Online social networking, in particular, sits at the nexus of the these three aspects of society: it is an economic wonder for capitalists, an ambiguous social terrain for users to navigate, and its political aspects (both implicit and prospective) are just developing. In this paper, I will attempt to account for some of the questions that online social networking involves in these domains. I bring to the discussion the ideas of some leftist thinkers of the past century, leading to the present day: Guy Debord’s concept of the spectacle will be extremely useful in describing the politics of the (major) Social Web, and his analysis of the management of time into discrete segments will resonate with contemporary questions of capital’s production of value; Jürgen Habermas’ conception of the “public sphere” will come into contact with the alleged new media, showing that the valid concerns of the “old” media still hold over to today; Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri’s immaterial labor, and, specifically its counterpart, affective labor, will continue where Debord leaves off, situating online social networking within the hegemonic state of capitalist production; and, finally, I will employ Gilles Deleuze’s notion of the society of control, which built off of the ideas of Michel Foucault and Jeremy Bentham, to examine the contemporary state of surveillance, which is perpetrated on the social networks.

Firstly, I would like simply to mete out two terms; the pair with which I am concerned is that of the divide between the actual and the virtual, which I believe is problematically taken for granted. There is assumed to be a strong division between what are commonly called the “actual” and the “virtual”; the opposition is taken simply as that which exists online and that which exists “in real life.” My identity in real life, for example, is assumed to be stable and dominant (”I am who I am”), and any identity that I construct, enact, or represent online is simply a transparent screen for, or supplementary to, my actual identity.

Of course, what this use of the term “virtual” describes does exist in actual reality; simply because its form appears electronically does not exclude it from actual reality. The problem resides in the looseness of the terms: the common terms “virtual” and “actual” are not exclusive to their philosophical counterparts. (This allows, for example, Slavoj Zizek to counteract the commonplace that “‘virtual’ or ‘cyber’ sex presents a radical break with the past,” since for him, reading through Lacan, sex is always properly virtual, philosophically speaking (Zizek 2).)

This point should overcome hesitations to take online personae as actual entities, having material effects common to flesh-and-blood personae. Just as architectural structures concern “actual” bodies, equally do virtual environments impact “virtual” bodies, and these bodies have appreciable effects upon their counterparts. The loose/incorrect distinction virtual/actual perhaps serves as a distraction; Google CEO Eric Schmidt’s notion that one’s mobile device is an extension of one’s persona (Schmidt), which arises from an assumed originary identity, masks aspects of the production of this persona that have profound personal, social, and historical effects.

Online personae, then, lend themselves not to some purely phantasmatic other to which the subject extends, or perhaps from which it is perfectly removed, but rather to an entity mutually extensive with one’s “actual” identity; this is key, as many of the ideas that follow specifically rely on the online persona as a non-trivial entity.

An examination of the social effects of online social networking can begin with the persona par excellence: the celebrity. The implicit promise of MySpace and YouTube, one to which television and the simulacrum of the reality show has already predisposed us, is that we can all be celebrities; a musician like Lilly Allen (whose successful career was the first to be launched by MySpace), the site’s start page, which prominently features a new act every so often, and the site’s recent founding of a record label to publish the artists it hosts, all express this implication to celebrity. MySpace’s implicit marketing strategy is to offer the potential for fame.

Oddly, this promise (of questionable value, to say the least) is already partially realized. To consider user profiles themselves: the opaque, multidimensional meshes of personal identifiers of which they are often composed already resemble publicized celebrity “profiles” (in tabloids or on fan websites), relating trivial information (I will return to the point) which is readily available publicly, and which is therefore expected to construct an identity.

Furthermore, the oft-expressed complaint about the “breach of privacy” that social networking sites supposedly bring about also resembles the alleged breach of privacy for which paparazzi are responsible; the popularity of uploading pictures, and of “getting oneself out there” in general, is evident, and no precedent exists for the potential (for them) to be seen by more than 200 million people, besides that of the celebrity/paparazzi couple. Both sides of the coin, the celebrity with a trivial set of demographics constituting an identity, potentially seen by millions, and the paparazzi, are universalized, without of course, the supposed benefits of “true” celebrity, whatever they would entail. Relatively, at least, the alluring promise of television culture has been enacted by major social networking sites: We are all celebrities, we are all paparazzi.

