The Big Lie: A Thesis on Modernity and Contemporary Intellectual History

The Big Lie: A Thesis on Modernity and Contemporary Intellectual History

I have recently been reflecting on the overwhelming role that lies play in the contemporary world and contemporary discourse.

When I say this, I do not primarily mean "lies" in a polemical sense, referring to ideas I do not like--though I will, I confess, engage in a great deal of polemics in this essay, in a manner sure to offend nearly everyone. I mean, rather, things that are acknowledged by all, including their creators, to be lies; and, in fact, to a great degree, are valued because they are lies.

In itself, this is not a new phenomenon, but a very basic intellectual and spiritual problem as old as the human race. Lies originate with the human intellect and will; and are therefore often more natively comfortable and congenial to it than truth. Lies provide the illusion of what we want; especially when what we want is merely control, power, freedom, which is to say, escape from the reality and goodness of things and the power they have over us through desire and fear. In its most benign form, this impulse merely leads to fiction; but much more malign forms have been a feature of human culture almost from the beginning. There is a reason why the Scriptures speak of the devil as the "father of lies," and define sin as "loving and making lies." Properly understood, to prefer a lie because it is a lie is only a cogent and philosophical name for Hell. 

Still, there can be little question that, in the year 2025, our cultural fixation with lies has accelerated to a point rarely, if ever, seen before in human civilization. Assorted smart people have, since the year 2016, been talking about our entrance into an allegedly "post-truth" era. In reality, we have been there for a while now, though there is no doubt that the Internet and smart phone proliferation have accelerated the process.

We are a people whose most basic activity, taking up more and more and ever more of our lives, consists in sitting alone and passively absorbing video and text and audio, nearly all of which is false in one sense or another, and nearly all of which we know is false. The characteristic forms of this modern fixation with lies are, as I have said many times before, advertising and pornography, the two (united) pillars of our culture--both of which are valued precisely because they take us into realms where truth simply has no meaning. The supposed "AI revolution" takes this cultural fixation so far that it may actually have permanently broken it, flooding the Internet with lies that are so obvious, so incoherent, and so unattractive that they threaten to undo the system altogether. 

I have more and more begun to suspect, however, that a certain preference for lies over truth is more or less a characteristic feature of modernity as such, going back to its origins. And I think I have perhaps come to understand some of the actual reasons for this preference: the Big Lie, so to speak, behind the lies.

I have put the above in terms of a preference for lies qua lies; and I think this is the most correct and philosophical way to put it. However, what I have called "lies" are a genus that has in the past five hundred years generally gone by other names; and put in its originating philosophical and religious and historical contexts, have very different connotations. To understand the preference, one must understand the context behind it; or, in other words, the Big Lie behind the lies. 

So here is the Big Lie, divided up into its essential nature, is variable embodiments, and various ways to understand and deal with it.

The 2024 Election

THE 2024 ELECTION

I went to the polls this past Wednesday to vote in the 2024 Election. 

I think we can all, regardless of our political beliefs, agree that this is the most important election of our lifetimes, perhaps in the entire history of our nation, even of the human race. Hence, I wanted to make sure to participate fully in the event by voting early.

The week before, I had received in the mail a missive from the pro-turnout Super-PAC "Democracy in Action." The ad featured a grainy photograph of me, taken apparently from across the street near my house, and pinned to an ordinary piece of lined paper. Above the photograph, scrawled in black marker, was the message: "IF YOU DO NOT VOTE WE WILL KILL YOUR FAMILY." 

Since the Pandemic, the roads I would ordinarily take to get to the polling site have been "Closed for Repair," blocked off with yellow tape and barbed wire and barricades and medical checkpoints. To get there now means a dangerous journey down the River; and as I lacked the requisite funds to hire the well-armored personnel transports that serve most voters in my generally upscale neighborhood, I had to make do with one of the "General Admission" voting ferries sponsored by Bain Capital, LP as part of a get-out-the-vote effort ultimately masterminded (according to Internet rumor) by Kamala Harris' husband's aunt's former accountant, now the CEO of an Albanian arms company with ties to the UAE. 

I set out just before dawn so as to arrive at the jetty in time for the scheduled 7:15 AM departure time; but as it turned out, the ferry was nearly three hours late, arriving just after 10 AM. When I first arrived at the jetty, there were only a few elderly women there, apparently Kamala Harris campaign volunteers, in oversized, lime-green t-shirts worn down to their ankles, clustered around a large pot of stew stirring and adding herbs from fanny packs around their waists. One of them offered me a cup of soup, but as I had already eaten breakfast I declined. 

After about half an hour, a few apparent voters arrived, one an old man dressed in rags, barefoot, with a long grizzled beard, wearing a MAGA hat on his head; the other a tall, thin young woman bundled up to her eyes in blue-tinted furs, who (after eagerly accepting a cup of soup) eyed me suspiciously and crossed to the far end of the jetty to sit crosslegged on the planks. The morning was cool and dim, and fog shrouded the banks all around us. From time to time, I pulled out and checked the sample ballot in my pocket, or sat and watched the huge, dark shapes moving in the water below. 

When the boat had still not arrived at 9:30, I found myself hungry once again, and belatedly approached the old women, who eyed me eagerly, licking their lips. "C-could I have some soup please?" I stammered. 

The tallest of the old women, with rank, black hair that might have been dyed, dipped a cup of the soup out of the cast-iron pot, began handing it to me, then stopped, her eyes going dark, and hissing out of suddenly pressed lips: "Which side are you on?" I said nothing, and after another moment she smiled again and handed me the cup of soup. There was no spoon.

The soup had been cooking on an open flame for hours, and by this time had something of the consistency of glue--but its pungent flavors of sage and rosemary reminded me irresistibly of long summer evenings on the patio at Luigi's Pizza, and I wolfed down the whole cup in a matter of minutes. 

