He philosophised with a grin.
A modern-day Protagoras to our many little Platos.
He knew the tradition’s big joke.
And the big joke was the Tradition itself.
To him it wasn’t a joke to take it all as a joke.
To joke about the transcendental light of Reason, say.
The light which lit up metaphysicians.
That sanctified the systems in which so many travelled.
Derrida played the Tradition.
He acknowledged that play.
And all within the Jew-Greek's syntax and semantics.
Yes, not even Derrida could transcend Reason’s reign.
He had no other language with which he could aim his deconstructive arrows.
His own concepts remained coloured by the Tradition.
To untie, quietly, the tight strings of each system.
To turn its concepts against its concepts.
And to break logical law with logical law.
Derrida knew not to let the fly out of the fly-bottle.
Thus, in a language sometimes fuzzy, sometimes flaccid, he spoke to the fuzzy and the flaccid.
And spoke to them of the fuzzy and the flaccid.
Plato, the arch enemy, loved all immutable things.
Then a Greek Sophist bent Plato’s ruse.
He showed the Athenians that what’s true on Thursday isn't true on Friday.
That p and not-p have equal weight.
Derrida too cast off such objectivisms of Western philosophy.
And cut out the lust for system.
For the categorial prison in which objects are kept safe and bound.
He saw the primacy of the Same
And the degradation of Levinas’s Other.
That static Being is an illusion of metaphysics.
Derrida's sexy little fiddle with the law of identity.
Derrida also gave us a giddy lattice-work of citation
and citation of citation…
Oh, to be free of Continental pretence?
To be free of Derridian play?