Like the offline and online body, capitalism’s insidious architectural practices (residue of the society of discipline, to which we will return) shade over from mortar-and-concrete buildings to online space. They have both the advantages and disadvantages of actual architecture, and can be equally insinuated or made transparent. They engender public spheres, apparatuses of capture, captive audiences. They can create or prevent sites of democracy, and they can reproduce or thwart the aims of capitalism.

Sites like MySpace thoroughly engender a captive audience. To take a personal example, I maintain a MySpace account mainly because I can easily contact my good friend there, and at no other site; this is added to the more minor reason that deleting my account (as far as that is possible) would be comparable to discarding years worth of letters, notes, pictures, etc. It’s difficult to imagine that MySpace is not specifically designed for that purpose; even if it is not, its design functions so.

Indeed, a common business model for “Web 2.0″ startups was a thoroughly “Web 1.0″ concept: stickiness. As social platforms began to open their networks to the public for free, allowing them to contribute content and creating a “dynamic” environment, the content itself was made, not proprietary, as MySpace users still retain the rights to their content (allowing MySpace, backwardly, to refer to the use of content as “royalty-free” (Terms)), but irretrievable, locked within the context of the site, except by a hack or by copying all the content oneself. Like the software design Apple uses for iPod interactions with iTunes, in which songs can be transferred to the iPod but not retrieved from it, MySpace’s policy toward user content is not legally proprietary, but, since its platform is, user-owned content gets locked within the structure of the software; this captivity, like a lover visiting a convict, keeps users returning to the same place, aware of what belongs to whom, but unable to have it in any other context, except by a long wait or an illegal act.

The movie megaplex is another, less drastic model: if we ignore the illusion of choice (among movies) that the presence of the megaplex provides to its community, the architecture itself holds the consumer captive, distancing her from other sources of popcorn by its massive parking lot and drawing her to produce thousands-percent profit on its concessions. (Agency, incidentally, is beside the point; people can leave the premises, and some do, but theater profits, for example, are gained mostly from concessions, and the design therefore functions, nonetheless.) Capital knows that captivity produces, and that captured consumers will pay. We will come to see how they pay on MySpace shortly.

In the meantime, I am interested in elaborating the term “social capital,” and how it relates to the captivity above. Social capital conventionally refers to the benefits that acquiring a large social sphere creates; this sphere is literally quantified on MySpace. The term falls on the user side. How it relates to the side of the site itself, however, is an index to the methods by which MySpace acquires capital. The social functions in much the same way as capital: the conventional definition tells us that capital is created when profit accumulates and allows for more profit, by virtue of that accumulation.

The relation of the social to capital is, on the user’s side, simply analogical: social capital is a stable stockpile of friends that will lead to encounters with more friends. On the site side, however, the relation is one of identity: the social is capital; capital is social. Statistically, this is easily shown in MySpace’s case. News Corp. acquired the site for $580 million in 2005 (Schonfeld); it has roughly 212 million accounts (MySpace). Some of the reasons for this correlation need to be explored, situating the discussion in recent historical and economic discourse.

“The spectacle is capital to such a degree of accumulation that it becomes image” (SOS 34). The spectacle is a near-perfect critical concept with which to analyze social networking sites. The activity the user carries out on MySpace is image production (image of one’s band, of oneself, already in the guise of a celebrity), and the exchange thereof; where the old form of spectacle about which Debord was writing in 1967 came about at the hands of capitalists alone (corporate advertisements, government news reels, television commercials), what constitutes the contemporary spectacle is entirely user-generated. This, surprisingly, is not the radical shift it would appear to be; rather than infiltrating and having the power to change the workings of capitalism by being given the power to produce the spectacle, consumers simply do the work the old experts-CEOs, film and television producers, ad-men-were once hired to do. The responsibility of the production of, and the responsibility to produce, the oppressive images of the impossibly beautiful body, images of what it means to be of a given demographic or identity, images that dominate so-called “leisure time,” the image of public engagement: this responsibility is now ours.

The Republican presidential debate of November 28^th, 2007 is a well-fitted example. As with other recent political debates, the questions posed to the candidates are gathered and broadcast via YouTube, and are hosted at CNN’s expense. Viewers are given to believe that the introduction of questions from “outside” the traditional confines of mass media debates, namely, the dialogue between the candidates and the questions of a well-established news anchor or two (still present in this case in the image of Anderson Cooper), drastically alters the texture of the debate, somehow directly hardwiring the opinions of the average (YouTube-using) American into the debate, and making it somehow truer, or more real.

