Stenography of the Itinerary. 92
It suddenly occurred to me that it is not travel and otherness and expticism and life in it's strange forms that interests us most, but the misleadingly-modest figure of the anthropologist. Malinowski in the angle that his diaries cast on him. Boas not because of his poor Eskimo but because he proclaimed them equal to the "civilized men." Levi-Strauss not because of his observations on customs but because he was serched on the border. Renato Rosaldo not because he discovered the imperialist nostalgia but because his wife died in the field. Geertz not because of the Balenese but because he ran after the illegal cockfight. Kulik not because of travesties per se (wonderful persons they are though!) but because he is gay. Susan Sontag not because of her observations on photography and pain, but because she wrote to charm her lover. Donna Haraway because she has a dog. Foucault, because he was a madman. Derrida, because he had an affair. And so on. Sure, nothing of it would matter if there were no mazes of texts that they created, but not the maze is interesting, but its creator, her torment, and her plight. What made them build all those octagonal constructions? What secret wounds and tragic uncertainties? Curious. Sure, they were making familiar unfamiliar, and unfamiliar, familiar. But what is made familiar if not they? What is made unfamiliar than whatever it was that they were trying to make familiar (suppose they were indeed)? So much for the death of the author, and here is to autoethnography.










