Rhetorical
and literary theory have become more debilitating for me than any physical
malady I’ve experienced. And I thought knowledge was supposed to be power. I’ve
never felt so discouraged, so artificial, so constructed and absent of free-will
as I do at this moment. Postmodernism is a disease.
All
this talk about rhetoric/composition theory, and what purpose does it serve
other than helping us come to terms with a loss of identity, creative license,
and autonomy? The trajectory of IP laws makes me sick. If this—“You need to
seek permission to quote even a single word from one of our texts”—is where
writing is heading, then I might as well give up on this major right now. I
better just sit back and wait for the policing of every word that leaves my
mouth. And how will I ask for permission when the very words I wish to speak
don’t belong to me in the first place? We’re trending towards silencing anything
that doesn’t have a dollar sign attached to it. “Money talks” has never carried
so much weight. The only discourse that matters is inscribed on hundred-dollar
bills.
Knowledge
has become inextricable from economics, and art can scarcely be said to exist
anymore. The arts are usurped by the capitalist system and channeled into
commodities. What’s the point of knowledge other than the purposeless fragmentation
and re-circulation in a system that continually promotes class disparity and
conceals its mechanisms? I find myself questioning the purpose of my college
education. The transaction doesn’t take place directly between student and
professor, but essentially we give them money in exchange for knowledge. And it
appears this knowledge imparted to us by professors is made up of fragments of
knowledge that too had to be paid for. We buy the knowledge, and then we exchange
our knowledge-laden services for money. Each act feeds and perpetuates the capitalist
machine. I don’t know a better alternative than education at the moment, but I refuse
to lead a life in which money is the chief goal.
Reading
and writing are some of the sole sources of pleasure for me in this life that
seems so meaningless at times, but this will no longer be so if writing is
reduced to a commodity. My love of books is starting to seem paradoxical now
that I think about it. Books are indeed material commodities, but maybe it’s
not the content I pay for, but the material artifact. The content can be read
aloud and shared indefinitely—it’s not a finite resource—and no laws can do
shit about it until they learn how to police my words. Karl Marx's notion that “the
worker becomes an ever cheaper commodity the more commodities he creates” seems
in some ways relevant to this discussion. Y'all better just strive to not create
commodities in that case because, as Chuck Palahniuk so eloquently put it in Fight Club, “You are not your job, you're not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis."