The Suicidal Futility of War: A Mourning for Civilization and a Call for Disarmament
The Suicidal Futility of War: A Mourning for Civilization and a Call for Disarmament

Posted on 17th June, 2025 (GMT 17:24 hrs)
Updated on 27th June, 2025 (GMT 19:44 hrs)
Abstract
The article “The Suicidal Futility of War: A Mourning for Civilization and a Call for Disarmament” explores the devastating consequences of warfare on humanity, civilization, and the planet, arguing that war represents a self-destructive cycle that undermines progress and moral integrity. Drawing on historical and contemporary examples, the piece examines the immense human cost, environmental destruction, and societal regression caused by armed conflicts. It critiques the perpetuation of war through political, economic, and cultural mechanisms, highlighting the futility of seeking lasting solutions through violence. The author advocates for global disarmament as a moral and practical necessity, emphasizing the need for collective action, diplomacy, and non-violent conflict resolution to safeguard civilization. By mourning the losses inflicted by war, the article issues an urgent call for humanity to reimagine a peaceful future grounded in cooperation and mutual understanding.
The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of violence
In a century scarred by the Holocaust, nuclear devastation, and relentless war, humanity teeters on the edge—armed to the hilt, yet spiritually hollow. We have seen mass hysteria, fueled by fabricated narratives post-Pahelgaum, ignite vengeful fervor.
From Once in a Blue Moon Academia, we speak not as policy makers, but as grieving observers, lamenting a civilization undone by its own creations.
War, once glorified as the extension of politics, has revealed itself as a business of betrayal of humanity’s higher calling. It is a suicidal ritual, enacted by nation-states entranced by their own myths of dominance. Its consequences are no longer confined to battlefields; they seep into the soil, air, oceans, and minds. Environmental devastation, displacement, authoritarianism, and epistemicide—these are its silent accompaniments.
We find resonance in Rabindranath Tagore’s final lament, Crisis in Civilization (1941), written as Europe descended into fascist horror and Asia reeled under imperialism. In this haunting essay, Tagore wrote:
“The wheels of civilization are moving with an increasing speed, but its guiding spirit has been lost.”
Tagore, as an inhabitant of no-nation, mourned not only for India, but for a world where institutionalized, organized and funded “science” has been weaponized, science as a culture commercialized, and compassion eclipsed. Today, his fears echo with terrifying clarity. Our technical rationality has outpaced our moral imagination. The very word civilization rings hollow amid drone strikes, refugee camps, and ecological collapse.
This moment also demands a return to the Gandhian ethic of non-violence (ahiṃsā)—not merely as a political tactic, but as a philosophical commitment. Gandhi reminded us that true peace is not the absence of war, but the presence of justice. Non-violence was not for him a strategy of the weak but the only dignified path for the strong:
“The choice is no longer between violence and nonviolence; it is between nonviolence and nonexistence.”
His words now confront us not as moral counsel but as existential warning.
We also reaffirm the prophetic power of the Russell-Einstein Manifesto (1955)⤡.
“Shall we put an end to the human race, or shall mankind renounce war?”
That call remains unmet. Today, militarism is not merely a policy—it is a planetary condition, embedding itself into education, economics, innovation, and even language. The defense budget expands, while climate agreements falter. Entire generations grow up learning the names of missiles before they know the names of trees.
The Buddha, over 2,500 years ago, diagnosed violence not as a political strategy, but as a symptom of impoverishment. In the Dhammapada, he warned: “Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal law.” The path to peace lies not through conquest or deterrence, but through the transformation of consciousness. War, for Buddha, is not merely external—it is the externalization of inner ignorance and craving.
We must remember that Buddha emphasized on four immeasurables: Maitri (loving-kindness) karuṇā (compassion), muditā (empathetic joy, jouissance) , and upekṣā (equanimity) All these quattuor represent a path to develop attitudes towards others.
Hence, we solemnly sing out:
Call us pacifists — we rarely mind.
Call us dreamers — we’ll offer you a flower.
While you christen your bed in solitude,
I’ll be dancing to the rhythm of the we.
