You think. You write a theory. You think about what to write. You write about writings. You produce and reproduce ideas. Then, you find ways and arguments useful for the legitimisation of your ideas.
Finally, you have something original in your hands. Yet, where is your theory situated? Isn’t it – maybe - the simple reiteration of an existing argument? Maybe it is nothing more than a patchwork of rhetorical tricks (like addressing directly the reader: you). Maybe your theory is the pure figment of your own imagination: Eureka!
Still, what is your theory seeking for? Are you looking for a truth? Are you defining a system? If not… what is your goal? Has your theory the pretension to change architecture? If yes: with whom are you planning to do so? If not: do you really believe to be an intellectual in the public debate? Isn’t your theory the imaginary fabrication of a truth? Isn’t it an image? Maybe it is a poetic.
“Well, it might be”; you might say.
These are the questions of theory: is a theory a repetition of old arguments? or is it the production something new? Does it have to necessarily be one or the other? Ideally, a theoretical argument conforms to precise methodological rules. It is consistent, it is based on axioms and its arguments are referenced to precedents. This condition can be called as the mechanics of theory: an assemblage of components. The components are previous theories, which are composed to produce a new whole; a new meaning.
Still, the new argument is supposed to produce novelties: ideas, images and words; in one word: concepts. How is such newness produced?