Introduction to Of Enemies & Venison (2026) | @ Le Port de tête, Québec
Book Launch with Lou Manuel Arsenault





Pépé
Hello everyone. Thank you for coming to celebrate the launch of Lou Manuel Arsenault’s book, Of Enemies and Venison: First Materials for an Aztec Cosmotechnic. It’s a great honor to have you here for this. For me as well, to have prepared tonight’s discussion a little bit with Lou Manuel. We’re going to start with a short presentation of the book by Lou Manuel, then after that I have a few questions to bring up a bit of discussion, and that’s it.


Lou Manuel Arsenault
We’ll see if there are any questions or comments at the end. Me, I’m not too crazy about questions, but I do like comments… so, you know, go ahead, speak up at some point. Well, first off, I’d actually like to thank everyone who took part in this project. First of all, the people at Becoming Press in Berlin—very kind, I must say. I’d also like to thank my friends, of course, who helped me think through everything that ended up taking on a certain concreteness in this work, which is pretty interesting when you think about it. I mean, it’s nice to talk things through with people, to have ideas going around in the group. I invite you all to keep taking part in that kind of effort, all through your lives. And well, who else? Olivier Clain, who some of you here might know, was my spiritual and intellectual guide in this work. Alright then, let’s get into it. First off, why did I want to do this project? Well, really, for many years, I think there was a lot of collective reflection around me about what exactly our relationship to technology is, what exactly our relationship to the world is. What’s our relation to a possible re-enchantment of the world, the kind that can exist within certain political communities? What do we do with the coldness of the world right now? And well, people had these kinds of reflections around [Philippe] Descola, around ontological anthropology, tracking — what kind of relationship can we develop with nature? And all these reflections, in fact, were being put into practice through certain political actions — I mean, communes, going out and occupying « terrains vagues » [vacant lots]. 

You see what I mean, in certain cities like Montréal. And well, through all of that, at the time I had this particular interest, which was to write a master’s thesis in sociology. A humble interest. Noble, maybe. Then, in the end, COVID-19 happened. My first project fell through; at a certain point, I told myself, okay, I’m reading a couple of authors, and I’m finding myself caught up in these kinds of questions around one of the cultural worlds I come from—Mexico. I was telling myself, well, okay, I’m going to dig a little into my colonial history, on the one hand because I had the feeling that there were, in fact, connections there. Very similar ones between Canada and Mexico — Canada is a colonial country with an Indigenous population that’s denied and continually forced into terrible conditions of existence, and Mexico, it’s kind of the same thing, but at the same time, indigeneity is a bit more… omnipresent there, a bit more hegemonic, and much larger. It’s kind of everywhere in Mexico — you can see that it’s there. It’s there in the language — in words like avocado, Āhuacatl, which comes from Nahuatl, or words like chocolate, Xocoatl, which also comes from Nahuatl. So I find myself in this kind of questioning, and in a somewhat troubled political relationship with Mexico, while not really knowing much about Mexican politics. And being a bit of a nerd, I decide to go down into the historical underlayers of what the Mexican colonial moment actually is. 

So I end up setting off on a kind of literary and theoretical journey through authors like Guilhem Olivier and Guillermo Bonfil Batalla, who wrote a book I refer to a lot in this work called Deep Mexico. It’s a work that had an echo, notably in Zapatista circles, and it’s both an anthropological study and an effort to revalue Indigenous heritage in Mexico. So other works after that, that talk more about what actually constituted the Mesoamerican and precolonial world, and what still survives of it today. So I move forward through those readings, and at the same time I’m reading a work by a Hong Kong–born author named Yuk Hui, who writes a book on the question of technology in China, and who is basically engaging with the major contemporary classical questions of Martin Heidegger — or Martin Heidegger, to say it in English… Martin Heidegger, to say it in French. He asks, basically, what is the essence of technology, and so on. In fact, Yuk Hui points out that there is a kind of monolithic vision of technology that exists in Western thought — from Martin Heidegger, post-Heidegger, and the one we also find in critical theory: I mean Theodor W. Adorno, Jürgen Habermas, Herbert Marcuse, and so on. And he says, no, there isn’t just one technology — there are actually multiple technologies, each tied to specific cosmological and moral relations, to particular ways of understanding the world. And in fact, the two are inseparable. And if there is a plurality of cosmologies and worldviews that exist… So there are many technologies that exist. And in fact, the political effort, the theoretical effort behind all this, is to revalue and bring back into view all these historical particularities that have existed. And I was like: wow. What a beautiful concept. What a beautiful concept, and what a beautiful journey. 

Then I enter into Hui’s framework — China, China, China. I’m not Chinese, clearly, I’m not Chinese. And it didn’t really speak to me. But I found the theoretical effort really interesting — this attempt to explore and revalue those forms of alterity. So I tell myself: I’m going to take my interest in Mesoamerica and try to link it with this concept. And so I venture into it, I venture into all of this. I eventually arrive at a certain theoretical proposition that takes shape today in this book, Of Enemies and Venison. So: the concept of cosmotechnics, a move beyond the monolithic view of technology toward a plural vision — a vision of technodiversity — which is in fact correlated with two elements: the loss of biodiversity, and the loss of a certain “noodiversity,” meaning a diversity of ways of thinking. Biodiversity: the loss of diversity of living beings. Technodiversity, in fact, tries to rethink the diversity of ways of acting and of techniques specific to given localities. So I begin this journey, and I’ll explain how the book develops. I’ll try to approach it in a slightly more empirical way, because in Yuk Hui’s work, I found that it often remains centered around a Heideggerian problematic — that is, a broad reading of a metaphysical tradition. 

Well, Heidegger brings it back to the Greeks — he says, okay, there is a forgetting of Being that has been unfolding since Antiquity, and he eventually arrives at a diagnosis of the present. He traces a kind of path through all of that. And it’s a line of questioning that is very specific to a certain reading of philosophy, and which is, I find, quite disconnected from actual technical and techno-cultural practices that exist. So I decided to take that effort and, in a way, re-empiricize the question of technodiversity and cosmotechnics. And I chose to approach the Mesoamerican world in the following way. But first—slice of pizza number one. I decided to explore three myths that were meant to shed light on the cosmology, the way of understanding the world among the Aztecs. You see, I start from the Aztecs — the Aztecs. In truth, the Aztecs aren’t really that much. I think it’s important to say that right away. They are the product of what’s called the Triple Alliance, which only existed for about 300–400 years, really closer to 300 years, in Mesoamerica. And in fact, the Aztecs are a population… The Mexica ended up building a kind of empire and a hegemonic and institutional vision of their institutions and their cosmology over a particular basin, the Basin of Mexico. And when I say “Aztec,” I’m already stepping back a bit… 