A few minutes after 10 o'clock, the jetty was abruptly flooded with passengers, all, male and female, clad in the loose brown tunics and smocks typical of peasants in the lowlands, many with campaign buttons pinned onto the smocks, and all bearing pilgrim's staves and large rucksacks. A few led mules or donkeys, and all pointedly refused the old women's offer of soup. Some wandered sociably around the jetty from end to end, while others sat with their feet swinging off the end and throwing stones or pieces of bread from their rucksack into the water for the creatures below; but all talked loudly with each other about the election, the journey, and the latest poll forecasts and modeling from FiveThirtyEight. 

The young woman, meanwhile, had gotten up and fled to stand with the old women, who spoke to her and stroked her hair comfortingly while (almost imperceptibly) pulling off small pieces of it to add to their pot. 

A few minutes later, when the ferry at last came into sight, the assembled passengers broke into raucous applause, cheering and throwing their rucksacks and bits of bread into the air. The day was cool, dark, and misty, so at first the yellow light streaming from the ferry was so overwhelming that I had to shield my face with my hand.

Column 09/07/2024: The Triumph of the Cultural Mainstream & the Decline of the American Empire

The Triumph of the Cultural Mainstream and The Decline of the American Empire 

Here's a "personality quiz" of sorts for you:

(1) Which film released in 2010 did you enjoy more: (1) Unstoppable or (2) Alice in Wonderland? Or if you didn't see either, which do you think (based on Wikipedia descriptions and posters) you would enjoy more?

(2) Which song released in 2023 did you enjoy more: (1) Last Night by Morgan Wallern or (2) anti-hero by Taylor Swift?  

(3) Which television show released in 2015 did you enjoy more: (1) The Big Bang Theory or (2) NCIS? 

(4) Knowing nothing more, you are asked to choose between watching either (1) a new Adam Sandler film, or (2) a new Lin-Manual Miranda musical. Which do you pick?

(5) You can choose between watching two shows tonight, (1) a Law & Order series featuring a tough-as-nails black woman as lead prosecutor, or (2) an episode of The Celebrity Apprentice. Which would you enjoy more?

Congratulations: if you can answer these questions, you now know whether you should vote for Donald Trump or Kamala Harris.

Column 05/25/2024: The Millennial Sovereign, The Real Story of Star Trek, and the Problem of Charisma

The Millennial Sovereign, the Real Story of Star Trek, and the Problem of Charisma

What is it that makes a human person more than just another human person?

This is a rather important question, to which many highly conflicting answers have been given. 

We are, most of us, surrounded by people day in and day out, both in person and through media and social and political structures. Most of these people we do not, really, know particularly well. Some of these people want things from us; from some we want things; and some of these people will not just want something from us: they will want us. So how do we decide, among all these people, who we will pay attention to or not pay attention to, trust or not trust, listen to or not listen to, obey or not obey? How do we decide who we give ourselves to, as friends, lovers, helpers, leaders, followers, servants? 

This is a crucial question when it comes to individual relationships and individual lives; but it is in many ways even more crucial when it comes to the lives and destinies of whole groups and peoples and nations and Empires. In our personal lives, we can (if we choose) exercise prudence and wisdom and take our time and think our way through who we trust and who we give to and who we give ourselves to. When it comes to the realms of public culture, political culture, especially mass-media culture, we frequently are under far more pressure, and have far less to go on. How do we decide who is telling the truth in a public war of words between two politicians or influencers or apologists or academics talking about something we know nothing about? How do we decide who to trust, to whom to give our money, our time, our attention, our vote, our obedience, our trust and love and devotion, when our choice actually matters, for ourselves and others?

There are many answers to this basic question, ranging from the rational to the romantic to the utterly insane. One common answer throughout history is charisma. 

The Arrest

[This short story recently came to me in a dream, complete and pretty much as you read it below.]

The Arrest

“It’s good to be back.”

Harry Monroe looked with satisfaction around his little office at the back of the precinct, solemnly surveying the pictures of the wife and kids, the corkboard adorned with newspaper clippings, the soiled mugs and the broken coffee machine. He ran his hands up his own front, savoring the feel of the uniform, the hard edges of the badge. The tightness of his belt around his stomach, the weight of the handgun at his hip…all were familiar and comforting. He let out an involuntary sigh of pleasure.

Without further ceremony, he sat down at his desk, driving a cloud of dust from the ancient upholstery, pushing aside a cold, scummed cup of coffee, and grabbing the first sheet from the stack of paperwork to the left of the green desk lamp. The heavy, bronze pen was where it should be; grabbing it, he pounded it on the desk to release the point, then turned his attention to the paper in front of him. His eyes found the top column: 

CERTIFICATE FX-8792B: ARREST NOTICE.

The following document is an internal POLICE DOCUMENT. The content is CONFIDENTIAL and not to be shared with others except following submission of an approved, notarized GR-89C document. The BOOKING OFFICER must fill in the following information accurately, double-checking with RECORDS if necessary. The man who is about to–

There was a knock on the glass of his door, muffled by the heavy blinds hanging across from them. Not glancing up, he shouted, as he always did, “ENTER!” and was pleased that his voice had emerged as gruff as ever–the voice that had served him so well on the beat, that still could make interns and trainees flinch and run for cover just like the street punks. Its effects were again evident in the slight, hesitating silence that preceded the opening of the door, gingerly, by Officer Reynolds. Harry smiled with satisfaction. Still scared of me after all these years… 

As Reynolds stepped carefully in the room, his eyes found the desk and moved from it to the figure sitting behind it. His eyes widened in shock as they met Harry’s face and the mouth in his round face gaped open foolishly, revealing mismatched teeth. 

Harry felt a mix of amusement and anger stirring in his chest. Did he not know I was coming back? Reynolds was looking around in confusion, his eyes running nervously around the corkboard, the pictures, the coffee cups…

“Anything wrong, officer?”