However, what shall we (ubuntu–“I am because we are”) do if “L’enfer, c’est les autres”—“Hell is other people”? (No Exit, Jean-Paul Sartre) Sartre’s enunciation entails others’ gaze objectifies us, imprisoning us, freezes our subjectivity, and robs us of self-definition. Can we exi(s)t the mirror that traps us in prison? Contemporary world is haunted by bad faith, inauthenticity, and anxiety born from living-for-the-Other (the hellish “being for others” instead of “being-with” in Sartre; the inauthentic “Theyself” in Heidegger) –the invisible hands, the war-monger big bosses–perils rooted in their ego. No way to bridge the abyss? No synthesis? Only incessant struggle of Sisyphus could answer this pessimistic question–we have to bear the burden of responsibility without escape.
Yet, we cannot help but draw upon Charlie Chaplin’s speech in The Great Dictator—that cinematic cry against fascism and fatalism:
“We want to live by each other’s happiness—not by each other’s misery.”
These are not antiquated voices; they are torches passed to us in the long night of modernity.
Thus, Once in a Blue Moon Academia declares:
- That war is anti-civilizational—it hollows out not only the cities it bombs, but the values it claims to defend.
- That disarmament is no longer a diplomatic ideal but a planetary necessity.
- That education must become a sanctuary of critical thinking, not a conveyor belt to militarized industries.
- That non-violence is the last reservoir of human dignity in an age of algorithmic violence.
We do not speak from neutrality. We speak from mourning. Mourning for languages lost in war. Mourning for rivers poisoned by armies. Mourning for children born into rubble. Mourning for ideas that never got to live.
But mourning is not the end. It is the beginning of responsibility.
We call upon all scholars, students, poets, scientists, and dreamers to resist the normalization of war and to resurrect the forgotten promises of civilization. The task ahead is not to manage war—but to abolish it.
Let us choose, while we still can.
Let us choose peace—not as a plea, but as a principle.

Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us, only sky
Imagine all the people
Livin’ for today
Ah
Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Livin’ life in peace
You
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world
You
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one
Rem(a)inders:

1. Circling Toward Oblivion: Chaplin’s The Great Dictator and the Suicidal (Il)Logic of “Modern” War
In The Great Dictator (1940), Charlie Chaplin transforms the grammar of slapstick into a grave philosophical critique of militarism. Beneath the film’s comedic form lies a prophetic reflection on the internalized, self-destructive logic of modern warfare. Two scenes—one involving a defective artillery shell and the other a hand grenade lodged within the soldier’s own coat—unveil the absurdity and horror of a civilization spiraling toward its own annihilation.
In the first scene, Chaplin’s character, an ordinary Jewish foot soldier, encounters an unexploded shell that follows him like a sentient being. As he moves, the shell rolls with perfect, ominous synchronization. This object, rendered through silent film’s uncanny choreography, becomes more than failed ordnance—it is the material embodiment of war’s circularity, its death-drive given form. The shell mimics Chaplin’s movements like a predator or a cursed reflection. It is war’s ghost, haunting its maker. Here, Chaplin does not merely ridicule battlefield chaos; he exposes war as an autonomous force that once unleashed, outlives its masters and targets its progenitors.
Bomb Shell Follows the Tramp VIEW HERE⤡
This moment dramatizes what Hannah Arendt later articulated in On Violence (1970): that violence, once mechanized and bureaucratized, loses moral direction and becomes inertial.¹ War then is no longer waged with purpose, but perpetuated by momentum. Chaplin’s rolling shell—comic yet terrifying—thus signals a civilization that has lost control of its own instruments.
Paul Virilio’s thesis in War and Cinema (1989) on the logic of speed and auto-destruction further contextualizes this.² As war becomes a spectacle governed by velocity and image, it begins to self-cannibalize. Chaplin’s shell does not need to explode to devastate; its movement is enough to paralyze the soldier in fear—revealing how the threat becomes internal, psychological, environmental.