My proposal today is broader, more Mesoamerican in scope. In the sense that it belongs to the whole basin that stretches from northern Mexico up into what is now the southern United States — which used to be northern Mexico — and down to Guatemala in Central America, and so on. So the scope is wider than the Aztecs. I think that’s worth emphasizing. Anyway, small parenthesis, but… I’m taking on a couple of myths. First, I explain—in what I think is a fairly pedagogical way—in the book what the Mesoamerican worldview is. It’s a cyclical vision of life, where you actually have to feed a celestial body — the sun — with certain offerings, notably blood, in order to sustain the star that makes life possible, the Fifth Sun, which is in particular… personified by the only original deity of the Aztecs, Huitzilopochtli. So that’s it. It is, in fact, this worldview that imposes a certain economy of blood offerings. This carries a set of consequences, both mythical and practical. And you have to start from there to understand the argument of the book. There is also a key figure that appears in another myth, which we might come back to later, called the Mimixcoa — they are kind of small warriors who appear one day. In fact, the sun one day decides that warriors are needed in order to be fed… So the sun creates the Mimixcoa, who basically decide instead to get drunk and have sex—I’m recounting a myth here; we are in mythic narrative—instead of going hunting and bringing offerings back to the sun. 

So, faced with the drunkenness of the sun’s subjects, the sun decides to create five larger Mimixcoa, including Mixcoatl, the god of hunting and war in Mesoamerica, who is also considered an enemy of the Aztecs for many symbolic reasons that are well described in the book, I believe… In fact, the symbolic elements centered around this figure represent one of the historical enemy populations of the Aztecs, the Huastecs. The Mimixcoa get drunk; Mixcoatl, the god of hunting and war, hunts them down and then offers them as sacrifices to the sun in order to maintain the perpetual cycle of life. From there, the Mimixcoa appear as a prototypical figure of sacrificial victims in Mesoamerica. Everything that will later be offered as a sacrifice, as a sacrificial object, will be identified with the Mimixcoa. But both concretely and symbolically — and you’ll see why later. So that’s where we start from. 

The second myth I engage with is a certain belief among Aztec women that they, in fact, give birth to enemies. It’s quite striking. Bringing a child into the world is seen as a form of combat. There is a whole allegorical structure here between childbirth and war, and this figure of enmity that is already present in the child. I started wondering why. When you look at the anthropological literature and explanations, you see that the enemy has a kind of fertility power that is transferred to the population that captures him. So there is this circulation of fertility power between a captive and a warrior. This fertility power produces a specific dynamic in the Mesoamerican world, where, when you read the accounts, you see that the warrior actually considered his captive as a child. The captive himself considered the warrior who had captured him as his father. This dynamic of identification… When I came across this, I thought: okay, there is something quite particular here that seems to be extremely widespread in Mesoamerica. And even further, into North America. It’s not my specific theoretical field, but I realized it has quite broad ramifications. After that, I move on to another element: hunting. Hence Enemies and Venison. 

Hunting in Mesoamerica is seen as an emulation of war. The practices are equivalent in terms of the technologies used, in terms of symbolism, and in the end, deer — which are a kind of key mythological and real figure — are what is tested in hunting. They in fact carry the same fertility power as enemies. The deer and enemies, in fact, carry the same fertility power that we found with the Mimixcoa, who are our first mythological figure with which I introduce the whole mythical framework. So deer, enemies — everything is a Mimixcoa. Everything has the potential to feed the solar body. This creates a particular relationship to hunting, where hunting is seen as something almost erotic, where there must be a kind of encounter with the animal. It imposes a kind of ethics of temperance. It produces a kind of equivalence between positions, in the sense that being the hunter means one can always end up in the inverse position. It’s always possible to become the enemy. That is one of the central arguments of the book: there is always the possibility of becoming the enemy. It is a constant reversibility of positions. And in the end, whether it concerns captives or deer hunting, this is anchored in the specific Mesoamerican practice we know as sacrifice — a practice that, in Western contexts, is often understood as barbaric. But when you place it within its broader cosmological framework, it makes sense, in the sense that the solar body has to be continually renewed. And it still rests on a logic of temperance — we may come back to that later. For example, deer were hunted in the same way as warriors. Warriors, when taken captive to be sacrificed, were not simply killed on the spot, “freestyle.” In fact, they were brought back into the city. There was a real possibility of integration into society… 

If, for example, there was no festive occasion, no ritual festivals or ceremonial opportunities to sacrifice them, these individuals would end up being integrated into the social body. And there was in fact a form of treatment that, historically speaking, did not resemble imprisonment followed by execution, but rather the maintenance of life. And depending on whether or not there was an opportunity for sacrifice, they would be sacrificed. They would integrate into the social body. So that’s my first mythological section. And then I told myself: okay, I really want to make this empirical. I started asking how this mythological structure is actually grounded in a set of practices. When you do a very simple analysis of hunting and warfare practices… You can actually see that the technologies used both in contexts of war and hunting are not technologies aimed at destruction, but rather always at bringing beings — whether deer or humans — back so they can be kept alive. So this presupposes that instead of lethal weapons, what is used are lassos. You catch a creature, you bring it back, and you use traps again, once more, to capture the creature. In war contexts, for example, lassos were used, traps were used. 

There was a kind of ambush dynamic, where it wasn’t just direct confrontation. The Mexica warriors — the Aztecs… They carried out ambushes in order to create a kind of basin around the enemies, so as to capture them and bring them back. And after that… Possibly, yes or no, whether these would become sacrificial victims. You can see that actions follow words, and that the mythological deeply shapes the technical. For me, that was a real “wow” moment, because it seemed to strongly contrast with the way war is conducted in the Western world, because wars were not primarily wars of destruction. In fact, the way the Aztec Empire constituted its pantheon was largely through incorporation — incorporation of deities, incorporation of populations… For example, Mixcoatl — the first god of war and hunting I mentioned — was not originally their own deity. Because, in fact, the Aztecs don’t really have deities that are strictly their own, apart from Huitzilopochtli. Everything is a kind of gathering, a collection of what already existed beforehand in the Mesoamerican world. And in fact, they integrate these figures into their pantheon. The populations the Aztecs targeted were populations that belonged to the same cosmological basin, and even the same linguistic basin — Nahuatl-speaking populations. And this still establishes a certain ethics of war, a way of conducting war that is quite different. And I told myself, okay, okay, okay. What do we actually have in front of us here? You’re trying to propose a concept. 

