I was Michel Foucault's Love Slave
A girl’s confession about her extreme love of Theory. A humorous, poignant read. An excerpt:
I am a child of Theory. I avoided this truth because I didn’t want to confront the deep, strange river of pretentiousness that courses in my veins. But lately I’ve begun to think my predicament is less reflective of a private eccentricity than of a weird historical moment. The moment when the most arcane, elitist mental gymnastics — Theory in all its hybrid forms — was reborn as sexy, politically radical action. The moment when well-meaning liberal intellectuals — who a decade before had dedicated themselves to activism, volunteerism and building social programs — turned inward, tending to their private experiential gardens with obsessive diligence. Theory offered intellectuals the same escape from the public world that self-help and therapy offered the masses. But unlike self-help and therapy, which never claimed to be anything but psycho-spiritual Darwinism, Theory draped itself in revolutionary verbiage and pretended to be a political movement.
Are you a child of Theory (Lloyd, 1997) too?
