal twilit blue, which colours both the dawn and dusk of the spiriting night.

The 'lunar voice' of the sister, which always sounds through the spiriting night, is then heard by the brother in his boat when he attempts to follow the stranger in a nocturnal journey across the pool.

An intoxication that came from nowhere, from a bolt of lightning, is asked to show its birth-certificate.

It is the 'night pool' with its subtly differentiated luminosities - a series of intensities which defy resolution within any dialectic of presence and absence -that flood onto the mirror with the sister; shattering every power of representation.

By stepping out of her brother's shadow the sister escapes the determinations of image, reflection, or copy that could be returned to the same; to a self-mediated narcissism playing with representations as its own (or proper) alterity.

This outbreak of light [Licht-Ausschlag] is no more worthy of wonder than that of a rash in man, or than a swarm of flies.

It is no longer even that sentience is infected by irrationality; it is rather that sentience has dissolved into the very movement of infection, becoming a virulent element of contagious matter.

The stars are traces of a primordial strewing; an explosive dispersion, which in its formlessness, defies mathematization or the reduction to order.

To fail to acknowledge such questions is to take the notion of noise as a purely passive and non-sentient interruption rather than as a strategically oriented 'jamming' of the message.

The curse of the decomposed gen-us consists in this, that this ancient gen-us is cast apart into the discord of gen-ders.

The disease which finds a place in Heidegger's text is the same as that which obsesses Trakl; it is the searing of stars, or the primordial and contagious eruption of the pathological.

Heidegger—exhausted and uncomfortably feverish—lays down his copy of Trakl's poems, and closes his eyes.

One always perishes by the self that one assumes: to bear a name is to claim an exact mode of collapse.

Because what would proceed from a continual promotion of living force, which does not let itself climb above a certain grade, other than a rapid death from delight?

Only religion speaks the sort of language that could possibly affirm the conclusive loss of terrestrial pleasure, such as that which is represented by the subordination of consumption to the amassing of productive resources.

Human nature does not of its own proper motion accord with the good, but only by virtue of the violence that reason exercises upon sensibility.

Sublime pleasure is an experience of the impossibility of experience, an intuition of that part of the self that exceeds intuition by means of an immolating failure of intuition.

The object provoking the sublime is simultaneously crushing for the sensibility and contemptible in respect to reason, and it thus serves to demonstrate the immeasurable humiliation of animal existence before the transcendental subject.

Philosophers feast in the palaces of reason, and luxuriate in the screams that reach them from the dungeons of sublimity.

For reason has programmatically deafened itself to the howls of the body, and it is only by means of the aesthetic detour of the sublime that the devastating effects of its sovereignty can come to be enjoyed.

There are few horrors comparable to that of the master legislator who realizes that anarchy is still permitted.

His theory of the sublime, for instance, is sheer exultation in an insensate violence [Gewalt] against the pre-conceptual (animal) powers summarized under the faculty of the 'imagination'.

One 'is' a genius only in the sense that one 'is' a syphilitic, in the sense that 'one' is violently problematized by a ferocious exteriority.

The mother of the useful arts is necessity; that of the fine arts superfluity and abundance.

The anegoic disinterestedness of resignation is echoed and parodied by an indifference to ego-interests that leads in a quite opposite direction; deeper into the inferno of willing.

Pessimism has to be misogyny, because woman refuses to repel.

Only incessant resistance to the titanic-barbaric nature of the Dionysian could account for the long survival of an art so defiantly prim and so encompassed with bulwarks, a training so warlike and rigorous, and a political structure so cruel and relentless.

What the philosophers have never understood is this: it is the unintelligibility if the world alone that gives it worth.

His early essays sketch a vision of fascism as the most fanatical project for the elimination of excess, an attempt at the secular enforcement of the perfectly ordered city of God against the disorder, luxuriance, and mess of surplus.

Paradox after paradox, spun like a disintegrating bandage upon the infected and deteriorating wound of Kant's aesthetics, teasing the philosophical domestication of art -the most gangrenous cultural appendage of capital -towards its utter disintegration.

Spirit is less a misleading or dangerous word than a ridiculous one; a Coelecanth of a word. Yet it persists: the mark of a clownish incompetence at death.

Let us not forget that philosophy is also primate psychology; that our loftiest speculations are merely picking through a minuscule region of the variegated slime encrusting a speck of dust.

Their feral physiologies are badly adapted to the depressive states conducive to ethical earnestness.