You’ve got material, and you’re trying to think something through. So what I propose is this: the specificity of Mesoamerican cosmotechnics… is that it is a cosmotechnics of identification, where there is a necessity, in fact… that technologies and the relationship to the world impose a relation in which alterity is always similar to the self. There is always the possibility of reversal, but never a form of radical othering where the other becomes a pure object. In other words, there is always a kind of shared cosmological basin, a similarity that binds the two poles together, which produces a form of equivalence and a kind of temperance in relation to the enemy. I think that clashes quite strongly with what one could call Western cosmotechnics. I didn’t really want to fall into a comparative framework, but in hindsight there was clearly a lot to do there. You know, in the book I look at a section at the end devoted to a German thinker named Ernst Jünger, who tried to think about what the essence of technology is, a bit before Martin Heidegger. A work that, by the way, strongly influenced Heidegger’s later writings. He himself conceptualizes a figure called “the Worker,” which is in fact a very broad theoretical construction, where the worker is also the soldier — but the worker is the one who handles and forges his world through technique. And in a way, it is a kind of conceptualization. 

Ernst Jünger was a decorated military officer, a major historical figure, but he speaks from a perspective that is often described as proto-fascist, very militaristic. He questions what is specific to war: what is the soldier of industrial warfare? What is the worker-soldier? Because everyone becomes a worker-soldier in a context of total mobilization… You can see that industrial warfare, as we know it in the 20th century, is a war of annihilation of the other, a war of destruction. It is a war where the question of means is not really the central issue; rather, the question is the end goal. This produces the human grinders we have known — and still know today. And I found there was a very strong difference with the Mesoamerican world, where, in fact, the specificity of Western warfare, it seems to me, is the most absolute objectification and othering of the Other through technical processes. This is of course underpinned by a certain metaphysics, but at the technical level you can see it, for example, in nuclear weapons: you drop a bomb somewhere and you kill… …200,000 people. You can see it in drone warfare as we know it today, which allows people to be killed at a distance. You’re sitting in a room in Colorado, air-conditioned, and war becomes a kind of game. Whereas in Mesoamerica, there is this kind of proximity to the Other, a possibility of exchange that… I don’t really want to say empathy… but something like that. 

There is a form of recognition in the enemy, which, according to Ernst Jünger, still existed up until the First World War. But I think he himself was somewhat overtaken by the use of gas warfare, and by what the Second World War became. So that’s, in a way, what my book is about. And then, at that point, one could ask what we do with all this. And in fact, this is a big question. I think this question was reopened for me recently, after I finished this work. And I told myself that the question of identification could actually function as an ethical benchmark for whether or not to accept, or use, a technology in given contexts. Because in the end, I think the question of technology, and how we experience it in the West, is largely a question of dispossession, where things are imposed on us, and of forms and objects, and ultimately, if political communities could give themselves the right to say yes or no to the use of a technology, perhaps they would say no. I still think that, given that my work has a critical decolonial orientation, you know, the question of the annihilation of sled dogs among the Inuit… That was not a matter of choice; it was the destruction of a lived form of life. That’s the point. So what do we do with that? 

It remains an open question, but that’s more or less what the book is about. And I invite you to read it. I think it’s something very theoretical that can seem disconnected, but I actually wrote it because I think there are still a number of lessons in it that I myself am still trying to articulate — about how this concept, this relation to the enemy, could be actualized in contemporary ethics, in our relations to technology, in our relations to… war. And also, I think the case of historical Mexico, in its dialogue with a kind of distant past — not so distant — is a reflection that could also be relevant in Canada, where the possibility of a project, a Canada… I wouldn’t say post-colonial, I wouldn’t say decolonial, nor transmodern, because I find these are loaded terms, but… If it is a matter of having a conversation with other cosmologies… how are we able to appropriate elements and actualize them within our own understanding of the world? That’s the idea. Thank you.


Pépé
Well, thank you, Lou, for the brief presentation of your book. I really recommend reading it — it’s very rich in material. I learned a lot of things. I was quite surprised by many of the things I read. You already kind of went through some of the questions, so I’m going to come back to you with some more specific points. at the level of generality I had, or had been thinking through. Among other things, you kind of explained a bit… the way your work is grounded in the research done by Yuk Hui, and in the development of the concept of cosmotechnics, which aims to critique the idea of “technology” in general — usually understood as what allows us to act upon the world, or as a mediation between our body and the world enabling us to perform operations. Even in this very rough definition, we already see the concept of “world” coming back. What Yuk Hui problematizes — and what makes him fairly close to what is called the ontological turn in anthropology — is the assumption that there is something like a single world. The ontological turn challenges the idea that we all share the same world, that there is “nature” in which everyone lives, and then “cultures” that differ, and therefore technologies that differ. because what your book brings to light is that Aztec techniques can only be understood within their own context and within their own cosmology, and that this in turn shapes hunting instruments and war instruments. All of this is articulated around the sun, which functions as an organizing principle of the world and which continuously requires repeated sacrifices. From there, it becomes a question of fertility, war, and hunting, which are treated in a specific way as the maintenance of a sacrificable population. This still breaks with the stereotypical view we have of an “Aztec civilization” as a highly warlike society. What you show, in fact, is that there is a rather deep identification between warriors and captives, hunters and their prey, which is analogous to the relation between mothers and their children… One thing that really surprised me… but one of the things you talk about in the book is a certain form of warfare conducted by the Aztecs — the so-called “Flower Wars,” capture wars. Could you explain what mythological narrative this reproduces and how it is organized?


