![]() Only when we recognize that our attempts to resist this cataclysmic energy, only when we understand that our efforts to preserve ourselves, our communities, and those we love and for whom we feel responsible, are, in fact, part of the destructive machinery that we purportedly oppose, will we truly be seeing aright. ![]() Bataille and Edelman, then, articulate a politics of revelation-an unobscured vision of the forces of cataclysmic disruption and destruction without end or remainder. But, consistent with many apocalyptic texts, they contend that the most meaningful response to the violence that defines the present order-as well as any hope of “escaping” from the worst and most devastating consequences of that violence-depends on a proper understanding of and alignment with fundamental reality, with what is “really” going on. They emphasize structural limitations to change rather than the promise of radical transformation. Edelman and Bataille, in very different-albeit overlapping and related-terms, challenge the dualistic vision that informs much apocalyptic thinking with an insistence on an unacknowledged, even unwelcome, monism. ![]() I want to consider this dimension of apocalyptic thinking by engaging some of the apocalyptic features of the work of American queer theorist Lee Edelman and French social theorist Georges Bataille. Mindful that apocalyptic discourse-whether deployed by those on the Right or the Left-is designed to convince its audience that there is a crisis, that the audience is the target of potentially catastrophic violence, and that there is a Manichaean struggle for the future justifying the audience's delight in the imminent destruction of its foes, I worry about how comfortably contemporary political discourse is spoken in an apocalyptic idiom. This monstrous presence, adored by some and vilified by others, promises to radically and rapidly transform the entire social order.Īs much as “apocalyptic” may feel right to many, it is precisely the feeling of rightness, the feeling of being right, the feeling of being in the right that apocalyptic discourse provides that worries me. Something about the American character-oft‐denied, somewhat restrained, kept on the margins and under wraps-has revealed itself and taken center stage. Of course, “apocalyptic” has also been bandied by some as a modifier for the moment we occupy. As Leo Bersani helpfully observes, however, when we conceptualize violence “as a subject unique in itself, a subject easily identifiable and easily isolated … in terms of historically locatable events that is, as a certain eruption against a background of generally nonviolent human experience,” it magnifies our fascination with spectacles of violence, with explosive, climactic scenes of violence, thus making it harder, rather than easier, to dissipate violence. Others relied on evaluative language: “catastrophic,” “terrifying,” “paralyzing.” Still participating in an imaginary of novelty, this language also invoked anxiety about imminent disaster (and positioned the language‐user in a specific relation to the onslaught). ![]() This moniker emphasized the sense of disorientation and unfamiliarity in the air, but it disavowed, by characterizing as unprecedented, the racism, misogyny, militarism, erotophobia, and Christian imperialism that constitutes American history and culture. Trump's election as the forty‐fifth President of the United States, many relied on the hashtag #notnormal to describe his policies, actions, and statements.
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