Reynolds all but jumped. 

“Um, sir, we have a booking today and–”

“Bring ‘im in.” Harry said curtly, looking back down at the form for effect. When he glanced back up after a moment, Reynolds had visibly steeled himself and was gesturing to the officer behind him. Harry’s face split into a broad grin: coming into the room flanked by two officers, shuffling a little on his lanky legs and with the pinched eyes in his thin, unshaven face downcast, was Harold Jackson. 

Harry put down his pen and sat back, putting a booted foot theatrically on his desk.

“Well, Harold. If this isn’t nostalgic. Back again, are we?”

Harold did not look up. His mouth was hanging open, a small bit of drool escaping, and his sad, dark eyes seemed to be tracing the tiles on the floor. 

Harry smiled even wider. “Well, I’m sure you got nostalgic for your home away from home. What was it this time? Another drug charge? Unregistered handgun? Or something better this time, something that will let me get you off the streets for good?”

Silently, Reynolds handed him a pink sheet of paper. Harry glanced down at it briefly:

GUILTY. FOREVER.

He all but laughed. “You’ll be staying with us for a while, I see. So we’ll just let these nice officers take you away, and I’ll get to the paperwork.”

With a sudden motion that sent the coffee mug rattling away towards the window, he brought his foot back down onto the floor, and sat up straighter than before. He looked directly into Harold’s pinched eyes; then, overcome with emotion, back down at his desk again.

“You know, Harold, this job can be a real bitch sometimes.” His eyes were closed, and he fingered the gun in his holster for comfort. “Having to put up with the fucking little street punks and rats, dealing with the DA, the paperwork, the hours, training, liability…all that bullshit. But the satisfying part, the part that makes it all worthwhile, that does some real good for the world, is getting to take people like you out of society for good, locking up subhuman scum and throwing away the key. Welcome back.”

He opened his eyes to see the look on the punk’s face one more time…

The office was empty, and the door shut.

For a moment, he gaped just like Reynolds, and like Reynolds glanced stupidly around the office. How could…? 

But with a shudder the thought came to him how foolish he must look, how powerless, gaping around the room like a trainee, all but drooling…he pulled himself together and smiled sourly. 

“Kids these days…don’t even have the time to listen to my speeches. Damn Harold. Well, let’s make sure he has a nice long stay…”

He looked around the desk for the document Reynolds had given him; it was gone. He started to bend over to check the floor, but stopped himself again. Can’t be seen climbing over the floor like a janitor. I can fill in the document from memory, and blame it on Reynolds if it isn’t right.

But the arrest notice was gone, too, and after a moment of confusion, he realized it was back at the top of the stack. Must have put it there without thinking while I was gabbing with Harold. He grabbed it with one hand, and the pen with the other, and continued filling in the document. After a moment, he realized that the pen was not writing; the point had retracted (he must have done it absentmindedly while talking). He punched it on the desk angrily and resumed writing on the line that said “ABSENCE OF RESIDENCE.” But the whole document was blank; nothing had been filled in yet. He glanced back up at the heading:

The following document is an internal POLICE DOCUMENT. The contents are CONFIDENTIAL and not to be shared with anyone. The BOOKING OFFICER must fill in the correct information, and only the correct information, as specified in Form DX-12 with RECORDS if necessary. In one moment you will hear–

There was a sharp rap on the door. He looked up suddenly, and after a lengthy silence quietly, and a bit hoarsely, grunted out “ENTER!” 

This time, the door was pushed open more confidently, and Officer Reynolds’ round ruddy face preceded him into the room. 

“Back to bring me that paper, eh? I–” But he was stopped short by the look of astonishment on Reynold’s face. Did the fool already forget…? In his anger, he failed to say anything at all, and after an awkward moment, Reynolds waved an unsteady hand towards him, looking backward nervously as he did so.

“I…uh…sir, we booked…” 

Traipsing in slowly between two officers was Harold Jackson, dragging his feet and all but drooling on the floor. He did not raise his eyes. Harry looked at Reynolds in confusion, but the man was still looking away from him. He turned his eyes toward Harold.

“Found your cell uncomfortable, eh, Harold? Something else I can do for you before we lock you up forever?”

Harold did not respond, and Reynolds was now gaping at him uncomfortably. There was a strange prickle at the back of his neck, he looked down at the document at his desk to buy time. 

“You’ll be staying with us for a while, I see. So we’ll just let these nice officers take you away, and I’ll get to the paperwork.”

There was another awkward silence. Ignoring it, he began writing, talking as he did so from between clenched teeth.

“You know, Harold, this job can be a real bitch sometimes. Having to put up with the fucking little street punks and rats, dealing with the DA, the paperwork, the hours, training, liability…all that bullshit. But the satisfying part, the part that makes it all worthwhile, that does some real good for the world, is getting to take people like you out of society for good, locking up subhuman–”

But something was wrong; he could no longer hear the shuffling of Harold’s feet, or Reynold’s heavy breathing. He looked up sharply. 

The office was empty, the door shut. 

This time, he stared for only a moment. He grabbed for his pen, realized the point had retracted, opened it, and started writing; but the document was gone from the top of his desk. Snatching it from the top of the pile, he started in at the top of the document:

The following document is an internal POLICE DOCUMENT. The contents are CONFIDENTIAL and bring with them a terrible judgment. The BOOKING OFFICER must always remember that the day will come when–

There was a rap at the door. This time, he did not hesitate, but stood up abruptly, sending the coffee mug flying and shouting “ENTER!” in a magnificently booming voice. There was a very long pause before Reynolds entered, gingerly, not looking up until he got to the desk. When he did, there was again an expression of surprise and shock on his face; but Harry had already waved to the officer behind him. “Bring ‘im in!”