Lou
In fact, the Flower Wars that my colleague is referring to here are really interesting. You see, there are two underlying myths that, I think, are necessary to understand my argument, one of which we can call the Flower Wars. First, as I briefly mentioned earlier, the Aztec world is cosmologically structured as a succession of suns — cycles of war, cycles of creation and destruction… So the personification of the fourth sun, Quetzalcoatl, a very well-known figure — the feathered serpent — was not happy that his son had died. So he went to steal the bones of humanity from Mictlan, which is a kind of underworld in Mesoamerican cosmology. And then the new divine figure of the fifth sun, Huitzilopochtli, the main Aztec god — he gathers the bones and puts them back together. And that, by the way, is the cosmological reason why humans have different sizes, which is quite funny: it was all reassembled rather hastily. Then there is a kind of celestial battle between the solar body and the lunar body. As a reminder, the sun can only maintain its strength through blood offerings. That’s the first myth — the birth of the world at Tenochtitlan. Strangely, a Canadian was killed in Tenochtitlan this week. I’m not sure what that means. Something to reflect on… The myth of Mixcoatl and the Mimixcoa brings back this question of war and of producing Mimixcoa captives in order to feed the solar body. But the whole question of the economy of offering is about feeding, feeding, feeding the sun. So what are the Flower Wars, in fact? It’s a very particular historical episode. They are demonstrations where the Aztecs, through messengers, would contact enemy populations and say: we will meet at such and such a place and we will fight. So these are organized forms of warfare where the goal was not to maximize casualties or killings. The objective was to capture as many people as possible. They functioned as demonstrations of military and technical ability, but never with the aim of killing — only with the aim of capture. Then people end up being used in later sacrificial rituals. I mention this briefly in the book, but you can really see the ritual structure of warfare in this specific moment, which makes almost no sense unless you place it within its cosmological configuration, and the two main explanatory myths I’ve laid out. I think that when we have, in front of us… a kind of exemplification like this, which seems so curious, when placed within their technical world, you can really see the effort. In fact, I think… of understanding what an alterity facing us can be. I’m not entirely sure what to say in response to that question. The property of the world… What is the world? Well, I think in Yuk Hui’s work as well, and I talk about it a lot, there is the influence of the ontological turn. This is the strand in anthropology that assumes there is not just one single relation to the world… and not everything is just representation, but when people are within those worlds, they are confronted with elements that may appear, let’s say, far-fetched to us, like ghosts or spirits. But in fact, you have to take them seriously, because people have relations to the world that are radically different, depending on the cosmological and cultural basins they come from. I think it’s also important to include that in one’s reading, and in broader reflections, because you don’t read everything as such. You can’t read anthropology and ethnography as just a kind of narrative or stories that seem simply non-modern. Instead, you can actually see how one can be entirely within another register of experience. You, or like… the Aztecs. Okay, I’ll ride it like this, I’m a surfer.


Pépé
Thank you. Well, precisely, the question I had prepared to continue concerns this idea of radically different experiences, somewhat incommensurable worlds, which is somewhat the core of what… new theory in anthropology… I don’t really know it that well, but from what I understand, it tries to engage with this idea of the ontological turn. In reading this, there can be something a bit challenging. I think that’s the sign of a good book — especially in anthropology — that it is somewhat unsettling, that it puts things into question. I get the impression that, as you explain a bit in your approach, there is a desire to compare the way of thinking and conducting war in our present with the way it was done in the Aztec world. And this ends up giving a picture where, ultimately, mass sacrifice is not that bad… Captive enemies being treated like children of the community — that can make sense. People seem to be, in a way, in agreement or at least to understand what is happening to them. And it fits within a particular cosmological framework. One can understand why one would be delivered to sacrifice, because everyone believes, in any case, that the sun must be fed, and so on… So there is still a certain coherence to all of this. But for me, it also marks a break with a more classical understanding of anthropological work, which involves a perspective where one is also able to critically examine the worlds which one studies. And among others, this is a different methodological postulate — typically the Marxist one — which holds that whenever a unity is presented to us, in fact there is a division underneath it. One always divides into two. The Aztec world is an empire. There are people who organize the sacrifices. We find traces of this in codices, in texts that are religious or cosmological in nature. But it’s not necessarily obvious that there is a unity as such. And I was wondering what you think this kind of framing adds, when it is presented as a “world”… Incommensurable, in the perspective you choose to adopt. But also, we could imagine a history of the Aztec world in which there would be revolts, seditions, resistance to the integration of other nations into the empire, escapes from the sacrificial order, or at least something that would reveal fractures within this cosmological unity that you present to us.


Lou
Oof! You know, when I read this material, I really asked myself about resistance in the moment itself. It seems there was still a form of acceptance of the condition — like, you become a captive. But then you read colonial accounts. Yet there still seems to have been, apparently, a certain acceptance of what was happening. Because the treatment was not necessarily harsh. When you read texts by Bernardino de Sahagún, there are statements from the Tlatoani saying things like: “this child is being nourished as a son of the sun.” The question of treatment in Mesoamerican studies, as I understand it, tends to suggest a certain acceptance — an “okay”… After that, the question of resistance — you know, the Aztecs were still the empire of Mesoamerica. There were resistances, you know, the encounter with Hernán Cortés. And I’ve already talked about this with many people here, it’s… The siege of Tenochtitlan was notably won because there was an alliance with the Tlaxcalans, I believe. They are located a bit further to the northeast. They had resisted the Aztecs for about 300 years. And then Hernán Cortés leveraged that situation. This shows a form of dissension within the Aztec imperial logic, which, as a reminder, is still a hegemonic logic that works through incorporation — ultimately a very mystical, ideological, institutional construction built around gathering and integrating many different groups. In the end, it is still a specific people, a specific population [Mexica] that imposes itself on many others. 

There is the Purépecha population in the state of Colima, which is still very much alive today, who also fought back, and who are still part of the same cultural basin. These are still Nahuatl-related populations who resisted and were never incorporated by the Aztecs. I think it would actually be very interesting to construct this narrative of dissension… of conflict. Methodologically, in the object I worked on, I didn’t really see much of that. But when I step outside the texts a bit, I do see it. Yet it might still end up weakening the force of my argument… but… But I think what still saves this theoretically is that what I develop — a cosmotechnics of identification — is precisely based on narratives that move across time. In the sense that I constantly move back and forth between the present, the past, and what still persists of this cosmology today. I even go into Amazonian anthropology. And across space as well: when I focus on the moment of contact with Europeans, I also draw heavily on Maya sources, including contemporary Yucatec Maya and Tzeltal Maya texts. In fact, they say more or less the same thing about cosmological belief. There are resistances. I cannot elaborate further, but it would definitely be interesting to do so. There certainly was dissension. Does that prevent making a broader cosmological claim? Maybe not. Maybe in that case I am being too Heideggerian.


Pépé
Your answer makes me think of something Giorgio Agamben writes in the postface to Stasis, on civil war — something like “On Play, War, Notes on Play, War, and so on.” He revisits an old question: why do sporting practices, or agonistic practices more generally, reproduce so many features of war? And he says the classical response is to argue that sport or play is a pacified form of war. He, on the contrary, argues that war takes its source from play. He tries to invert the framework. I’m not sure how empirically grounded he is in making that claim, but it still makes me think… Take the Flower Wars you mentioned. It does look like a large organized game in which the consequences are extreme, but which is still based on an agreement on a set of rules, a certain staging, something organized toward a possibly shared higher purpose. Maybe one could go… Norbert Elias is shaking…but anyway. There were also those implications. There were political consequences, and again, sacrificial ones in relation to what, in Mesoamerica, is called the ball game, the pelota. Football ! 