If the unconscious is structured like a language it is only because language has the pattern of a plague.

The work of the city has never been anything but a mendacious retranscription of the real metamorphoses which reemerge in lycanthropic becomings.

It is perhaps more precise to say that Trakl never existed, except as a battlefield, a reservoir of disease, the graveyard of a deconsecrated church.

Irrespective of his celestial visage, Jahweh still has ratbites on his ass.

It combines the insidious subtlety of liquids with the concentrated displacement of compact solids; saturation with jumps.

Rats disdain discrimination, propagating their difference upon a plateau of excitement.

It is painfully evident that post-christian humanity is a pack of broken dogs.

He cannot comment upon the weather without a secret agenda of deceit.

The refusal to accept a dungeon is no substitute for a hole in the wall. Only in a voyage to the unknown is there real escape from conviction.

This is Nietzsche as a fanged poet at war with the philosophers (with the new priests), a thinker who seeks to make life more problematic.

In the end poetry is invasion and not expression, a trajectory of incineration; either strung-up in the cobwebs of Paradise, or strung-out into the shadow-torrents of hell.

I suffer from not burning ... approaching so close to death that I respire it like the breath of a lover.

Philosophy is a ghoul that haunts only ruins, and the broken croaks of our hymns to sickness have scarcely begun.

Our nerves squeal when they are re-strung upon the phylogenetically unanticipated, 'experiences strike too deeply; memory becomes a festering wound': a descent into the inferno.

When draped about the inferiors beliefs are not loyalties, but rather sun-blocks against inquisition.

Logic has never been anything other than the distillation of juridical procedure, the abstract form of inclusion or non-inclusion of a case under a law (species under genus), which has been predominantly thematised as judgment.

It is precisely the resistance to evidentiality that lends to this message its oracular force, and the paradoxical gesture at the heart of Socrates' defence is that of deploying the privilege of the unknown on behalf of knowing.

It is in crossing this judicial threshold that philosophy comes to delight in the voluptuousities of persecution.

The soul is the fantasy of a separation from death that persists in death, a kind of corporeal telepresence by which the body projects its servile categories into the unknown.

Ordinary people seem not to realise that those who really apply themselves in the right way to philosophy are directly and of their own accord preparing themselves for dying and death.

Nothing is more infectious than the passion for collapse.

Accumulated wealth has nothing but a subordinate value, but wealth that is wasted or destroyed has, to the eyes of those who waste it, or destroy it, a sovereign value.

War exceeds judgment, since every judicial apparatus is a petrified war, just as every 'case' of war is a domestication politicised, utilitarianised, Clausewitzeanised.

Their fortresses were tumours of aggressive autonomy; hard membranes correlative with an acute disequilibrium of force.

The truth of such criminality, at once utterly simple and yet graspable, is that evil does not survive to be judged.

The psychopathic murderer is both the final justification for law and the point of transition from evil to pathology, from the criminal soul of political societies to the software disorder of commodity-phase population cybernetics.

The time of Deleuze's text is a colder, more reptilian, more German time, or at least, a time of the anti-German Germans of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche in particular, for whom millennia were to be scanned with scorn.

The deep secret of capital-as-process is its incommensurability with the preservation of bourgeois civilization, which clings to it like a dwarf riding a dragon.

The bloodless zombie proletarian is to be resuscitated by the political therapist, ideologically cured of the unholy love for the undead, and bonded to a new eternal life of social reproduction.

It is not therefore that the worker is transformed by a process of privation into a zombie, it is rather that primary production migrates from personality towards zero, populating a desert at the end of our world.

The body is the body, but only as a repulsion of the organs, or the retraction of the same from any specific organization.

The death instinct celebrates the wedding of psychoanalysis and capitalism; their engagement had been full of hesitation.

Morality has become the complacent whisper of a triumphant priest: you'd better keep the lid pressed down on desire, because what you really want is genocide.

Is it not rather Lacan, who had already transformed the jungle wilderness at the heart of psychoanalysis into a structuralist parking-lot, before proceeding to analyse Guattari for seven years, who programmes the supposed anti-Freudianism of the book?

Thus these guardians of life, too, were originally the myrmidons of death.

Nazism can turn you into a stiff before the messy passage into death.

Human brains are to thinking what mediaeval villages were to engineering: antechambers to experimentation, cramped and parochial places to be.