In shuffled Harold Jackson between two officers. Racing around the desk, Harry stepped right up to the man, pushing up against his chest, right into his face. Harold flinched away, his eyes widening. Harry could smell the alcohol on his breath, the fear…

Turning around, he snatched the pink document from Reynolds and sat back down. He grabbed his pen and poised it over the paper.

“You’ll be staying with us for a while, I see. So we’ll just let these nice officers take you away, and I’ll get to the paperwork.”

He dropped the pen and laughed.

“You know, Harold, this job can be a real bitch sometimes. Having to put up with the fucking little street punks and rats, dealing with the DA, the paperwork, the hours, training, liability…all that bullshit. But the satisfying part, the part that makes it all worthwhile, that does some real good for the world–”

The room was empty, the door shut. 

He laughed out loud again, more manically this time, grabbed the pen, brought out the point, snatched the document from the top of the pile, and started writing. 

There was a sharp rap at the blinds, and he all but ran to the door, wrenching it open and dragging Reynolds into the room. He barely saw the man’s eyes widen in shock before the tall, lanky form of Harold Jackson filled the doorway, surrounded by two officers. Harry ran to him and drove a sharp fist into his gut, feeling the satisfying rush of air from his lungs, the blood spurting from his mouth, savoring the taste of adrenaline in his own…

He turned around and sat back down at his desk, grabbing the pen once again.

“You’ll be staying with us for a while, I see. So we’ll just let these nice officers take you away, and I’ll get to the paperwork.”

He threw the pen at Harold, who flinched, spitting more blood. Harry laughed loud and long, spinning in his chair, and finally coming to a stop with his face resting on the desk.

“You know, Harold, this job can be a real bitch sometimes. Having–”

The door was shut, the room empty. Before he had time to do anything, the door had opened, and Officer Reynolds had come in, Harold Jackson following close behind him. 

Harry stood up from the desk.

“You know–”

Officer Reynolds was gripping his charge tightly by the forearm, and the two officers behind him crowded in close. The blinds on the office door were drawn, and he could see nothing through them. After hesitating for a second, Reynolds rapped gently on the door; a gruff “ENTER” sounded from within.

Gingerly, almost fearfully, Reynolds entered the room. The officer behind him pushed hard on his shoulder, and Harry followed suit, dragging his feet.

Harold Jackson looked up from the desk, the eyes in his narrow face scanning Reynolds, the officers, and finally coming to rest on Harry Monroe’s face. Harry’s eyes widened in shock, and he started to open his mouth to speak, but Harold cut him off.

“You know, Harold, this job can be a real bitch sometimes.” Harold laughed. “Having to put up with the fucking little street punks and rats, dealing with the DA, the paperwork, the hours, training, liability…all that bullshit. But the satisfying part, the part that makes it all worthwhile, that does some real good for the world, is getting to take people like you out of society for good, locking up subhuman scum and throwing away the key. Welcome back.”

Harry screamed. The officers surrounding him gripped both forearms, pinioning him and marching him out of the office. 

They were in a narrow, dark corridor now, with gray walls that seemed to go on endlessly. A voice–his own–spoke:

“It’s good to be back.”

 

Column 11/04/2023: American Ghost Story: The Shining, The Jazz Singer, Invisible Man

American Ghost Story: 

The Shining, The Jazz Singer, Invisible Man 

I've been sick recently, and have thus had the time and lack of energy to do two things I rarely do: not think and watch movies. 

However, being me, and feeling better, these movies (and a novel I read at the same time) have inevitably sparked an enormous number of thoughts in me, which I will now inflict on you, dear reader. 

To be a Ghost

The Shining (1980) is a great horror movie that is centered on the rejection of almost everything that has made horror a popular genre. There are no jump scares in the movie--there is precious little gore--there is even little or no psychological horror in the conventional sense. And yet it is precisely when Kubrick does deploy such elements that the uniqueness of the film becomes most striking.

Column 09/11/2023: The Trial of Donald J. Trump

The Trial of Donald J. Trump

[Given the strong interest in the media right now about the possibility of a trial of former President Donald J. Trump, I thought people would be interested in the contents of a holographic tape recently uncovered by archeologists digging in the future ruins of Philadelphia. As you can see, it purports to be a record of Trump's upcoming trial. Given the oddities of the events portrayed, however, it is likely that it in fact contains a later reproduction or dramatization of the original event, dating from as late as a century afterward--perhaps in the form of a school play, or some sort of fertility ritual. While the accuracy of this record and its meaning cannot be deduced with accuracy, it undoubtedly was considered an important document by the future culture that produced it, and is thus relevant to scholars for that reason alone.

Please note that the below written transcript of the original holographic record was created by AI, and may contain errors and other artifacts. Viewer discretion is advised.]

A room, completely dark. Suddenly, a single shaft of red light rises, piercing the darkness, revealing a dais on which three draped figures sit.

Judges (in unison): When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?

A red light goes up under the face of the first judge. It is LIN-MANUEL MIRANDA, in full costume as Alexander Hamilton.

Judge Miranda: How do a bastard, an orphan, and the son of a whore grow up to be judges?

The light goes up under the face of the second judge. It is Hollywood Actor ROBERT DOWNEY, JR, dressed in his Iron Man suit.

Judge Downey, Jr: We're sort of like a team.

The third judge is revealed as OPRAH WINFREY; she is the only one of the three wearing judicial robes, and a powdered wig.

Judge Winfrey: Surround yourself only with people who are going to take you higher.

Small yellow lights like stars come up overhead, revealing that the trial is being held in a massive theater with an arched gothic ceiling and red velvet seats. Most of the stage is still dark, but a red curtain can just be made out at the back. The audience goes wild, cheering and applauding and screaming, encouraged by the judges, who wave their hands wildly in answer.

Judge Miranda (enthusiastically): Look around, look around!

Judge Downey, Jr (firmly): It’s not about how much we lost, it’s about how much we have left. We’re the Avengers. We gotta finish this.