This inward turn is literalized in the hand grenade scene. Chaplin, obliviously retrieving items from his coat, discovers a live grenade nestled among his belongings. The moment is played with comedic absurdity, but it is no less chilling: the bomb is not external—it is carried within. His body becomes the container of his own potential obliteration. The scene presciently captures the internalization of war in the modern subject: the soldier becomes a living arsenal, his body a battlefield. In the age of total war, the boundary between combatant and victim collapses. As Baudrillard later proposed, war’s simulation seeps into the body politic—it becomes a permanent condition.³
Hand Grenade and the Tramp’s Docile Body VIEW HERE⤡
Chaplin’s comedic unease—his twitching face, hurried fumbling—expresses not fear of the enemy but fear of self-inflicted detonation. He is not about to be bombed; he is the bomb. This cinematic moment allegorizes the fate of nations that arm themselves to the teeth, only to risk annihilation from within. The hand grenade scene dramatizes this with cruel humor—to carry war is already to carry death.
Together, the shell that follows and the grenade within illustrate that war, in the modern age, is no longer a clash between states—it is a self-sustaining, self-replicating condition, both haunting and inhabiting its participants. The enemy is no longer at the gates; he is beneath the coat, inside the system, written into the code of civilization itself.
In The Great Dictator, Chaplin’s brilliance lies in turning comedy into prophecy. The body becomes the bomb. The shell mimics the soul. War becomes suicide in slow motion.
2. Dissolving Enmity: Chaplin’s Radical Call for Unity in The Great Dictator
Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator (1940), particularly its climactic speech, is a cinematic milestone that transcends satire to probe the profound philosophical and ethical dimensions of human conflict. The phrase “loss within the enemy” encapsulates a pivotal moment in the film where Chaplin, through the character of the Jewish Barber impersonating the dictator Adenoid Hynkel, symbolically collapses the boundaries between friend and foe, self and other, victim and perpetrator. This moment, embodied in the final speech, is a radical act of empathy and universalism, dismantling binary oppositions and revealing the shared humanity that war seeks to obscure. Below, I analyze this theme through a philosophical lens, drawing on existentialism, Levinasian ethics, and postcolonial theory, while grounding the discussion in the film’s narrative and historical context.
2.1. Contextualizing the “Loss Within the Enemy”
The Jewish Barber: Who’s the Enemy, Who’s the Friend? VIEW HERE⤡
The Great Dictator was released at a moment when the world stood precariously close to global catastrophe, with Nazi Germany’s aggression escalating. Charlie Chaplin, keenly aware of the uncanny resemblance between his iconic Tramp and Adolf Hitler—both products of the silent film era, marked by similar mustaches—leverages this parallel to confront the dehumanizing force of fascism.
By casting himself as both the Jewish Barber, a humble everyman, and Adenoid Hynkel, a tyrannical dictator, Chaplin underscores their shared humanity despite their opposing ideologies. The most profound expression of this duality comes when the Barber, mistaken for Hynkel, delivers a speech that radically subverts fascist rhetoric. Instead of inciting hatred, he pleads for unity, empathy, and the dissolution of enmity. In this climactic moment, Chaplin breaks the fourth wall—no longer in character, but as himself—shattering the narrative illusion. This rupture is both theatrical and political: a once-mute comedian now emerges as the voice of humanity’s conscience.
In doing so, Chaplin enacts what Walter Benjamin describes as “interruption” in political art—where form is disrupted to awaken the audience. Cinema, here, becomes not a vehicle for escapism but a space of ethical reckoning. The character dissolves; only the human being remains.
This moment is not merely a narrative device but a philosophical intervention. The Barber’s speech collapses the constructed boundaries between friend and foe, revealing the enemy as a projection of the self’s fears and failures. The “loss” signifies the surrender of egoistic divisions—national, ideological, and moral—that sustain war, inviting a recognition of the other as an extension of the self.
2.2. Philosophical Analysis: Existentialism and the Collapse of Binaries
From an existentialist perspective, particularly through the lens of Jean-Paul Sartre and Martin Heidegger, the “loss within the enemy” reflects the existential crisis of authenticity in a world fragmented by conflict. Sartre’s concept of Being-for-Others posits that human identity is shaped through encounters with others, often marked by conflict or objectification. In war, the enemy is reduced to an object—a threat to be annihilated—stripping both self and other of their existential freedom. Chaplin’s speech disrupts this by rehumanizing the enemy, urging soldiers and citizens to “think” and reject the mechanized roles imposed by authoritarianism: “You are not machines! You are not cattle! You are men!” This plea echoes Sartre’s call for authentic existence, where individuals reclaim agency by recognizing their shared humanity.