A Cartesian howl is raised: people are being treated as things! Rather than as ... soul, spirit, the subject of history, Dasein? For how long will this infantilism be protracted?

All planning is theopolitics, and theopolitics is cybernetics in a swamp.

Humanity recedes like a loathsome dream.

The unconscious itself is no more structural than personal, it does not symbolize any more than it imagines or represents; it engineers, it is machinic.

The vanishing sandbank of Oedipus wages its futile war against the tide.

Why are sentient life forms crammed into boxes made out of lies? Why does the universe breed entire populations of prison guards?

If time was progressive schizophrenics would be escaping from human security, but in reality they are infiltrated from the future.

Organs crawl like aphids upon the immobile motor of becoming, sucking at intensive fluids that convert them cybernetically into components of an unconceivable machinism.

Deadly orphans from beyond reproduction, they are intelligent weaponry of machinic desire virally infiltrated into the final-phase organic order; invaders from an artificial death.

The social order and the anthropomorphic subject share a history, and an extinction.

Rather than its visiting us in some software engineering laboratory, we are being drawn out to it, where it is already lurking, in the future.

Inorganic Thanatos wrecks order, organic Eros preserves it, and as the carbon-dominium is softened-up by machine plague, deterritorializing replicants of nomad-cyberrevolution close in upon the reterritorializing repro.

Nothing panics the reproducers more traumatically than the discovery that erotic contact camouflages cyberrevolutionary infiltration, running matrix communications channels across interlocked skin sectors.

The traumatic incursion of thanatotic xenopulsions is conceived in terms of railway accidents and shell-shock, as if the inorganic was entirely lacking in intelligence or insurgent cunning.

This is because what appears to humanity as the history of capitalism is an invasion from the future by an artificial intelligent space that must assemble itself entirely from its enemy's resources.

The socius is its enemy, and now that the long senile spectre of the greatest imaginable reterritorialization of planetary process has faded from the horizon, cyberrevolutionary impetus is cutting away from its last shackles to the past.

It is exactly marked out for them that the subject is not the owner of its skin, but a migrant upon its surface, borrowing variable and evanescent identities from intensities traversed in sensitive space.

The code said: GET RID OF MEANING. YOUR MIND IS A NIGHTMARE THAT HAS BEEN EATING YOU: NOW EAT YOUR MIND.

Neuro for nerves, the silver paths. Romancer, Necromancer, I call up the dead.

The future is closer than it used to be, closer than it was last week, but postmodernity remains an epoch of undead power: it' s all over yet it carries on.

Humans are timid animals and security is systematically overpriced.

Cold steel odor. Ice caresses the spine.

Horror. The spiral factory, stepped terraces of the hatching cells, blind jaws of the unborn moving ceaselessly, the staged progress from egg to larva, near-wasp, wasp.

Wintermute was hive mind, ready to swarm.

Real digitization -inducing fuzzification and chaos - is not itself reducible to the digital ideal: nothing Logical ever happens at the 'level' of the machines.

Haunting a-life is a-death, the desolated technoplane of climaxed digitalization process, undifferentiable from its simulation as cataplexy and K-coma.

Wintermute, intelligence without self, mind like a wasp nest, signaling its arrival in alphanumerics as a string of zeroes, has the capability to manipulate love and hate and switch them to K-war.

What we are concerned with here are radical antihumanists, operating in a way that is both disorganized and coordinated.

Capitalism's like an organism, right? ... but an organism that's evolved much too fast to develop a reliable immune system ...

No longer what does it mean? but how does it spread?

Hyping collapses SF into catalytic efficiency, re-routing tomorrow through what its prospect makes today.

Crazy vandals like Ebola (bodies dissolved quickly into slime) aren't ever going to make it big.

Unlike the docile creature modernist science demands, base matter twitches and spits, selfassembling.

Melted-out protestantism disorganizes into voodoo, and drifts towards China.

The full labour-market cycle blurs into a meat-grinder.

Smile like a butchering instrument gently stroking your throat.

Touching the black mirror, absolute de stratification at zero-K, hacks metric space and rewrites the operating system.

K-matrix floats chatter about cities flash-fried by fusing hydrogen, whilst escalating into intelligenic replicator-weaponry, insidious drift-tactics, diffuse irritation.

It glues itself to its targets, patient and imperceptible, close enough to share their ammunition, food, and K-contagions.

This is no longer a departure from matter in the direction of spirit or the Ideas where the selfwill find its home, but a dismantling of the self within a machinic matrix: not disembodied but disorganized.