You had also mentioned, in a way, the question of futurity: what does the fact that this cosmotechnics once existed allow us to do in relation to the future? In Yuk Hui’s work, especially regarding China, a similar line of reflection appears. In the case of your book, it might be that the mere fact that the Aztec world existed shows the possibility of other relations to technics, and therefore the possibility of exiting the configuration we currently inhabit, particularly in relation to war. As you say, with the development of robotic weapons, we may be at the furthest point from what you call a logic of identification. I find this demonstration really fascinating from the standpoint of knowledge about what has existed. But for me it still remains somewhat abstract in terms of how it can actually be articulated with the future. As you say, you may remain a bit more Heideggerian than you think, because one senses, as in Yuk Hui, the presence of what Martin Heidegger called the “wholly other”: the possibility that, in a rather distant future, the world could become completely different from what it is today. For Heidegger, he draws from the Greek tradition, especially pre-Platonic thought. In your case, you turn toward the Aztecs, but we don’t really gain access to any kind of political prescription from that. The past is disconnected from the present, and the present is disconnected from the future. Yet the past and the future remain linked in some way, but this doesn’t really grant a privileged position to us, the ones living in the present. If the future only has a somewhat mysterious relation to the past, then what you’ve outlined regarding ways of conducting war operates on scales that are not easily accessible to our usual forms of consideration. I’m wondering how this affects you personally: at the scales you work with, what do you think this can actually teach us about ourselves? On our relation to technology, to conflict, or even to the notion of sacrifice you mentioned as something that persists throughout.


Lou
There is something like an effort of imagination we can make, and the potential for imagination that theory offers us. It is a somewhat classical question: what is utopia, and what does utopia offer us? Sometimes it is only a small lateral shift, a slight displacement in comparison with the reality that exists. It may seem significant, but it always feels somewhat insufficient. And the reactivation of the past is indeed dangerous. I think that the most fascistic tendencies in society are constantly reactivating elements of the past, reshaped to their own ends, and made available to whoever is willing to receive them. And that this produces some of the worst possible outcomes. But I think that… In recent years, I’ve also had a kind of “buzz” around this with friends. The concept of buen vivir — its history — is like an ethics of the good life positioned against the discourse of growth, which emerged in Latin America and South America. It has Quechua roots, cosmological Quechua roots. And what made the concept of buen vivir circulate successfully is that two things happened. There was a secularization of the concept from its original cosmological grounding, so it became a kind of secular framework where we, Quechua peoples, South Americans, Central Americans, and Latin Americans… One can situate oneself within a discourse other than growth. Academics adopted it. The theorists of buen vivir were able to… make their own sense of the concept. It becomes a kind of task: how to reactivate concepts from the past by extracting them from their original cosmological basins, and turn them into something emancipatory. That is one part. Then, second, this requires political enactment. And buen vivir did acquire a certain concreteness within various governmental apparatuses. Venezuela, which is an oil-producing country. In Bolivia, where there has still been an overstepping of Indigenous sovereignties in order to develop lithium. And I think that the only possible way there could be an incorporation of an ethics of identification today is if a political community has the capacity and the means to give itself an ethics, which is no small thing, in the sense that we do not really have the means to give ourselves ethics beyond individual consumption. In fact, an ethics of identification could come to life if a political community could decide, yes or no, we adhere to this ethic, we make it a principle, and we accept or refuse it, or not, and… That is a possible actualization of what I am developing. But remind me of the end of your question? How, precisely, in relations over which we have more direct control, whether politically or personally, what could an ethics of identification mean for you? The people you live with, the kinds of relationships you actually have access to, which are not about “we should have more drones in warfare,” but rather require a different kind of agency, less about efficiency and more about modes of relation. I don’t know if I’m being defeatist, but if one assumes we are part of the totality of society, it feels like we have little to say. I think that if people are able to constitute themselves as a political force and take on this ethics, in the sense of making it a requirement, with the acceptance or refusal of technologies that go beyond war and beyond the question of enmity, it becomes a question of othering. It is also like, what do you do with the relation… to the political enemy? Or things like Tinder, which are extremely objectifying. After that, it’s not straightforward—Tinder is a technology that enables objectification and othering to a certain extent, but without dwelling too much on Tinder… You know, the prevailing conception at the moment, we had talked about it over a beer the other day… the friend–enemy distinction in politics. I was less sure about that. I told you about it because, well… for those who don’t know it, but I think many people do, it is a minimal definition of the political as theorized by Carl Schmitt, a jurist associated with Nazism. He argues that you are either a friend or an enemy. And from there, you can understand politics through that lens. It imposes a kind of immunitarian view of who you are—your group versus the other as a virus, a threat, a virus, a threat. I wasn’t really convinced by that. Because when that theory gets taken up by the far left, the far right, and other movements, I was like… ah. But you know, when Carl Schmitt proposes this, he is not offering a critical notion of politics; he is simply describing a state of… In fact, he is simply expressing the ideological state of the technique of his time, which is literally: the enemy, you fuck him up, you blow him apart, and he is situated within a very specific concretization of a biopolitical world, which is like… The militarized nation-states of the early 20th century. And I don’t really know, but I feel there is something to push further regarding our relation to enemies. I have a friend here in front of me who could perhaps speak more to that… but something like Derrida’s ethics of hospitality, I’m not sure. But there is something like an acceptance of the other, at the risk of its perversion… of the enemy. And I don’t know. Sometimes maybe the enemy has something to… not to teach us, but something like a relation to be thought otherwise. Then again, I say this, but I don’t want Elon Musk in my group. I’ll stop there, but there is something. I think it is the retrospective effort of the work I’ve done that I find so difficult to make, because it is so hard to step outside the conception of enmity that, I think, structures us politically. At the same time, the gesture I am making is ultimately a theoretical and imaginative one, and if it can plant a spark somewhere… please. A spark, anyone?