What is striking, if perhaps not surprising, is that the shift that the implementation of new technologies into the debate format was supposed to produce is no shift at all. The submitted questions that CNN broadcast covered all the recent political stalwarts, issues CNN itself (as well as other media outlets) themselves established as politically relevant to Republican politicians: abortion rights, gun laws, family values, even Bible hermeneutics.

If the change that the new format was ostensibly to produce did not occur, namely that the audience would raise the “real issues,” rather than asking the same questions that the anchors (or even the candidates themselves) might if the old format were still being used, simply betrays the ideology upon which the novelty (it is little more) of the new format is based: that the Americans “out there,” in Kansas, in Utah, in Arkansas, are somehow immune from the spectacle’s grasp on politics. As far as sheer bodies (candidates, anchors) are concerned, the closed circuit of the old format is disturbed, since now the viewing audience itself submits (pre-recorded) questions; the closed circuit of the spectacle, of the feedback between the apparatus that produces the issues, and which speaks them through real bodies, remains intact.

Habermas becomes an asset to our argument, although his discourse is focused slightly differently. The notion of public relations as he relates it is perfectly fitting; public relations is a private interest (political or economic) in collusion with a public advertisement campaign. “It bestows on its object,” in this case, objects, presidential candidates, “the authority of an object of public interest about which-this is the illusion to be created-the public of critically reflecting private people freely forms its opinion” (Habermas 194).

Bringing contemporary media to Habermas’ history of the mass media becomes quite complicated at this point: on the one hand, Internet culture, which was ostensibly to have deferred the mass media in the 1990s by taking over television viewership, nonetheless continues to employ the same strategies of public representation about which Habermas was writing in 1962, now merely in the guise “liberating” technological advances. New media turns out to be, in some ways, similar to the mass media.

On the other hand, although political opinion became public political opinion as the mass media came into being, and the benefactor of the private interest kept a maximum public distance from the advertising that served it, the advertisement and the private interest are today bizarrely fused: the object of the “public interest” that served the private interest in the past has gone from being a commodity to being the political process and the politicians benefited therein themselves. The political benefactors serve themselves as the private interest, and the political process serves the economic interests of YouTube and CNN.

Besides its relation to Habermas’ ideas, the Republican debate clearly illustrates the broader point: that, given certain tools with which to work with the spectacle, “the people” will simply reflect it back at itself, doing the outsourced work of the media corporations for free, and relieving them of the agency that the new technologies ostensibly help to rekindle. Social capital, as that which has been redistributed to users of social networking sites by virtue of the users’ ability to be seen, accumulates to a degree that it becomes image.

I quote Debord again: “[T]he humanism of the commodity takes charge of the worker’s ‘leisure and humanity,’ simply because now political economy can and must dominate these spheres as political economy” (SOS 43). If we take social networking sites to be an immaterial commodity (a point to which I will return later), then the “humanism of the commodity” is the sites’ taking up of the users’ humanity. It is the set of benefits that participation on social networking sites can provide its users: entertainment, new friends, facilitation of communication, potential for sex, and so on. The “humanism of the commodity” accounts for all the “leisure” side of a worker’s day; by “humanism,” Debord means the innocuous pleasures the spectacle so graciously provides us.

Of course, Debord does not regard these pleasures as an actual satisfaction of desire, or even as an end in themselves; this is what he refers to in the final clause of the above quote. The entertainment MySpace can provide is provisional, or one of “privation,” as he might say: like the average American’s five daily hours of television before them, the allure of social networking sites is not only situated in time as a counterpoint to the workday, but it is also simply a continuation and justification of that very labor. The situation has an image in the corporate employee behind her laptop at the airport, too early in the day to be working, but since always connected, doing it anyway; or, of the college student, seamlessly switching between his homework and online distractions, listening to music all the while. Leisure is labor, and labor is leisure. The dialectical presence of “leisure” does nothing to counteract the cruelty of labor, since it is already inscribed within it.

