Is A Thousand Plateaus the Finnegans Wake of philosophy?

>Finnegans Wake is the final boss of fiction
>A Thousand Plateaus is the final boss of philosophy
what is the the final boss of poetry?

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The Cantos by Pound.

what happened to ulysses? is it so ridiculous that you guys dont consider it difficult or is it just too difficult to compete against Fins wake

FW is written rhizomatically

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and aparatus of capture? when?

I don't know why you guys are so harsh on it.

It is an art book talking about philosophy. It is deliberately supposed to be funny/playful, and use the goofy 'schizo' portions to illustrate philosophical things.

Do you fucking faggots open up Godel Escher Bach and complain about all dialogs between the Achilles and the tortoise? Do you suddenly go 'oi dis isn't philosophy dis is goofy gooba shit' when you read it? Nobody has any obligation to do philosophy how you think they should. Maybe this is why they are famous and you aren't you closeminded fucks.

bump

He's French: so .5 thought, .5 art

?

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is the cantos written rhizomatically? the final boss needs to be written rhizomatically. what poetry is written rhizomatically?

>Fr*nch
>philosophy
Pick one

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no. are you kidding me? fucking brainlet cunt
a thousand plateaus is the easiest work by either deleuze or guattari

none of this is anywhere as convoluted as Finnegans Wake and makes perfect sense if you just read the fucking book and have context for what they're talking about lol

its just some lingering vengeful somethings but I really can't stand the term 'Deleuzian'

Cent mille milliards de poèmes by Raymond Queneau

Bump

>A Thousand Plateaus is the final boss of philosophy
fucking brainlet

Finnegans Wake is a failure of a book and the kenotic self-emptying of subjectivity of Beckett's Three Novels is the perfect separation from it.

Ulysses drives a car like this:
>Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget : a dispossessed. With mother’s money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Fermé. Hired dog ! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that’s all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that’s all right. Shake a shake. O, that’s all only all right.
>You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing : Euge ! Euge ! Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge, a blue French telegram, curiosity to show :
>— Mother dying come home father.

Finnegans Wake drives a car like this:
>From whose plultibust preaggravated, by baskatchairch theologies (there werenighn on thaurity herouns in that alraschil arthouducks draken), they were whoalike placed to say, in the matters off ducomans nonbar one, with bears' respects to him and bulls' acknowledgments (come on now, girls! lead off, O cara, whichever won of you wins! The two Gemuas and Jane Agrah and Judy Tombuys!) disassembling and taking him apart, theslammocks, with discrimination for his maypole and a rub in passing over his hump, drogueries inaddendance, frons, fesces and frithstool: 1) he hade to die it, the beetle, 2) he didhithim self, hod's fush, 3) all ever the pelican huntered with truly fond bullpen backthought since his toork human life where his personal low outhired his taratoryism, the orenore under the selfhide of his bessermettle, was forsake in his chiltern and lumbojumbo, 4) he was like Fintan fore flood and after sometimes too damned merely often on the saved side, saw he was, 5) regarding to prussyattes or quazzyverzing he wassand no better than he would have been before he could have been better than what he warrant after, 6) blood, musk or haschish, as coked, diamoned or penceloid, and bleaching him naclenude from all cohlorine matter, down to a boneash bittstoff, he's, tink fors tank, the same old dustamount on the same old tincoverdull baubleclass, totstittywinktosser and bogusbagwindburster, whether fitting tyres onto Danelope boys or fluttering flaus for laurettas, whatever the bucket brigade and the plug party says, touchant Arser of the Rum Tipple and his camelottery and lyonesslooting but with a layaman's brutstrenth, by Jacohob and Esahur and the all saults or all sallies, what we warn to hear, jeff, is the woods of chirpsies cries to singaloo sweecheeriode and sock him up, the oldcant rogue.

Based and beckettpilled, totally agree. Even the circularity of How It Is has more artistic weight than the Wake.