Heidegger’s notion of Being-towards-death further enriches this analysis. War, as a confrontation with mortality, amplifies the fear of death, which fuels the demonization of the other. The Barber’s speech, however, reframes death not as a tool of division but as a universal condition that unites humanity: “We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that.” By acknowledging mortality as a shared fate, Chaplin dissolves the friend-foe dichotomy, suggesting that the true loss is not the enemy’s destruction but the failure to recognize their humanity.
2.3. Levinasian Ethics: The Face of the Other
Emmanuel Levinas’s ethical philosophy, centered on the encounter with the “face of the Other,” provides a compelling framework for understanding the “loss within the enemy.” For Levinas, the face of the other demands responsibility and prohibits violence, as it reveals the other’s vulnerability and humanity. In The Great Dictator, the Barber’s speech is a symbolic facing of the enemy—not as an abstract threat but as individuals with hopes and fears. When Chaplin declares, “We want to live by each other’s happiness, not by each other’s misery,” he invokes a Levinasian ethics of care, where the self is ethically obligated to the other, regardless of their status as friend or foe.
The “loss” in this context is the surrender of the ego’s desire to dominate or erase the other. By stepping into Hynkel’s role, the Barber symbolically enters the enemy’s perspective, embodying a radical empathy that blurs the divide. This act challenges the audience to see the enemy not as an external evil but as a mirror of the self, capable of redemption through ethical responsibility.
2.4. Postcolonial Perspective: Deconstructing the Enemy
Postcolonial theory, particularly through the work of Frantz Fanon and Edward Said, illuminates how the enemy is constructed through narratives of superiority and otherness. In The Great Dictator, Hynkel’s regime mirrors colonial and fascist ideologies that dehumanize groups (e.g., Jews in the film) to justify violence. The “loss within the enemy” occurs when the Barber’s speech dismantles these narratives, exposing the artificiality of the friend-foe binary. Said’s concept of “Orientalism” highlights how the other is exoticized or demonized to sustain power; Chaplin counters this by universalizing human aspirations, stating, “The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people.”
Fanon’s emphasis on revolutionary consciousness aligns with the speech’s call to action: “Let us fight for a new world, a decent world.” The “loss” here is the abandonment of colonial and fascist frameworks that pit self against other, victim against perpetrator. By invoking a collective struggle, Chaplin reimagines the enemy as a partner in liberation, blurring the lines between oppressor and oppressed.
3. Cinematic Symbolism and Historical Context
Chaplin’s dual role as the Barber and Hynkel is a cinematic masterstroke, visually and narratively embodying the “loss within the enemy.” The physical resemblance between the two characters underscores their shared humanity, suggesting that the dictator is not an alien force but a distorted reflection of human potential. The speech’s setting—a grand podium meant for fascist propaganda—becomes a stage for subversion, where the Barber’s words transform the enemy’s platform into a call for peace.
Historically, the film’s release in 1940, before the United States entered World War II, made Chaplin’s message radical. His willingness to confront fascism head-on, at personal and professional risk, amplifies the speech’s philosophical weight. The “loss” is not only thematic but personal for Chaplin, who risked his career to advocate for a world where the enemy is no longer an enemy but a fellow human.
The heart of the speech lies in its impassioned appeal to human solidarity:
“You are not machines! You are not cattle! You are men! You have the love of humanity in your hearts!”
This call, echoing Gandhi’s philosophy of nonviolence, insists that even under systems of violence and propaganda, the individual retains the capacity for moral awakening. It also echoes Bertolt Brecht’s idea that even in the darkest times, there will be singing about the dark times—i.e., ethical resistance remains possible.
