Schoenberg said one day that he composed music so that people could no longer write music. I write so that people, and first of all those people who are entitled to speak, spokespersons, can no longer produce . . . noise that has all the appearances of music.
Pierre Bourdieu, 1980 interview with Loïc Wacquant
Owen: What is happening?
Yolland: I’m not sure. But I’m concerned about my part in it. It’s an eviction of sorts.
Owen: We’re making a six-inch map of the country. Is there something sinister in that?
Yolland: Not in…
Owen: And we’re taking place names that are riddled with confusion and…
Yolland: Who’s confused? Are the people confused?
Owen: And we’re standardising those names as accurately and as sensitively as we can.
Yolland: Something is being eroded.
Brian Friel, Transformations 2.1
A crip eye for the normate guy, I propose, would not just be a disability version of the Bravo hit, no matter how much pleasure imagining such a show has given me: “Sweetie, your university is an accessibility nightmare! Don’t worry, honey, it is your lucky day that disabled folks are here to tell you just what’s wrong with this place!” Rather, a crip eye for the normate guy (and because we’re talking about not a real person but a subject position, somehow ‘normate guy’ seems appropriate, regardless of whether he rears his able-bodied head in men or women) would mark a critically disabled capacity for recognizing and withstanding the vicissitudes of compulsory able-bodiedness.
Robert McRuer, Crip Theory: Cultural Signs of Queerness and Disability, 197.
The spirituality – I’ll risk the word – to which all aberration leads us, physical as well as mental (and the two are really one), is actually quite simple: live everyday life as an everyday thing, with and in the presence of special, specific human beings who are our disabled equals.
Henri-Jacques Stiker, A History of Disability, p. 11