In Blood, Gil Anidjar, reflecting on the futility of writing a book (in this day and age!), appends a curious note:
The sheer weight of accumulation, fifty shades of clay and mountains of waste (not to mention, horribile dictu, footnotes), among other expansions and past all counts, nonetheless counts for something, that is, for nothing, if only because it accounts for and testifies to the victory of the quantitative—by attrition. Was it ever other- wise? This may or may not be a reason to stop writing books (though I suspect it is). Cunningly endorsing Marx’s take on the “gnawing criticism of the mice,” Lacan suggests somewhere that praise might be in order when producing a worst-seller.
Of course, despite ample room in 170 pages of footnotes, in this case he leaves it to the reader to track down this petite suggestion of Lacan’s. Challenge accepted–with no little resistance, psychoanalytically speaking of course. Turns out there are two quips in Seminar 17 worth quoting:
To spell it out for you, to clear my own name, what saves Écrits the accident that befell it, namely that people immediately read it, is that it is a “worst-seller” nevertheless. (222/192)
An issue of a journal called Études freudiennes has appeared. I cannot recommend reading it too highly, never having hesitated to suggest to you bad readings which themselves are in the nature of best-sellers. (229/199)
There you have it–the virtue of the worst-seller, the vice of the best-seller. Amazon rankings be damned!
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