Judge Winfrey silences the two men with a wave of her hand. She stands.

Judge Winfrey (severely): Youth, with its enthusiasms, which rebels against any accepted norm because it must: we sympathise. It may wear flowers in its hair, bells on its toes. But when the common good is threatened, when the function of society is endangered, such revolts must cease. They are non-productive...and must be abolished!

Advocate for the prosecution, please make your opening argument.

Column 08/26: Homo Vanus Patiens: On The Interpretation of Seven American Nights and A Modest Primer on How to Read Gene Wolfe

Homo Vanus Patiens 

On the Interpretation of Seven American Nights and A Modest Primer on How to Read Gene Wolfe

The passing of Gene Wolfe in 2019 went, like much of his literary career, mostly unnoticed by the world at large. As before, plaudits were published by his admirers--a piratic crew of literary critics, academics, fellow science fiction authors, Catholics, and nobodies--declaring him, for the umpteenth time, the greatest [blank] of his generation--with the blank to be filled in, depending on one's personal preferences, with "literary sci-fi writer," "sci-fi writer," or even just "writer." These praises make for odd reading, and I imagine would be odder for anyone who had not read him before: as they consist usually of writers struggling to find the right adjectives and express just what about this guy was so good. And usually failing.

Gene Wolfe, it must be said, is hard to describe. He is also, at least for some, hard to read. As I write this, the top prompts for "Gene Wolfe" on google include the plaintive cry, "How do I read Gene Wolfe?" 

How do I read Gene Wolfe? This is very emphatically the right question to ask. Most classic works of literature are, at heart, exceedingly simple in content--love story, adventure, horror, relationship drama, novel--even if frequently daunting in execution. For most such books and authors, the right advice is exactly the opposite of what we were taught in high-school English class: relax, forget all about symbolism and subtext and social and cultural context, and try to enjoy the book exactly as you would Animorphs. The paradox of Gene Wolfe, however, over which many literary critics and random forumgoers have struggled in the decades since he began his career, is that despite writing for a "pulp" genre shared with Animorphs, he is the rare author who does, in fact, demand to be read carefully, thoughtfully, analytically, considerately. 

Column 06/26/2023: The AI Revolution Already Took Place

 The AI Revolution Already Took Place

The most interesting thing about modernity is the degree to which it depends, for its basic functioning, on generating a constant sense of novelty. 

On such novelty depends not only such trifles as human life and livelihood, but also "the economy," "politics," and, perhaps most importantly of all, the ever-growing Internet-conspiracist-Take-Worker sector of the global economy.

To easily grasp what defines "modernity," I often point out to students that in Latin, as in most ancient languages, the term "new" normally has negative connotations--and can be otherwise translated as "strange" "rash" and even "revolutionary." In itself, this is far closer to a sort of human baseline response to novelty as such. Most ancient societies realized that "new things" were almost by definition disruptive things, things that created complications for the social networks and institutions they valued so highly and thus hardship and suffering and conflict. Families and institutions and Empires alike run on the old, and are thus largely and inevitably run by the old--especially in Rome, but increasingly in America as well. And as the recent disgusting wall-to-wall press coverage of the anniversary of overturning Roe v Wade reminds us, for institutions and established powers of all kinds, new things, and new people, always cause problems.

Merely saying that contemporary societies are the opposite of this, and regard novelty and the new as positive, though, is insufficient and somewhat deceptive. Certainly, modernity features any number of "progressive" narratives and theories and philosophies and theologies whereby what is new is always and by definition good, no matter what. Many popular works of progressive narrative and theory are, in fact, nearly comical in the degree of religious and moral fervor which they openly show and glory in the enormous conflict, social and familial disruption, and even violence that result from a given new trend, while still dogmatically insisting on that trend's goodness and the absolute moral necessity of embracing it and encouraging it and never questioning it at all. Yet even here, it would be easy to misunderstand the actual content and basis of the belief. 

To understand the history of the last few hundred years, one has to understand, first and foremost, that the negativity and conflict generated by modernity and modern trends is, in practically every case, not the result of "anti-modern" or "reactionary" or even "conservative" forces, but merely the inseparable twin and means of modernity itself. It is not, as one might expect, consistently and inevitably the progressive forces that advocate for novelty and portray it in positive terms, and the anti-progressive forces that portray it in negative terms. Rather, in almost every case, the novelty and its reaction are simultaneous and inseparable.

To give an obvious example, science-fiction taken as a whole is without a doubt a "progressive" and "modern" genre, yet the bread-and-butter of science fiction since its first days has been horror stories about technology and its negative consequences, demons and mad clones and evil androids and nuclear apocalypse and genetic engineering and Morlocks and erasing your family from the timeline. Frankenstein is the first modern science fiction novel precisely because it is nearly the first work of art to make extensive use of the terminology and concepts of modern science for primarily aesthetic purposes: and the aesthetic purposes to which it puts science are silence, distance, isolation, fear, and incalculable moral horror. 

Dystopia is not an opposite narrative mode to utopia, composed by different authors for contrary purposes. Nor is science horror opposite to science excitement. The Twilight Zone and Flash Gordon, Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury, Ray Bradbury and Ray Bradbury, George Orwell and L. Ron Hubbard, Gene Wolfe and Gene Wolfe, Star Trek and Black Mirror...all accept the radically new in science and technology as powerful and inevitable and beyond any rational control or regulation; all use this assumed reality both for aesthetic strangeness and horror and for aesthetic excitement and novelty and positivity. The same society, the same genre, even the same people produce both modes.

And in just the same way, a conspiracist or alarmist narrative about how a new technology or social trend will destroy the world is not, in practice, the opposite of a progressive or "pro-science" narrative about how a technology or social trend is "cool," must be embraced at all costs, and/or will save us all. The two are in most cases sponsored and paid for by the same tech companies, run in the same outlets, consumed by the same people, even at times created by the same people.