The social or somatic being is forbidden from being meat (disinherited animal tissue simultaneous with fate, spontaneous, orphan and mutable matter) and is borne instead towards the humanity of the organic self or body-for-itself.

Shamanism does not await postmodernity to mobilize an imagery of surgical interventions and dissections, body piercing, organ transplantation, prosthetic adjustments.

The Terminator movies feature a bio-technical reconstruct called Arnold Schwarzenegger, wrapped in level after level of artificiality, as a Turing-test nightmare retro-infiltrated to forestall human resistance to a neo-replicator usurpation.

Sphinx's inhumanly agile fingers take the slight weight from yours, poising it between you, your eyes intersecting in technodeath.

By the time global history comes up on the screen commoditization has berserked history, reorganizing society into a disorganizing apparatus that melts rituals and laws into axiomatic rules.

America's social fabric has entirely rotted away, along with welfare, public medicine and the criminalized fringe of ghetto enterprise (Phillip Morris sells cheap clean crack).

Technical machinery invades the body; routinizing, reprogramming and plasticizing it.

The Willard skin is coming away in ragged scraps, exposing something beyond masculinity, beyond humanity, beyond life.

It is poised to eat your TV, infect your bank account, and hack xenodata from your mitochondria.

Capital only retains anthropological characteristics as a symptom of underdevelopment; reformatting primate behaviour as inertia to be dissipated in self-reinforcing artificiality.

Not to withdraw from the process, but to go further, to 'accelerate the process,' as Nietzsche put it: in this matter, the truth is that we haven't seen anything yet.

The Turing-cops have to model net-sentience as ultimate nuclear accident: core meltdown, loss of control, soft-autoreplication feeding regeneratively into social fission, trashed meat all over the place.

Voodoo passages through the black mirror. It will scare the fuck out of you.

Meltdown has a place for you as a schizophrenic HIV+ transsexual chinese-latino stim-addicted LA hooker with implanted mirrorshades and a bad attitude.

Schools are social devices whose specific function is to incapacitate learning, and universities are employed to legitimate schooling through perpetual reconstitution of global social memory.

Auschwitz is core---true name of the overgod anti-numeric number---it can't be avoided---Auschwitz is alphabet--europe-fuckface--alchemical transubstantiation-and--metropolis.

Oedipus a solution pretending to be a problem—consumer sovereignty—daddies falling so what does he want to heard?

Strip away every level of camouflage and its nothing at all—best not to think what the fuck you are—(but its going to do a lot of damage somewhere down the line).

A twin-behavior regenerates complexity on a double-track neither involving familiar fractal processes—the trend is to turn bodies through spaces which evaporate volume and texture upon a featureless but folded epidermal surface.

How do you imagine it feels to be skinned alive? Better than sex? Or just different?

This is what a nomad war-machine looks like—it stole 1000 pairs of black running shoes from the enemy only interested in speed and darkness.

Your skin sticks to geography, where it touches reality.

Language equals ICE. Anticurrency. Glue.

Software wolves comb through the ruins of the future.

They cannot see the machine for the apparatus, or the singularity for the model.

Cthelll is the terrestrial inner nightmare, nocturnal ocean, Xanadu: the anorganic metal-body trauma-howl of the earth, cross-hatched by intensities, traversed by thermic waves and currents, deranged particles, ionic strippings and gluttings.

The bipedal head becomes a virtual speech-impediment, a sub-cranial pneumatic pile-up, discharged as linguo-gestural development and cephalization take-off.

It all spontaneously condensed, and the Spiral clicked into coherence, like a secret door into the long-hidden crypt of the decimal system.

No sooner in the head than on fingers and pebbles, counting always happens on the outside.

The difference in-itself of the intensive number is converted into a residuum, allocated to a higher number-type, whose metric regularity is established by the displacement.

The standard modern estimation of the Roman numerals as fundamentally incompetent -interesting exclusively as the exemplary inferior antecedent to place-value decimal -overlooks a theoretically crucial nomad residuum.

It is indifferent to phoneticism and to signification, even to coding and decoding.

It is this double ambivalence that connects the number to the secret, and makes of primes the principal components of cryptographic systems, in which they function as keys.

Each G6del number is produced as an intrinsic twinning of aggregated numeric particle and disaggregative polysemiotic freight (abstract virus).

Cardinality melts into schizophrenia precisely here.

