Only if I Have Nothing to Cite, I Dance
I am sitting at the National Library in Jerusalem, trying to focus on my term-paper. Even though I sit still in front of Butler's writing on subversive mimetic acts, little drops of salty sweat run down my armpits. Is this the performative expression of Reading? An essay titled Diaspora: Generation and the Ground of Jewish Identity peeks at me from beneath a pile of notes, while a documentation of Arkadi Zaides' Archive is open in a new tab.
Perhaps it's just the summer heat in the Middle East.