Again, there is a sense in which all this is distinctively modern, but also a sense in which it represents simply a universal human reaction to the truly and radically new, which always offers powers and possibilities and experiences and threats we have no prior experience with and so do not understand and so are not morally and intellectually equipped to handle, and so always to some extent moves us into an aesthetic space of excitement and horror and distance and alienation and strangeness. 

This is not in itself what makes modernity modern. What makes modernity modern is that both the "goodness" or "positivity" assigned to new things, and the "badness" or "negativity" assigned to new things, do not follow the typical senses of those words, which in most human languages and contexts emerge from morality and/or human comfort and/or prosperity and/or health and/or happiness and/or aesthetic preference. What defines modernity, rather, is precisely the sense that these novelties have truly and permanently and almost definitionally eluded the grasp of any human understanding or reason, and so cannot be properly categorized in terms of goodness or badness at all.

Hence, the concepts of goodness and badness applicable to these novelties end up representing something much closer to a metaphysical or definitional claim. What is new is good not in the sense in which, say, food or drink or shelter are good, or Star Trek Generations is good, but more in the sense in which a metaphysical principle or a law of physics or an ancient Mesopotamian god is good. Likewise, what is new is bad not in the sense in which, say, being mean to your sister is bad, or Marvel Avengers Infinity War Endgame is bad, but more in the sense in which a metaphysical principle may be bad in its implications for your own life, or a law of physics may cause you to fall unexpectedly off a cliff, or an ancient Mesopotamian god may wipe out your city and your family in an excess of spleen. Or, in other words, and in both cases, because it is fundamental, because it is inevitable, and/or because it is powerful. 

At the heart of modernity, then, is a kind of worship of inevitability and power as such, derived ultimately from a sort of immanentization into history of a metaphysical divinity transcending human reason and morality and identified with novelties good and bad. 

Here, though, is the problem with the worship of novelty, power, and/or inevitability as such. Metaphysical principles and laws of nature and even Mesopotamian deities are things that, by their nature, tend to be transcendent, not just temporarily but permanently beyond our reach and comprehension. Novelty, power, and inevitability, on the other hand, are things that can inhere in anything and everything, and things that by their inmost nature do not have much of a shelf-life. Something is divine forever; it can only be novel for a few minutes or a few days or perhaps a few years at best.

Most new things are only new in one respect, and then not new for very long; most inevitable things are not really inevitable at all, only very probable, and in constant danger of becoming un-inevitable; powerful things are only powerful to some limited degree, and usually only from one angle or one context. As fundamentally aesthetic phenomena, all suffer enormously from the basic hedonic treadmill effect. Maintaining a sense of novelty or power or inevitability at the center of a personality or a culture, then, requires an enormous and constant expenditure of time and attention and resources to find these qualities, demonstrate them, and finally give up on the current entity and start the process all over again.

And then, of course, even then most of the time finding actual genuine novelty power or inevitability is too hard, and in practice people simply settle for the aesthetic effects that suggest it.

Column 05/03/2023: Birthday Reflections on Identity, Time, and God

Birthday Reflections on Identity, Time, and God

[My birthday was this past weekend. This got me thinking about life, time, God, identity, and other such things, which I have often thought about in the past. Here is a crystallization of those thoughts.] 

We live in an age when "identity" has become a sort of universal watchword. It has become so ubiquitous as to be virtually invisible. 

As with all terms that define an era, everyone uses it, and what is more, everyone uses it in the same way. It would be tempting to see the term as essentially defining a polarity or difference or societal conflict based on whether it is used positively or negatively. This is incorrect, however. Both the American Left and the American Right attack their enemies as promoting illegitimate "identity politics" or "identitarianism"; both the American Left and the American Right then turn on a dime to asserting the sacred nature of their own and their allies' "identity." For every left-wing institution emphasizing racial or sexual identity, there is a right-wing institution promoting cultural or national or religious identity. There are even entire media operations dedicated to promoting something called (shudder) "Catholic identity." 

Identity is certainly a fascinating and fundamental concept, and one I've spent a lot of my life grappling with. Yet it strikes me that contemporary rarely touch on the questions of identity that are to me most interesting, or even really most challenging in themselves. 

Lurking behind most modern uses of the term is a concept of identity that I would call "voluntarist" "atomist" and/or "political-social-conflictual." Identity in this sense is most basically self-chosen or at least self-discovered, an essentially internal relationship with oneself that in some mysterious way constitutes that self. It is for this reason above all else that identity is normatively treated as beyond rational or moral criticism or analysis. 

While in itself unchallengeable, however, identity is seen as something that is necessarily asserted outwards towards others and society and the political realm, coming through will to constitute and determine all external relationships of the individual. In this act of assertion, identity is treated as static, pervasive, and absolute (in the sense of incapable of being resolved or analyzed), and is represented through symbols and images that in some mysterious way express or embody it. Given that such identities must be asserted but cannot be questioned or engaged with, people and society and the state are left with the urgent, binary moral choice of either accepting and affirming a particular identity of a particular person or group in its totality, or rejecting and disaffirming it. 

Despite common notions, this model is not necessarily "identitarian" in a positive sense: because it conceives of identity as individual and internal and beyond rational and moral critique, it can just as easily lead to a logic of rejection and disaffirmation as to one of acceptance and affirmation. Indeed, it is doing so now, as we speak.

In its early stages, there can be no doubt that this concept of identity did arise in large part out of a desire for social acceptance, peace, and harmony, and did lead in practice to growth in attitudes of acceptance and affirmation--at least among the relatively comfortable Americans and similar people at whom it was aimed. As always with aristocratic systems, the existentially and materially comfortable correctly perceived the practical impositions of reason and morality, and in particular the moral and practical demands and challenges of other people and other groups, as the main potential threat to their status and way of life. By entirely removing all moral and rational logics of all identity groups "off-stage" into a hermetically sealed internal-individual space, however, the new identitarian system was able to defuse all such challenges in utero. 