Worse still, the fact that the networking sites are social in nature, and therefore positive in some way, does not solve the problem of political economy dominating “leisure”; it simply makes it more insinuative, and therefore more difficult both to detect and to work against or outside of. Free labor on social networking sites makes friends and makes friends productive; it turns social interaction into a hand out for capitalists, and into a reinscription of even the most potentially autonomous activity. Who would give up contact with her friends to avoid getting yet another dollar into corporate pockets, and who is present enough to capitalist infiltration on the bodies and in the minds of her friends to find opportunities outside of it? This is the deadlock.

To come to a relative conclusion with Debord, the big social networking sites accumulate social capital to the level of the image, and the spectacle in which they are involved is therefore thoroughly social. This means, furthermore, that the social sphere that the sites bring about is already inscribed with the mark of capitalism. Sociality, politics, and entertainment are not autonomous, as has been the case at least since Debord’s writing. The distinction between labor and leisure has become even more meaningless; what would be called leisure in terms of online interaction is now simply (free) labor by another name, since its outcome is corporate gain. Even “leisure” produces capital and reproduces the image of capitalism. Desire itself, that to which leisure offers an ostensible solution, is alienated.

How can we situate the coordinates of this free labor as leisure historically and politically? What are its precedents and possible outcomes? For analytical clues, I turn to Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri; the notion of immaterial labor, along with its subdivisions, virtual and affective labor, and the analysis of current capitalist production will be of particular value.

“It has now become common to view the succession of economic paradigms since the Middle Ages in three distinct moments, each defined by the dominant sector of the economy[.]” (Empire 298) The narrative begins with agricultural labor, a period during which production was dominated by the cultivation and exploitation of natural resources. Industrial labor followed thereafter, and its principal production was that of goods based on the availability of these resources; the commodity as material object arose from the industrial period, and its success relied heavily upon the success of the earlier period (Ford needed oil and steel, for example). Thirdly, the current period’s mode of production (at least in terms of “developed nations”) is primarily responsible for the production of information, communication, and services; this mode is to what the phrase “immaterial labor” refers.

Immaterial labor, then, is simply the production of immaterial goods; it encompasses a broad range, from the work required at homeless shelters to the programming needs of game companies. The current period that immaterial labor dominates relies upon the preceding period as strongly as the industrial period relied on agriculture: without a relatively well-exploited resource of goods (food, shelter, and clothing, but also less “basic” commodities such as cars and computers), the shift from material to immaterial labor could not happen, since, for example, service workers for the homeless must themselves rely on the society-at-large’s abundance of food and shelter (which their work will make available to them) before their job could be created.

(To make a quick digression, it is also the industrial period that enabled the spectacle to become the potentially all-pervasive entity that it is: “From the automobile to television, all the goods selected by the spectacular system are also its weapons for a constant reinforcement of the conditions of isolation of ‘lonely crowds.’” (SOS 28). Furthermore, the adjective “immaterial” would seem to refer not only to the product of the current mode of labor, but also, in certain cases, to the labor itself; immaterial production, however, “involves our bodies and brains as all labor does,” (Multitude 109) regardless of the presence of virtual work environments, etc.)

Immaterial labor has at least two subdivisions: what Hardt and Negri call “affective labor,” and what might be called virtual labor. The latter is the more immediately recognizable; the image of the laborer in front of the computer accounts for it well, from the administrative assistant to the Second Life entrepreneur. It is arguable that activity on the major social networking sites falls in part under the category of virtual labor; although the currency with which the sites pay the vast majority of their workforce (i.e., users) is leisure, and although (or because of this) it is not possible for a user to claim that “I work for MySpace” in the conventional sense, the above image holds: someone spending hours a day in front of a computer at a single vocation, which pays out to the company who provide or institute the vocation.

I think, however, that affective labor is the more useful term in this context. Hardt and Negri borrow the concept of affect from Spinoza: “Unlike emotions, which are mental phenomena, affects refer equally to body and mind. In fact, affects, such as joy and sadness, reveal the present state of life in the entire organism… .” (Multitude 108). Affective labor produces affects; restaurant hosts, marketers, and marriage counselors all fall under the heading, and by no means exhaust it.

The temptation to unhinge the term affective labor is worth pursuing. As with the term “immaterial labor,” not only does “affect labor” refer to that which is produced as an end result of the labor in question, but also in the process of it, namely, on the part of the laborer herself. A childcare worker’s affection for the children of whom she takes care is an effective example; it is her responsibility to produce and manage the affects she exchanges among the children, but, in the process, she produces her own affects.