By invoking human empathy as a revolutionary force, Chaplin calls for disarmament not just of weapons, but of hatred, fear, and blind nationalism. The real battlefield, he suggests, is the human heart.
However, the speech climaxes with a paradox:
“Let us fight to free the world… let us fight to do away with national barriers, greed, hate and intolerance.”
Here, Chaplin redefines the idea of ‘fighting’—not as militaristic aggression, but as a struggle for peace. This is nonviolent resistance, Gandhian in tone, and proto-pacifist in vision. He imagines a new world: “A world where science and progress will lead to all men’s happiness.”
This vision aligns with the Russell-Einstein Manifesto (1955), which warned humanity to “remember your humanity and forget the rest.” Chaplin’s speech anticipates this intellectual humanism by a decade, making him one of the earliest mass-cultural figures to warn against nuclear fascism and promote a universal ethics beyond state power.
3.1. Environmental and Ethical Implications
As noted in the original query, war is a “suicidal effort” that causes environmental damage and disrupts peace. The “loss within the enemy” extends to the natural world, which suffers as a silent victim of human conflict. Chaplin’s vision of a “decent world” implicitly includes ecological harmony, as war’s devastation—deforestation, pollution, and resource depletion—harms all humanity. The collapse of the friend-foe binary thus has ethical implications for environmental justice, urging a collective responsibility to protect the planet as a shared home.
3.2. Delineating the Dances of Friend and/or Foe
Chaplin’s “loss within the enemy” in The Great Dictator is a profound philosophical and cinematic moment that dismantles the boundaries between friend and foe, self and other, victim and perpetrator. Through existentialist, Levinasian, and postcolonial lenses, we have seen how the final speech rehumanizes the enemy, revealing the shared vulnerabilities and aspirations that unite humanity. By surrendering the egoistic divisions that fuel war, Chaplin invites us to embrace a universal ethics of care, where the loss of enmity becomes the gain of solidarity. In a world still scarred by conflict and environmental degradation, this message remains a timeless call to reimagine the other not as a foe but as a reflection of ourselves, bound together in the pursuit of a free, just, and peaceful world.
In Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator (1940), the central conceit—that a humble Jewish barber is mistaken for the fascist dictator Adenoid Hynkel—generates not only comedic potential but deep philosophical and political unease. This confusion culminates in a moment where Chaplin, the innocent, literally wears the face of the tyrant. The visual becomes metaphysical: he is lost within the enemy.
This dislocation is not merely narrative—it is ethical allegory, revealing how fascism consumes not just bodies but identities. By compelling the victim to speak as the oppressor, Chaplin collapses the friend–enemy distinction that undergirds war ideologies, particularly in Carl Schmitt’s political theology of conflict. The tragic irony: it takes the enemy’s mask to tell the truth.
3.3. Identity in Crisis: The Mask of Power
When the barber is thrust into delivering a speech as Hynkel, he enacts the specter of mimicry—an impersonation that becomes political revelation. Frantz Fanon, in Black Skin, White Masks, observed how colonial subjects, surviving through mimicry, often lose connection with their origins. Similarly, Chaplin enters the heart of power to dismantle it from within—though not without risking his own erasure.
He is no longer clearly friend or foe. His identity floats in limbo: is he the liberator or just another actor in the fascist theatre? This indeterminacy echoes Jean-Paul Sartre’s fear of political bad faith, where roles we adopt overwhelm our ethical agency.
3.4. From Victim to Voice: A Dangerous Transfiguration
Chaplin’s assumed identity grants him a platform—but one stolen from the dictator. Through the performance machinery of fascism, he delivers a humanist gospel. The paradox is sharp: the voice of peace emerges from the costume of war. He co-opts the language, style, and symbols of tyranny not to affirm them, but to collapse them from within.
This reflects Walter Benjamin’s notion of strategic mimesis—a revolutionary masquerade where imitation becomes subversion. Yet the danger lingers: when the enemy’s costume fits too well, and the audience cheers too loudly, can the performance still be escaped? The film ends not with return, but with a speech—poised between revelation and risk.