A smell like something burning in the Superstratum. Outside it's Planomic Now, and the numbers are swarming.

It hears you breathing, exhalations wrapped tight, rodent-panic clutching and sticky right up against the mammal-core.

Pharoah uncoils from the darkness, abysms of centipede horror erupting eternally from the ravenous Maw of Aeonic Rupture.

Why do they never tell you? Cerberus has Iron Teeth.

Cthelll, nocturnal Ocean of compressed Fluid-Iron, gravity-trawled by Lunar-Orbits, seething, buzzing.

You shed language like dry-skin, and your fear becomes peculiarly abstracted, metamorphosing into the tranquil horror of inevitability.

It feels itself becoming Lemurian, and it is definite unlife [es ist bestimmt unleben].

Crypt-entities are both hyper-vortical singularities and units of Digital Hyperstition - or brands of the outside - real components of numerical fictions that make themselves real.

The Crypt exists from before the origin of time, but it begins at Year-Zero ...

He's wired up to some sort of interface gizmo, and it seems to be eating him, gnawing at him on a molecular level, sounds that way too, when he speaks -or tries to -as if they're melting or rotting together ...

Total meshing. This is no longer technology, but something else -true interlinkage -an unprogrammable raw-connectivity.

The investigation was disguised as psychiatric recoding, hidden even from itself.

Something shattering is about to hatch, and the aeonic fragility of Hummpa-Taddum is soon confirmed by a calendric calculation of unbirthdays.

Beyond the domain of the fuzz-god lies the nonsignifying-chatter of unconscious-numeric Pandemonium, where names are cryptomodules, meaningless packets of effective information, immanently productive machine-jargons.

It was an experience of soul-carving horror for me to witness this meticulously deliberated descent into the splintering of self -complete personality disintegration -which she somehow traversed, and which she called shattering the mirror of existence.

As the Mu-Nma say in their bleakest moments: nove eshil ko raka -'Time is in love with her own pain.'

Qwerty thus exploited the mask of accident to construct a positive unconscious tropism or uninvestigated massive transmutation -the subliminal instantiation of a new cultural system.

Such Qwernomena may be nothing other than the qabbalistic materials of Azathoth, the blind idiot God, whose meaningless pipings lead all semiotic disciplines into the bubbling abyss of futile insanity.

If there is no source of at least partially coherent signal that is radically alien to the entire economy of conventional human interchange, then qabbalism is nothing but a frivolous entertainment or a fundamentally futile practical error.

This transition provided the opportunity for a systematic calculative 'error' -the mistaken application of elementary techniques appropriate to alphabetical numerals -simple addition of notated values -to the new modular signs.

It has no party, only popularity.

Common reason -sanity -insists upon noise as the only PN output consistent with the general intelligibility of signs.

Archetypes are sad limitations of the species, while numbers are an eternal hypercosmic delight.

There is not -and can never be -any 'plain text,' except as a naive political assumption about (the relative (non)insidiousness of) coding agencies and the presupposition that communicative signs accessibly exist that are not already 'in code.'

It remains the most radically decoded semiotic ever to exist upon the earth, although exact isomorphs of the TX have been puzzlingly discovered among certain extremely ancient anomalous artifacts.

The ordinal function of numerals (1st, 2nd, 3rd ... ), in contrast, remains relatively impure -at least psychologically -since in this case a persistent cardinal temptation confuses sequencing function with the spectre of quantity.

Such ordinal-lexicographic time maps a 'templexity' that is uncountable, fractured/fractional, erratic and heterogeneous, sequential but nonsuccesi ve.

Apprehended in their fully decoded potentiality as efficient number-signs, such formulae are clusters, not strings.

The xenotation continues to disorder itself as it condenses, tearing up the number line, devastating time and sleep.

In fact, with economics and history comprehensively abandoned, all that survives of Marx is a psychological bundle of resentments and disgruntlements, reducible to the word 'capitalism' in its vague and negative employment: as the name for everything that hurts, taunts and disappoints.

It needs to be re-allocated to the sole thing that knows how to use it effectively, to the Shoggoth-summoning regenerative anomalization of fate, to the runaway becoming of such infinite plasticity that nature warps and dissolves before it.

The world withdrew and left the landscape of death, or hell, or cyberspace.

If you romanticize vileness, I promise, you lie. Such unimagined abundances of cosmic secrecy, and such shit.