We are now equipped to discuss the motivation necessary for participation on major social networking sites. If we accept the notion that participation on MySpace is free labor, then certainly it is affective labor. What one produces by uploading “content” (an overly opaque term, at the service of business models) is of course affect; a current picture of a user dressed in his winter clothes sent to a geographically distant family member, an uploaded love song, and a diary-like blog entry are all responsible for the production of affects, both on the parts of users and on their friends and family members.

This sunny description of the MySpace phenomenon raises a familiar counterargument, that free labor in itself is not necessarily exploitative; one uses MySpace simply to enjoy oneself, even if it is working for the man. The enjoyment one feels, however, should necessarily be seen as tied inextricably to ideology; the simplicity of the statement “I’m just enjoying myself” indicates immediately that it masks ideology, that its voice is the voice of an other. There is not room here to follow the radical argument that “enjoying oneself” as an essence is simply an ideologically solid construct (although Debord vaguely leads there), but even if the enjoyment (or sadness, or any affect) that participation produces is present in any kind of immediate, true, or simple sense, it still holds the hand of ideology, tainted by its sour taste. We should therefore retain the thought that affective (free) labor in the present sense is somehow universally for its participants, since it can bear a positive relation to desire.

The problems with affective labor’s hegemony do not stop there. In Multitude, Hardt and Negri discuss the example of so-called “women’s work,” and its subordinate status within the industrial economy (110-111); this sector of labor provides a worthwhile analogy to the affective labor of social networking.

“Women’s work” is characteristically affective: as a nurse, establishing relationships among doctor and patients; as a mother or nanny, establishing and mediating communication between children; and so on. These occupations still retain material tasks, to be sure: making beds, changing diapers, etc.; the important thing, however, is to recognize the production of social relations as labor in itself. “Affective labor is biopolitical production in that it directly produces social relationships and forms of life” (Multitude 110). By drawing out the production of affects as a legitimate labor practice, we recognize that “labor with a high affective component is generally feminized, given less authority, and paid less” (Multitude 111), if it is paid anything at all; and yet we understand that affective labor as the production of social relations is central to immaterial production. Since this type of work has such an intimate quality, Hardt and Negri point out, its sale to a boss or a client is extremely alienating, putting a wage before intimacy itself.

In my view, this feminist analysis of work maps nicely onto the model of social networking as labor. Certainly, intimacy plays a large role in the production of value on MySpace; sharing personal information (not only “trivial” information like tastes in music and movies, but almost absurdly intimate details such as those transmitted in microblogging) is the central activity to users. The structure of value of social networking sites cheapens intimacy, both because of the contortion of public space it enacts, and because of the relativization of what information is “intimate”: tastes in music become identifiers for site users, and are therefore neither trivial to the user nor to the market research that counts, analyzes, and profits upon them.

Furthermore, affective labor in these instances is cheapened labor; where it is not recognized for labor as such, it is given a subordinate position to other forms of wage-labor that are recognized as more “legitimate.” It is therefore cheapened in both senses: it is not accorded its proper position as legitimate labor or as labor at all; in addition, and because of its lack of recognition, it is outsourced, paid a lower wage or simply not paid. It should be noted, of course, that the affective labors in question are of different domains (the serious business of medical assistance, for example, and the casual realm of entertainment), and have differences of magnitude of import to those for whom the affects are produced and those who produce them; this difference, however, does not preclude a similarity in their respective political economies.

Finally, the centrality of the role of affective labor to immaterial production is a common characteristic. It is easy to recognize the work that tens of millions of MySpace users have put into the site as the company’s only asset; without it, the site would be meaningless, profitless, and an empty platform. User contributions to social networking sites are the sole source of production for the companies that fund them.

This necessary labor that users provide is not only alienated from “legitimate” production as an unrecognized workforce, the desire it brings out is, like the selling of affect in women’s labor, itself alienated. As labor and leisure are inseparable, mutually supporting one another, the latter and the affects it produces alienate the desire they seem to address, in spite, or because of, the fact that the affects are positive. Online social networking is affective labor as alienated desire.

I will finish this analysis with a concept borrowed from Gilles Deleuze, the society of control, which online social networking will not only exemplify, but will be placed within the historical transition Deleuze’s term describes.

