When I was midway through my degree I read a news report in Le Monde about the death of Gilles Deleuze. Needless to say, the death of a philosopher was headline news in France, a country where "intellectual" is not exclusively a term of derision or immediately prefaced by the prefix "pseudo", as in England, which is above all others the anti-intellectual country, it's critical faculties withered to defensive irony and self-deprecation. I have over the years read a number of reports of Deleuze's death. He jumped from the window of his apartment to death on the pavement below. It is odd that there is a word, defenestration, to refer to the act of throwing someone, yourself, out of a window. Apart from this curious fact, I have also noticed that people take suicide to be a kind of verdict on the life, a refutation, even, of the life. The life and its works are seen in some way to have failed. Yet the word "suicide", like most words, is an abstraction, and covers not one but many exits, many reasons, many relations to life and death. And I have always felt, in relation to Deleuze; even if I cannot state it clearly, even if I cannot exactly explain it, that his suicide was a suicide carried out precisely in the name of life. People, especially those with an axe to grind, a point to make, are keen to say that Deleuze, the great philosopher of Life, of Vitality, nonetheless kills himself at the finish, snuffs out his own light. As if it calls everything into question. As if it were a counter-proposition to everything he'd done and said. This is the usual anti-intellectual sloth, employed by boneheads full of resentment, using not argumentation but biographical anecdote to dismiss thinkers and philosophers. "They had an affair, they had soviet sympathies, they hated their mother, therefore.." Therefore nothing. Do the work, bonehead, do the reading.
He could barely breathe, Deleuze, with his one lung, the blind cancer invading his veins, "chained like a dog" to an oxygen machine, prevented from writing or thinking. Death held its pillow over his face. But Deleuze surprised death by jumping out of the window, he escaped. A last grab of life from under death's nose. The agility of the thief, the child snatching candy when the shopkeeper nods. I say again, however nonsensical it sounds, a suicide carried out in the name of life.
An everyday picture, people sat on the cafe terrace, couples strolling. Then in the corner a jagged detail, something that doesn't fit, something alarming. A man falls from a window. Deleuze, in his writings on cinema called such a detail a demark, like the seagull in Birds, that suddenly falls from the sky to peck at the head, a seaside scene, familiar enough, framed and organized according to conventional themes, but then something drops, deviates, makes the picture wobble. Deleuze in his final minutes was such a seagull, breaking the picture of everyday life, something senseless that stabs at sense. Perhaps in every conventional picture there is a man falling from a window, a bird descending in anger, a puncture wound in the skin of appearances. This is what we must look for if we are to continue to think and to feel.