Speaker 2
Thank you for the presentation and everything. I’m going to discover your work, and I look forward to diving into it. From what I understand, you are positioning yourself with Philippe Descola, in the move beyond the nature–culture distinction, where in our societies we would belong to a naturalist ontology, which then allows us to establish normative rules and justify forms of domination. What is interesting in what you were saying is that by exploring other cosmologies, other types of ontology… From what I understand of your explanation, the concept of domination, as we apply, understand, and practice it in our societies, is somewhat neutralized within their cosmology. If one is simultaneously an enemy and also the “right” person, this produces a form of participatory and regenerative power. What I have read about Aztec philosophy, about what are called the Tlamatinime, their philosophers, suggests that they also have a more Heraclitean conception at the ontological level, a notion of regeneration: one never steps into the same river twice. With their Teotl, which functions as a kind of first mover or underlying principle. What is interesting here is that when one steps outside our own naturalist framework, which can justify domination in the terms you mentioned regarding war—namely the establishment of norms that determine what can be destroyed or not, where there are rules such as not attacking civilian populations… We establish that rule—even if, in practice, some still violate it—but it always remains within a logic of destruction, whereas in their case there is more of a logic of recovery. At times, yes, this may involve a ritualized destruction, but it is not systematic; it occurs only at very specific moments. And then there is the overarching narrative, which is also their technical tool. I’m not sure where I am going with all this, but what I find interesting is precisely that we can rethink technics: instead of using it to dominate the other, it allows for a kind of folding of nature and culture together. To the point where we are no longer necessarily in logics of wanting to dominate nature through technology, which then leads to cultural wars of the kind we are currently witnessing. In that sense, I have the impression that this could neutralize fascism, insofar as we are no longer in a logic where it is a question of which culture will successfully dominate, where cultures fight each other and the “best” one prevails, and once it prevails it can dominate everyone, including nature. In that case, we are all equal. And precisely, there is a permeability of cultures: they can influence one another, there are appropriations, and that is acceptable. This has been theorized by Latin American feminists. The concept of translation, where ideas circulate and are exchanged, is central here. This began with the Greeks, who themselves traveled extensively and adopted concepts that can be found among Hindu traditions or sometimes even in Egypt. From what I understand of what you are trying to put forward, when one enters a cosmotechnics grounded in ontological plurality… We are more in an idea of mutual aid, it becomes easier. I find this very interesting when placed from an anarchist perspective, because it allows for more collaboration instead of constantly passing through a kind of overarching authority that is always hovering over everything. It feels more oriented toward collaboration. And precisely, we move out of logics of domination. In the field of AI, instead of thinking about AI as being about exploiting resources or surveilling populations, one could imagine AIs oriented toward facilitating well-being, collective life, cooperation, and which are also decentralized. In that sense, we would no longer need that kind of centralized authority; it could sound anarchist, but exploring another ontology produces different normative rules that seem to be accepted as logically grounded, such as the principle of non-contradiction. Because you cannot be a thing and its opposite at the same time. So you could not be both with the enemy and at the same time be a comrade… that’s the idea. I find this interesting, and I think that from a practical point of view, what is interesting is precisely this move of drawing from these ontologies. And these ways of conceptualizing technics are such that we can then learn from them and think in other ways, and develop new ethics from that.


Lou
That is a spark. I have nothing to add to that. But yes, these are reflections that can emerge from it, and we could talk about them for hours, but… is there any question? I’m not sure if we are in question mode. Sorry, I’m just commenting.


Speaker 3
You want a comment? I could drift into Derrida, though it wouldn’t be very clean, but on the friend–enemy distinction we can take… I don’t have an answer to that, and of course one can take a Marxist perspective of antagonism. But we can also approach the question from the standpoint of people who are considered contagion. That is something I am regularly told. In my capacity as a trans person. So I am caught in a friend–enemy structure that I did not choose, being treated as such by people who want to destroy and suppress that form of life, etc. So the question becomes how to approach this from that position. And it would be purely reactionary to want to destroy the others in turn. And I tell myself that if they treat me as an enemy, I don’t have to treat them as people to convince or to talk with. There are things I will allow myself to do, in the sense that you can publicly shame people who treat you like that, or you can work to defund or disrupt something, etc. So that there is no power. I don’t know if I would go as far as saying “gulag,” maybe I’m just in a good mood. So how do we take the friend–enemy question from that point of view? And I can add a bit to what was said about the principle of non-contradiction: in that principle, it is always under a certain relation, meaning you cannot be two contradictory things at the same time, but only under a certain relation. If we look at more complex situations, that is where we see that things that seem contradictory are not necessarily so after all. If we take that, then I wonder what one does when one is caught, against one’s will, in a friend–enemy structure. What is done in practice as a community is to keep surviving nonetheless, to keep organizing nonetheless, to keep surviving despite everything. because our life force, the impulse behind it, is not that structure. And that is the danger with the far right generally, which becomes so trapped in that structure that it ends up self-destructing in its violent delirium. But we just exist alongside it. Maybe that is key, but I still had a question to mess with you. I come back to sacrifice, which, as you say, was very explicitly assumed among the Aztecs. Can this help clarify the way… To what extent are we, in the West, very prudish or hypocritical regarding everything we sacrifice in the name of our ideals, while never naming it as such?


Lou
Thank you very much, this is very interesting. You know. The persistence of sacrifice up to today is such a strange question. Because I feel like it still exists, and… My god, it’s terrible. You know, one day I read René Girard and it completely blew me away. I thought: okay, sacrifice exists. It’s like the founding moment of social discord. After that, everything else is just a sublimation of the original sacrificial crisis. Institutions then simply conceal it more and more. Personally, I have the impression that sacrifice still exists very strongly in our societies, in a way that is perhaps not disembodied at all, cosmologically, because there is a cosmology, the Western ontological, naturalist, call it what you want, biopolitical relation. But I think there is still this logic of putting to death, exposing, killing in order to enable a stabilization and a permeability of the social body as it currently is. In fact, the Aztecs do that. They seem to do it purely cosmologically. They kill people so that their world can continue to exist, they sacrifice people. Okay, there are cosmological reasons, but when you rethink it today, under the principle of preserving the social body and what the world is… I think it is just sublimated. In fact, it is a somewhat impossible thesis—the one from René Girard about sacrificial crisis and the sacred and all that. But I don’t know, is that my answer? Is it satisfactory? I think it still exists, it is everywhere: people are being put to death for the sake of stabilizing the social body.


Pépé
I had one last comment — I feel that the sacrifice — that I had sent you, don’t worry. It relates to the work of another anthropologist who has worked on the notion of sacrifice, David Graeber, whom you probably know. In Debt: The First 5,000 Years, he traces the origin of money specifically to sacrifice. For him, the reason why there is often a cattle head on minted currency is because money originally functioned as a substitute for a sacrificed life within a religious process of… sacrifice to a god. The ox or the working animal in general, as its sacrifice is equivalent to the sacrifice of a labor economy: the ox allows, or the draft animal allows, less human labor; sacrificing it is in a sense the sacrifice of part of human life, of a quantity of energy, if one wants to put it in modern terms. So, according to him, historically, money replaces livestock, which itself replaced human life and religious sacrifices. Money, then, for him, which is central to the state’s ability to levy taxes and finance its war-making capacity, fundamentally ties us back to the universe of sacrifice. This is an argument developed in a text called Corne de Brume, which is available here if you want to read it in more detail. In that text, we argue that there is a deep link between sacrifice and interest. We are well aware that sacrifices are made, for example, when… A forest is clear-cut for money, or a mine is extracted, or there is an oil spill. It is considered normal, and we can clearly see that something is being sacrificed for a higher interest. What do you think about that?