Deleuze published “Postscript to the Society of Control” in L’Autre Journal in May 1990, four years before his death. The brief text draws on the model Michel Foucault proposes for the progression of modes of institutionalization, which, for the most part, run parallel to the hegemonic modes of production that Hardt and Negri describe: with the agricultural mode of production, institution more or less took the form of the society of sovereignty, which “rule[d] on death rather than to administer life” (Deleuze).

The transition to the (material) commodity society paralleled the emergence of the society of discipline; the Ford model, whose administrative efficiency was perfected to the level of architecture, again serves as the indicative instance. Administration of bodies and their behavior within enclosed spaces, and, just as importantly, the administration of time (against which Debord’s labor/leisure thesis insistently counteracts), was becoming increasingly efficient; the society of discipline’s tastes were indiscriminate, so that, “at the sight of some laborers, the heroine of Rossellini’s Europa ‘51 could exclaim, ‘I thought I was seeing convicts’” (Deleuze).

The society of discipline was one of Foucault’s principle interests, and his co-optation of Bentham’s concept of the panopticon, to which I will return shortly, was perhaps his analysis’ theoretical kernel; the transition to the society of control was inevitable, however, and Bentham’s relevance would subside. The society of control, emerging historically roughly alongside the economy of immaterial labor, saw the enclosed space become immaterial (deterritorialized): the space of work, home, and school all lost their territoriality, and the administration of bodies and behaviors, social life itself, became deterritorialized (Deleuze).

Deleuze thought that the transition to the society of control would be accomplished, to some extent, by a technology Felix Guattari had imagined: an electronic card that could erect a barrier given one’s position in the city (outside the enclosed space of discipline). “…[T]he card could just as easily be rejected on a given day or between certain hours; what counts is not the barrier but the computer that tracks each person’s position–licit or illicit–and effects a universal modulation” (Deleuze). (This movement is what Deleuze and Guattari might elsewhere have called a “striation of smooth space.”)

It is no difficult conceptual jump from Guattari’s electronic card to any of several recent technologies: RFID cards, GPS systems, cell phones. The vast and growing capabilities of the latter offer themselves as the richest example: not only are they immediately localizable in relation to the towers that supply their signals, but they effect the deterritorialization of social life in several ways, from the continuous possible interaction between the owner and any other party or parties, regardless of their locations (control is “continuous and without limit”), to his enduring ability to update “the world” to his whereabouts and activities by way of microblogging, for example.

We have therefore reached an institutional model based on the very dispersal of territory that enables online social networking. We are left to deal with the same oppressive forces that the society of discipline throttled, only in an entirely new form. The administration of time and space, in other words, surveillance, has not simply disappeared by its disintegration into the millions of gazes potentially directed at the subject at a given time.

Bentham’s panopticon is only provisionally useful in describing the situation of surveillance on social networking sites, especially those with the tinge of celebrity about them. It is true that the model of the invisible warden holds; his presence and absence are still equivalent, i.e., the “prisoner” assumes him to be present at all times, and his gaze is still assumed to be all-penetrating. On the one hand, however, “he” is radically decentralized, let outdoors, as it were, which undermines his status as singular, centered enemy; on the other hand, the counterintuitive impetus to be completely available, perfectly public, like Justin Hall and Hasan Elahi, disrupts the structure of the panopticon, since that which was forced to be perfectly visible can now be done at the level of agency. We are therefore left with a radical contortion of what it means to be public (or private), where he who is (potentially) surveilled turns his face to the (decentralized) other, from whom he has “nothing to hide.”

I will conclude where there is nowhere to conclude: the iconoclasm of turning one’s face to the other leaves open a wide space, for which the network architecture of the Social Web has cleared the ground. It is impossible to take sides on “I have nothing to hide”: does the emphasis lie on “to hide,” in which case the speaker is simply perfectly honest, absolutely transparent; or does the emphasis lie on “I have nothing,” in which case the speaker, even if he seems to be dissimulating, truly has nothing to put behind the guise, i.e., is perfectly dishonest, absolutely opaque? This impossible conflation between perfect honesty and perfect simulation leaves my encounter with the contours of the contemporary public/private at a total loss, and is therefore a good place to start. Deleuze: “There is no need to fear or hope, but only to look for new weapons.”

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