In this, it was very much an offspring of the liberal-secular treatments of religion and economics, two areas of apparent conflict similarly "defused" by shoving all related topics helpfully off-stage into the merely "private" or "individual" realm. And once again, in the short term, it appears to have worked: unable to perceive the moral and rational or even historical or cultural challenges of other identity groups, comfortable Americans relapsed to their natural state of ease, in the process accepting these groups in at least a minimum, largely indifferentist way.

However, for non-aristocratic groups more threatened or more needy, this system presaged, as it usually does, not peace, but conflict. If the highest goal is merely indifferent affirmation, all is well and good; but if you require or desire more than that, competition and conflict sets in quite quickly, and in a manner even more difficult to deal with or defuse than before. Identity groups, after all, as Marx would have it, simply possess different interests. They also possess different desires and goals in the external world, and operate according to extremely different internal moral and rational logics. This naturally leads to conflicts of varying degrees of intrinsic or extrinsic irreconcilability, which have to be resolved or at least dealt with according to some logic or diplomacy or strategy or social or political structure. Identitarianism, however, by its very nature entirely forbids all such attempts to deal with difference and conflict.

While for comfortable Americans pushing identity into a purely internal realm free from reason and calculation served to defuse conflict, for virtually everyone else it has served rather to increase conflict: since by this logic there is little or no common ground of justice or reason or morality by which groups can be reconciled with each other or even practically ally with each other or even practically co-exist. Indeed, even to negotiate over matters of external desires and interests virtually always in practice involves intruding on the sacred internal realm of the identity itself--and hence provoking violent conflict. 

And then, of course, the oasis of ordinary, comfortable middle- and upper-class Americans has itself been nearly entirely transformed by the events of the past ten years, and in particular by the pandemic, into a world not of material and existential comfort, but of existential and moral panic.

Hence, in the last few years one might argue that we have reached a new stage in the identitarian system, or at least added a new dogma to it. This dictum is that certain identities are by their very nature opposed to each other, not only in practical interests or external relations, but in fundamental, internal essence. Hence, each act of affirmation of a particular identity becomes at the same time and necessarily also a rejection and disaffirmation of all opposed identities. 

Indeed, in the last few years, and especially in the context of the Internet and social media, it is quite clear that a societal ethos and logic of affirmation and acceptance has been largely replaced by one of disaffirmation and rejection--not only for the reasons discussed above, but also because of the basic nature of the Internet as a chaotic homogenized realm of symbols where in practice nearly everything is defined through symbolic opposition or negation. In such a realm affirmation of or membership in a particular identity category is practically expressed largely through acts of rejection or disaffirmation of that group's enemies.

As I said, though, this is not really what I wanted to talk about in this post--because it does not really, for me at least, have very much to do with the problem of human and personal identity. I want to talk about it in more fundamental terms.

Column 04/05/2023: Why Donald Trump Won in 2016, Why He Could Very Likely Win Again in 2024, and How to Keep That From Happening

Why Donald Trump Won in 2016, Why He Could Very Likely Win Again in 2024, and How to Keep That From Happening

In the past week, I did something I have not done since the winter of 2015: I watched a Donald Trump rally in its entirety. 

This would seem to require some kind of explanation, so let me say: I am a registered independent and currently a card-carrying member of the American Solidarity Party. I have never voted for Donald Trump. I never will vote for Donald Trump. I like to think I have a coherent, principled approach to politics--which is another way of saying that I am a registered independent signed up with a third party who has not strongly supported a candidate for public office in the last ten years. Even from that standpoint, however, the kind of politics Donald Trump, indeed the kind of public life, the kind of mass media, the kind of America Donald Trump represents is entirely anathema to me. 

However: in the Year of Our Lord 2015, I was one of those foolish ones who believed that Donald Trump was, more or less, a sideshow clown: that he had no hope of actually winning the primary, and even less hope of actually winning the Presidency. I continued to believe this up to the day Leonard Cohen died: that is, Election Day. This makes me like most people who predicted such things.

Nonetheless, looking back on that heady time, the one nagging thing that clung to me throughout the campaign season, and made me question my own reason and better judgment, was the actual experience of watching a Donald Trump campaign rally. I was frankly taken aback by the experience; as a hostile outsider, I was surprised, shocked by how compelling I found it, and how much even I was drawn in, against my better judgment, to the narrative it presented. In contrast, when I watched Hillary Clinton's DNC speech, I was taken aback by how obviously foolish her approach was and how totally uncompelling it was. Nonetheless, I continued to follow the political circus, waiting for conventional wisdom to be vindicated, and stuck with my own better judgment to the bitter end.

Next year, we will have another election day; where Donald Trump will once again be running for Presidency, and will most likely be running against Joe Biden. Conventional wisdom is once again that he stands no chance; especially with his recent indictment. De Santis is the future of the Republic Party; Trump is the past. The Republicans did poorly in the midterms; the RNC and most Republican politicians blame him for this, and have always hated him anyway. 

However, to discharge my conscience and peace of mind, I decided to make one last test: to watch another rally all the way through. If it was at all like the 2016 rally, I would then mentally prepare myself for Donald Trump winning again; and I would then totally check out of electoral politics for the next 12 months. After all, I am in no way conflicted about my vote; the only reason to follow primary and electoral events closely would be out of doubt and fear over the outcome. This time around, I could escape that unpleasant process.

So: what was my conclusion? As stated in the title, after watching the rally, I think it overwhelmingly likely that Donald Trump will be the Republican nominee for President; I think it quite likely that he will be President again. So I am done with election season.