Lou
I feel like I’ve already partly answered that with the response to Freya. But you know, I think that within the logic of sacrifice there is a kind of dimension I am trying to reactivate: what is expenditure today? The excess that is sacrificed simply to allow things to continue.


Pépé
You know. Say the end again? I realize the question I had written isn’t really a question, it’s a bit cheap. Well, well. What organizes sacrifice today? Why are things sacrificed? If in the Aztec world things are organized for the sun, which I imagine continues its role of generalized fertility and production of the world, then what organizes sacrifice? I have the impression that it is the necessities of the body. necessity of capital, necessity of the stability of the economic body, necessity of the political body trying to maintain itself.


Lou
The same answer I gave to Freya, but I’m missing words. What do you think, my dear? Do you have an answer to this comment? Do you have a meta-answer? Does anyone have an answer, a spark? 


Speaker 4
Cash rules everything around me. Dollar dollar bill y’all To stay on the same theme. Could we say that sacrifice, precisely, is when it is bloody?


Speaker 3
Literally death? Literal death doesn’t exist. When it is extremely visible and direct. In contrast to all the sacrifices we make in our society, such as kicking out hundreds of Muslim women because “fuck you, secularism.” A sacrifice we make in the name of secularism, which is a shared idea. of what we are as a people or whatever. But this is not conceptualized as death, which makes it possible to refuse that it is a sacrifice. People will even say, “no, but you chose it,” whereas I imagine we would not say that to the sacrificed person. You see what I mean, or the way we sacrifice nature to capital, we do not call it sacrifice, no no, it is production. We sacrifice the possibility of sacrificing in an honest way, in a certain sense. 


Lou

We are in the old dynamics of concealing power, punishment, etc. Death that lives in the background.


Speaker 5
It is also for the reproduction of this balance of the world, of the world order. What you told us earlier, a cosmology, you know, is a way of explaining the organization of the world order. There are narratives that explain this, that tell us, and there are things through symbolic gestures, rituals, things to do to maintain that balance. It seems like blood sacrifice, a gift economy through blood, all that. But I feel like that’s kind of what you’re saying, just in my own words: to maintain the balance of the world we are in. Our cosmology is, among other things, soft exploitation. What capitalism proposes as a relation to the world is that: it is our ontology.


Lou
I’m not sure if it is our cosmology or the very condition of the material and technical infrastructure itself. I think there would be an interesting distinction to be made there… 


Speaker 5
But it is a dialectic that shapes our experience of the world, our epistemology, our ontology; it is mediated, shaped by this material dimension.


Speaker 6
I had already done some work on consent in relation to sacrifice. I was asking myself, precisely, to bring back what had been said about sacrifice and the idea that one can consent to one’s own sacrifice, and what was happening there. I had read a work by Florence Burgat which explains, in her view, what the origin of sacrifice is. We used to sacrifice in order to maintain orders. We stopped sacrificing humans and replaced it with animals, and then we organized it in many different ways. 

In the biblical narrative, [...] he sacrifices his son Isaac. At the last moment, God substitutes him with a lamb, and that is how animal sacrifice emerges within the Christian cosmology. She also explains this from a Greek perspective. And there, it is for harvests, to obtain good crops. And precisely, a bull was sacrificed in the hope that the harvest would be good. Today, we make sacrifices when we are told to tighten our belts. And slogans like that fit into our idea of economic growth. To maintain our order, our economic balance, capital, within the framework of capitalist norms. It is based on an idea of infinite growth. There is this idea today of maintaining this order; we do it by tightening our belts, by making savings, by restricting leisure activities. These are sacrifices that may be less visible in a way, because they are not as violent as when an animal is slaughtered or a human heart is extracted, but there is still violence in it. 

In the sense that some people then allow themselves more leisure because they have more capital than others. Some end up on the street. It’s as if the sacrifice they make is much more brutal than someone who simply restrains themselves from buying a Rolex. But yes, I have a question about that, because it came before the question of consent in sacrifice. Because even if the narrative explains that war is conducted within the rules of war, you can still be captured and sacrificed. Ultimately, when you are on the altar and the moment arrives, from my subjective point of view, there may be a slight hesitation, and maybe I no longer want it. I understand that our narratives tell us that it is part of the order of things. 

But from there, how do you justify it as someone who becomes afraid, who is afraid and screams? Clearly they do not consent, and the world sees that. It also seems to me that it was public. Maybe it was up high and you could not hear the screams, or it was masked. At some point, being told about it and seeing it are two different things. Which makes it so that at a certain point it becomes difficult to justify maintaining that rite. 


Lou
From a consent perspective, it is quite particular… there are extremely structured rites… 


Speaker 6
Because when it was ritualized, apparently… when it is ritualized, apparently you sign consent. So the cow… there was no possibility of consent. It was always simulated or extracted in a certain way… 


Lou

Not much to say about that. But there is a form of concealment in the techniques used in the preparation for sacrifice. As I was saying, like alcohol and drugs… how do you deal with that in relation to this broader reflection? 


Speaker 6

But these are practices that are documented. 


Lou
Yes, they are very well documented. After that, at the moment when you are on the altar… I don’t know what was happening over there… 

And so there is the narrative, yes—in any case, the story is fear. There were prior opportunities to escape, to get away, etc., but you do not do it. But also sometimes… is that it? I cannot really express myself on that. But what I found interesting at the beginning of the discussion is also the kind of allegory of what was happening in the world. not the ancient world, but the biblical narrative and so on. And then, okay, it is used to bring good harvests, and I still struggle with this question of sacrifice as the mythical foundation of a kind of instrumental reason aimed at dominating nature, because I feel like, to go back to what our friend was saying earlier about the gift economy, there is still a difference between what expenditure is—excessive spending without utility—and sacrifice as such, and what it enables is… for the wheel to keep turning. I think there are still two different things here. As for the gift economy, my dear, you might be able to enlighten me on that. You the anthropologist, me who is not one. But the gift economy does allow a kind of circulation, a wheel coming back around. I don’t know about you, but there is a distinction to be made there, though I don’t have much to say.

Apart from making methodological and conceptual distinctions, I’m not sure what I can really say… But all of this is quite interesting…


Speaker 7
Yes, there is something that has been said which really gets to the heart of the issue. It is the question of “in the name of what?” That is, in the name of what do we sacrifice? We have talked quite a bit about how today we are somewhat held in the grip of capital, and in a way… it is that we struggle, I think, to see alternatives. I think that is ultimately the problem we have arrived at.

