Duncan Jones, Moon, UK, 2008
End of tragedy, flexibility, permissiviness. The control is no longer territorialized or historicized. It is computerized. There is a process of complexification, they say, which is initiated and desired by no-one, no self, not even that of humanity. A cosmic zone, once called the earth, now a miniscule planet, of a small stellar system in a galaxy of pretty moderate size – but a zone when negentropy is rife. The domus was too simple, it left too much remainder that it did not succeed in taming. The big techno-scientific monad has no need of our terrestrial bodies, of passions and writings that used to kept in the domus. What it needs is ‘our’ wonderful brains. When it evacuates the dying solar system, the big monad, which is cosmically competitive, will not take the untameable along with it. Before imploding, like the other celestial bodies, with its sun, little Earth will have bequeathed to the great spatial megalopolitan monad the memory that was momentarily confided tot the most intelligent of earthly species. But the only one of any use for navigation of the monad in the cosmos. So they say.
What domesticity regulated – savagery – it demanded. It had to have its off-stage within itself. The stories it tells speak only of that, of the seditio smouldering up at its heart. Solitude is seditio. Love is seditio. All love is criminal. It has no concern for the regulation of services, places, moments. And the solitude of the adolescent in the domus is seditious because in the suspense of its melancholy it bears the whole order of nature and culture. In the secrecy of his bedroom, he inscribes upon nothing, on the intimate surface of his diary, the idea of another house, of the vanity of any house. Like Orwelll’s Winston, he inscribes the drama of his incapacity before the law. Like Kafka. And lovers do not even have anything to tell. They are committed to deixis; this, now, yesterday, you. Committed to presence, deprived of representation. But the domus made legends and representations out of these silences and these inscriptions. In place of which the megalopolis displays, commentates on them, and explains them, makes them communicable. It calls melancholy being autistic and love sex. Like the way that it calls fruges agro-alimentry products. Secrets must be put into circuits, writings programmed, tragedies transcribed, scenarios of operationality. After all, I’ll take it, your domus, it’s saleable, your nostalgia, your love, let me get on with it. It might come in useful. The secret is capitalized swiftly and efficiently. – But that the secret should be a secret of nothing, be uncultivated, senseless, already in the domus, the megalopolis has no idea. Or rather, it has only the idea. Whereas the secret, because it consists only in the timbre of a sensitive, sentimental matter, is inaccessible except to stupor.
(Jean-François Lyotard, The Inhuman)