Honestly I like sitting around talking about sex as much as the next person, but I find I'm not convinced by Foucault's History of Sexuality (1978, for the English translation, which I found in one of those roll-out stacks you always feel you could easily come out of looking like a Bugs Bunny after an encounter with a steam-roller, in the basement of the law library. The law library has oak paneling, a chess board set up in front of a fireplace (I might be imagining the fireplace) and half a dozen bicycles complete with locks and helmets next to the check-out desk in case you have an appointment on the other side of campus. Then the basement with its rolling stacks). The Foucault is alternately irritating and exhilarating, on balance more irritating than exhilarating for its confidence that it can sum up a couple millennia of western European discourse about the repression of/fascination with human sexuality and the relation of this to power and produce a Theory of the Whole. It feels like a displacement of something else he wants to say but only obliquely. Do I mean overdetermined?