Alain Badiou in Deleuze: The Clamour of Being translated by Louise Burchill
Who could maintain that the myth of Er the Pamphylian, at the end of the Republic, is a transparent narrative? It consists entirely of traps and bifurcations. I would add that, personally, I have always conceived truth as a random course or as a kind of escapade, posterior to the event and free of any external law, such that the resources of narration are required simultaneously with those of mathematization for its comprehension. There is a constant circulation from fiction to argument, from image to formula, from poem to matheme — as indeed the work of Borges strikingly illustrates.
“What if…” is an equivalent invitation to “let x …”.
There is a truth in suspension of disbelief.
And so for day 139