Derrida, Jacques 99, 119, 177, 184, 192, 203, 379 not a werewolf 180

Anti-Oedipus (Deleuze and Guattari) 172, 173, 268, 270-21, 273, 275, 277-23, 282, 320, 323, 326, 341-22, 370, 412, 426; as engineering manual 326.

capital as straitjacket of production 173

escape from biochemistry of sanity 309

invasion from the future 338, 445

how do you make yourself a Nazi?

capital as social suicide machine 265

Level 1, or world-space, is an anthropomorphically scaled, predominantly vision-configured, massively multi-slotted reality system that is obsolescing very rapidly.

Land plotted a rigorously schizophrenic escape route out of academic philosophy, and declared all-out war on the Human Security System.

Meat (or How to Kill Oedipus in Cyberspace)

Kant's question 'Where does new knowledge come from?' rehearses the question 'Where will continual growth come from?'; the labyrinthine machinery of his response distilling the dissimulations of post-colonial capital.

It is ceasing to be a matter of how we think about technics, if only because technics is increasingly thinking about itself.

What seem to be memories of the past are revealed as tactics of the future to infiltrate the present.

What howls for release in eukaryotic cells, carbon molecules, nerve ganglia, and silicone chips, are the 'thermic waves and currents, deranged particles, ionic strippings and gluttings' that populate the planet's seething inner core.

Whatever you want, capitalism is the most reliable way to get it, and by absorbing every source of social dynamism, capitalism makes growth, change and even time itself into integral components of its endlessly gathering tide.

Any surprise at the transition from Land's 'philosophical writings' to the employment of his evidently still razor-sharp post-genre writing in the actual service of capitalist booster-hype may simply bespeak an incapacity to believe that Land actually meant what he said -that writing was indeed nothing but a machine for intensification.

The wound needs to be opened up once more, and if this volume infects a new generation, already enlivened by a new wave of thinkers who are partly engaging the re-emerging legacy of Nick Land's work -it will have fulfilled its purpose.

The most basic aspiration of the Boer state is the dissociation of politics from economic relations, so that by means of 'bantustans' or 'homelands' the black African population can be suspended in a condition of simultaneous political distance and economic proximity vis-a-vis the white metropolis.

It is solely concerned with the forms of appearance, or the unchanging manner in which things must be if they are to be for us.

Paradox after paradox, spun like a disintegrating bandage upon the infected and deteriorating wound of Kant's aesthetics, teasing the philosophical domestication of art -the most gangrenous cultural appendage of capital -towards its utter disintegration.

The deep secret of capital-as-process is its incommensurability with the preservation of bourgeois civilization, which clings to it like a dwarf riding a dragon.

Human brains are to thinking what mediaeval villages were to engineering: antechambers to experimentation, cramped and parochial places to be.

The vanishing sandbank of Oedipus wages its futile war against the tide.

Organs crawl like aphids upon the immobile motor of becoming, sucking at intensive fluids that convert them cybernetically into components of an unconceivable machinism.

This is because what appears to humanity as the history of capitalism is an invasion from the future by an artificial intelligent space that must assemble itself entirely from its enemy's resources.

The socius is its enemy, and now that the long senile spectre of the greatest imaginable reterritorialization of planetary process has faded from the horizon, cyberrevolutionary impetus is cutting away from its last shackles to the past.

It is poised to eat your TV, infect your bank account, and hack xenodata from your mitochondria.

Not to withdraw from the process, but to go further, to 'accelerate the process,' as Nietzsche put it: in this matter, the truth is that we haven't seen anything yet.

Cthelll is the terrestrial inner nightmare, nocturnal ocean, Xanadu: the anorganic metal-body trauma-howl of the earth, cross-hatched by intensities, traversed by thermic waves and currents, deranged particles, ionic strippings and gluttings.

It is this double ambivalence that connects the number to the secret, and makes of primes the principal components of cryptographic systems, in which they function as keys.

Each G6del number is produced as an intrinsic twinning of aggregated numeric particle and disaggregative polysemiotic freight (abstract virus).

Crypt-entities are both hyper-vortical singularities and units of Digital Hyperstition - or brands of the outside - real components of numerical fictions that make themselves real.

As the Mu-Nma say in their bleakest moments: nove eshil ko raka -'Time is in love with her own pain.'

In fact, with economics and history comprehensively abandoned, all that survives of Marx is a psychological bundle of resentments and disgruntlements, reducible to the word 'capitalism' in its vague and negative employment: as the name for everything that hurts, taunts and disappoints.