3.5. Post-War Paradox: We Become What We Fight
In retrospect, The Great Dictator anticipates a post-WWII moral paradox: the unsettling truth that, in defeating fascism, liberal democracies adopted its methods—surveillance, militarization, propaganda. Chaplin’s performance becomes a mirror: how much of the enemy must we become to defeat him?
Nietzsche warned in Beyond Good and Evil:
“He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”
Chaplin gazes into that abyss wearing the enemy’s face. He speaks not from purity, but from the contaminated stage of modern politics, where moral clarity is always under threat from performance.
3.6. Political Implication: The Disarmament of Dichotomies
By embodying the dictator while dismantling dictatorship, Chaplin proposes an alternative—not annihilation of the foe, but dismantling of the binary itself. The barber and Hynkel are not merely lookalikes; they share existential potential. In a mechanized world of uniforms and ideologies, the line between good and evil is no longer visible on the surface—it is etched in the moral resolve of the voice.
Chaplin’s internal crisis—Am I still the barber, or have I become the dictator?—mirrors civilization’s own. It resonates with Rabindranath Tagore’s warning in Crisis in Civilization: that humanity’s soul risks being lost behind slogans, empires, and regimentation.
3.7. To Be the Enemy in Order to End the Enemy
Chaplin’s ambiguous transfiguration in The Great Dictator offers no easy closure. The lines between victim and tyrant, friend and enemy, actor and role, are purposefully blurred. What remains is a plea—not for new wars or saviors, but for radical humility.
If we must impersonate the enemy to be heard, let it be only to dissolve the very categories that render enemies possible. For in war, the final casualty is not just life—it is the clarity of conscience.
The speech is not just a call to action; it is a lament. It mourns what the 20th century has become—a century of mechanized war, genocide, and mass disillusionment. But Chaplin ends not with despair, but with a fragile hope. He invokes Hannah, the Jewish woman, as a symbol of survival and regeneration:
“Look up, Hannah! The clouds are lifting!”
In doing so, he performs a cinematic benediction: an artist reaching across time to ask that we look up, not down; that we still believe in the possibility of peace.
One of the most haunting lines in the speech is:
“We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical, our cleverness hard and unkind.”
This passage encapsulates the paradox of modernity: unprecedented technological progress paired with moral and emotional regression. Chaplin articulates what Tagore called in Crisis in Civilization a “loss of guiding spirit.” Civilization has grown more efficient, but also more alienated, more violent.
Chaplin’s critique mirrors Paul Virilio’s concern that in the age of militarized speed and technological conquest, we begin to automate death itself. The same machines that could bring abundance now mass-produce destruction. The world becomes a factory of war, and human beings its expendable parts.
Chaplin’s final speech in The Great Dictator is a secular sermon, a cinematic Gita spoken not to warriors, but to a wounded world. It confronts the machine logic of fascism with the irrational hope of human tenderness. It demands that we disarm not only our nations, but our egos. It pleads with us to remember that to be human is not to dominate, but to love.
In an age once again teetering on autocracy and war, Chaplin’s voice still echoes:
“In the name of democracy, let us all unite!”
References
Arendt, Hannah. On Violence. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1970.
Baudrillard, Jean. The Gulf War Did Not Take Place. Translated by Paul Patton. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995.
Benjamin, Walter. Selected Writings, Vol. 4: 1938–1940. Harvard University Press, 2003.
Chaplin, Charlie (Director). (1940). The Great Dictator. United Artists.
Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. Grove Press, 2008.
Fanon, Frantz. The Wretched of the Earth. 1961.
Gandhi, Mohandas K. Non-Violence in Peace and War, Vol. I. Ahmedabad: Navajivan Publishing House, 1942.
Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. 1927.
Levinas, Emmanuel. Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority. 1969.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. Beyond Good and Evil. Vintage, 1966.
Said, Edward. Orientalism. 1978.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. Being and Nothingness. Philosophical Library, 1956.
Tagore, Rabindranath. “Crisis in Civilization.” In The English Writings of Rabindranath Tagore, Vol. 3: A Miscellany, edited by Sisir Kumar Das. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 2007.
Virilio, Paul. War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception. Translated by Patrick Camiller. London: Verso, 1989.
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