That is, we make theoretical gestures, we also make imaginative gestures, or we look for alternatives. But we have so much difficulty actually finding the “in the name of what” behind what we are trying to do, or really finding it… As in the question of reactivating myth and the past: how do we make sure it does not become completely fake? 

We arrive with our epistemological tools, we do theory, we do this and that. How do we avoid it simply being false in the end? Because if we talk about any so-called archaic societies that practice sacrifice or have myths, there is still always a foundation. That is, there is a kind of violence in the act of instituting… we justify it, we found a nation in the end, there is still a gesture that is made which justifies everything and which justifies an organization, cosmological, There is a kind of justification […] that is really at the level of the cosmos. Nowadays, I think we have a lot of difficulty finding that, and precisely, in relation to technics—for example when we want to integrate it—how do we reconcile myth and technics today? In a cosmological perspective, I am not necessarily familiar with Yuk Hui or perhaps your theoretical background, but I think the difficulty is really at that level.

We look for alternatives, and at a large scale we do not see many. So we turn toward individual practices or very small groups. In that sense, there are interesting things in Georges Bataille… but at the same time, in Bataille, the theoretical dimension runs into a kind of wall: they can almost only be performed, metaphorically or symbolically, or in some way… In concrete terms, a kind of sacrificial community, at a certain point… apart from everything being put through it. That is, what is there to do? I don’t know. That is the difficulty. It is a bit defeatist, but that is what we run into when looking for concrete alternatives. That is the problem… 


Lou
I think of creating a community of the mystical, and going in that direction, trying to reproduce sacrifice and mystical experience. This is not the way. 

I once had a buzz about sacrificing a deer during the eclipse a few years ago, to make it fucked up and for something to happen. In the end, it didn’t take off. But you know, the core of the book is really the question of identification with the enemy. That is the only proposal.


Speaker 7
But I think there is something interesting in that, precisely because maybe one of the avenues is really just… and I think you are trying to put that into words within the friend–enemy framework. 

And it becomes almost a kind of dialogical perspective, where one simply puts oneself at stake in one’s relation to the other. Earlier, the word “contagion” was also mentioned, and I think that is very interesting, because there is a modality of encounter that takes a form almost like contagion—both literal and metaphorical—a relation to the other that, I think, is one of the only things we can really do. It is really just going toward the other, but in a framework where one both loses and gains. I think there is something there to think about as well.


Lou
If I had a volume two to write, I think it would certainly be on that. But the second step of the reflection is really there: concretization… for real, volume two… the outcome.

But the reactivation of the past… is strange. It is strange… How narratives…


Pépé
Isn’t there a kind of neo-Aztec indigenism?


Lou
I went to work for a while in Listuguj with the Mi’gmaq, and one day an elder came to me and said that sweat lodges are not really part of their traditional practices. But the youth do it, and it’s good, it reconnects them. There is this kind of work happening in Mexico right now, and it is still quite strange.

Because it is populations that are more educated, university-trained, somewhat of Euro-descendant background. It is not an ethnic issue, but there are people who live Indigeneity… I touch on this a bit, but not enough in the book, and I invite you to read a book called Deep Mexico by Guillermo Bonfil Batalla, which is excellent and raises the question of… Indigeneity—he uses “Indianness” because he is Mexican and there is another term. In fact, what makes someone Indigenous or not? It is simply whether or not you subscribe to another cosmology. That is quite a strong claim. Because the Canadian biopolitical conception of Indigeneity is not centered on that.

You know, it is like the question of descent. Even me, if I did a fucking internet test and found out I am 40% Indigenous. I don’t have the legitimacy to go into the public space and say anything. And then it is like the Mexican effort, and maybe for some people… people here who have a relation to Indigeneity. Yes? No? Whatever? ethnically? wherever you come from? How are you able to negotiate with these cosmologies? What part of them are you able to take on? How do you try to inscribe yourself within them? There is a kind of effort of belonging to the world that is contained in that conversation, and that is difficult. 

Does anyone want to add anything? Then it’s ok.


Speaker 5
I find the sweat lodge thing interesting. But in contemporary Indigenous realities, there is a lot of borrowing, rejection, mixing. There are discontinuities. I feel like there is some kind of Western obsession with authenticity. You know, we really want something… In any case, in the Indigenous contexts I know, people are not really concerned with this question of authenticity. They are aware that things circulate, and that there are borrowings, and like… 

And this is a question… well, more of an attack than a question. But do you think that in your research and the work you have done, you fell a bit into this homogenizing view of what the Mayan… sorry, Aztec cosmology is, ultimately based on texts written by Jesuits? testimonies, and there is a gap in that. In the end, what you are saying—does it fall into the obsession with authenticity? It refers a bit to the comments about highlighting what we do with existing dissension […] that is not homogeneous…


Lou
But you know, history is the crystallization and reification of objects. I wanted to see the most organic thing possible, but it is a methodological necessity, and maybe I am reproducing that. It is true that I work with Jesuit texts, I work with texts from the colonial crossover period, like the son of Moctezuma II, the last emperor [Fernando Alvarado Tezozómoc], who is between two worlds.

And then I move into slightly later material. It is probably that I am working with something reified, but I can assure you that I have made the intellectual effort to break with that. But certainly the theoretical effort behind this was not about mobilizing authenticity, certainly not. Because I myself criticize those kinds of approaches. 

And in their actualization, as we were saying earlier, it will never be re-presented in that way. And in my previous comment, where I found it a bit funny, these Aztec re-mobilizations and so on, you know, it is very conjunctural in the sense… 

The majority of people are trying to renegotiate their heritage in contemporary Mexico in a very honest, personal way, through family lineage, through relearning their language. And you know, these big things—I talk about them and I fall into the trap of making them into a big scene—but that is not the relationship people actually have to it.


Pépé
If you take the book, you will also see that a large part of the documentation includes codices, which are pre-colonial images that are very beautiful and very interesting. I was very surprised to see that. There are many of them that exist; a few are used in your book. 

Shall we stop here?


Lou
Let’s stop here and thank you everyone for coming. I would like to say that what I presented today is not as a philosopher, not as a sociologist, but as a pure curious observer of a subject and of what you can do with social theory—so a bit of anything, but with rigor. I would like to thank my colleague here Pépé, friends I have not seen in a long time, new friends, people from Becoming, people from Le Port de tête. Listen, I invite you to talk… Hockey and well… 


Pépé
Thank you very much!



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