By: Mark Kingwell

There is a kind of artist whose career makes no sense.

By: Mark Kingwell

The first man to say “fuck” on the airwaves of the BBC.

By: Mark Kingwell

His horn rendered a neurotic Scott Fitzgerald beauty in sound.

By: Mark Kingwell

Ironic bite, elegant judg­mentalism, cut-glass elegance

By: Mark Kingwell

“Yale Scholar Wrote for Pro-Nazi Newspaper”

By: Mark Kingwell

Without him there would be no Nashville scene.

By: Mark Kingwell

He urged an endless, playful agonistics of intellectual engagement.

By: Mark Kingwell

He analyzed the motives of every act, including the act of analysis.

By: Mark Kingwell

He ended up a cocoa-butter shell of a man.

By: Mark Kingwell

Desire seeks the Real but is trapped in the Symbolic order of language and representation.

By: Mark Kingwell

Theorizing in a style that must be described as cheerful despair.

By: Mark Kingwell

His was the perfect physiognomy of doomed resistance.

By: Mark Kingwell

Reason itself becomes the monster.

By: Mark Kingwell

He tracked the “lines of flight” that ideas can take up against power.

By: Mark Kingwell

His work, like his life, is a test of moral sensibility.