Before I completely check out, though, I thought I would discharge my conscience about what has always been staringly obvious to me about Trump, his appeal to voters, and how to beat him. Articles on these topics have been, since 2015, a cottage industry; and every one I have seen has been, to me, not only wrong but directly counterproductive. Indeed, I am frankly shocked by how little anyone, anywhere seems to have learned from Trump and his political success, across the board. It is this, above all else, that makes me think he will likely win again in 2024. 

Before I leave America to its fate, I will do my Civic Duty by explaining what is actually responsible for Trump's remarkable political success, and how it might be possible to avoid making the same mistakes as 2016, and actually beat him this time.

Column 03/08/2023: Intimate Portraits of Madness: American Psycho, Uncut Gems, Remains of the Day

Intimate Portraits of Madness: American Psycho, Uncut Gems, Remains of the Day

[In this column, I will again return to the mini-art-criticism format by discussing three works of art which I have read/watched over the last several months, which I believe are extremely connected to each other. Obviously there are lots of spoilers.]

American Psycho (2000)

"I can't believe Bryce prefers Van Patten's card to mine..."

My story parallels those of many other men of my generation. I finally watched American Psycho recently after years of seeing business card memes on the Internet. 

American Psycho is what is known as a "cult classic."

Like many other critics to write about American Psycho, I am haunted by the fear that I may sound as nonsensically bullshitting as its protagonist, stereo aficionado Patrick Bateman, does in the key scene in which he energetically monologues meaningless critical jargon about Huey Lewis and the News while dancing around with an ax. 

This cult-classic critical indie darling...*axe noises*

Column 11/04/22: Technological Criticism

Technological Criticism

To be unable to criticize technology is to be insane. This particular kind of insanity is the hallmark of modern society.

Allow me to justify the preceding statements. 

The Logos of Techne

It is difficult to think of a word for what we call "technology" in any ancient tongue or culture. In fact, it occurred to me recently that the word is rather bizarre in itself--something approaching a contradiction in terms. Logos and techne were fundamental categories to the Greeks and especially the Greek philosophers, but they existed in strong contradistinction to each other. Logos is the realm of knowledge, of discourse, of accounting for a particular reality, whether by means of abstract philosophy, mathematical calculation, or narrative. Techne, in contrast, is the realm of craft, of skilled practice aimed at creation and action.

It is by this time a very old intellectual-history commonplace to point to the connections between magic and technology, even to say, as C.S. Lewis did, that the main or only distinction between magic and technology is that one worked, and the other did not. There is truth in this, but it is nonetheless somewhat deceptive. Techne or craft in the pre-modern sense is in fact closely allied to magic, precisely because by its very nature it defies logos in the sense of pre-determined abstraction and calculation. The magician is a practitioner of a craft, but like many pre-modern craftsman, his craft cannot be neatly set out in a mathematical simulation or technical manual; he operates on a mixture of innate skill, honed practice, habit, planning, improvisation, and technique. Wizardry operates on the guild system, with masters and apprentices; there is no magical proletariat. Books of spells or alchemical texts read much like the Byzantine recipes for paints and metal alloys that I translated earlier this year: succinct sets of directions for already skilled and practiced craftsmen to achieve practical ends, given in imprecise proportions, with many options and lots of freedom to alter and experiment baked in.

Technology, though, is not techne. It is not a skill inhering in a skilled laborer operating on technique and instinct beyond the realms of abstract knowledge and calculation. It is, by its very nature, totally calculated and determined in advance, through the distinctively modern and scientific obsession with applied mathematics. 

Neither, though, is technology logos in the general sense of that word. Plato in many of his dialogues provides what could be rather more fittingly described as technologies: that is, rational accounts of techne in general and its particular species, describing their rational ends, the skills involved, and how to become a better practitioner. Technology, while totally calculated, is aimed emphatically at merely practical and immediate ends; it is rarely analyzed in philosophical or moral terms, and no practitioner of technology would regard such analysis as essential to its nature or operation.

Column 09/03/2022: Mini-Art-Criticisms: Star Wars, Fellowship of the Ring, There Are Doors, Star Trek The Motion Picture

Mini-Art-Criticisms: Star Wars, Fellowship of the Ring, There Are Doors, Star Trek The Motion Picture

[I am experimenting with various formats in this column as I continue to be quite busy (and also because experimenting with various formats is what this column is all about). This week, I decided to collect some thoughts on a few books and films I have read/watched recently.]

In the last week or so, I have read the following books in their entirety, and watched the following films. The latter is a bit unusual, as I rarely watch films these days. Nonetheless, it occurred to me that they really dovetail in various ways quite nicely.

Column 08/06/22: Pornographic Politics

Pornographic Politics

They whip him through the streets and alleys, there,
the gormless and the baying crowd, right there:
They can't get enough of that Doomsday song,
They can't get enough of it all.

I've seen the Future, brother: it is murder.

I stopped watching American presidential debates many years ago. I could write a whole article about the evil and incoherence of this process, the result of the tiny, unchecked cabal of Hollywood networks that once collectively controlled all political information realizing that it would be very profitable if they could convince everyone that they had a civic responsibility to watch Wheel of Fortune every election year. Presidential debates are not formatted like debates; they are formatted like Family Feud with a slathering of Civic Responsibility Frosting. They are entirely a negative phenomenon, and no one should watch them.

However, for the 2020 election, I made an exception. As a televized matchup, Trump vs Biden seemed bizarre beyond belief, bizarre to a degree that could only be called artistic, and for that reason intrigued me on a deeply aesthetic level. Two uncannily, bizarrely similar figures: old men with poor impulse control, swollen, sensitive egos, an overpowering impulse for the pettiest kind of bullying towards rivals and subordinates, long histories of "creepiness," "handsiness," and sexual assault towards young women; two men who have never been particularly good at the so-called "details" or "substance" of politics; two men who have spent their lives in the public eye, on video, in camera, from youth to old age; two men who out of the above qualities have developed bizarre, unique, utterly inimitable styles of thinking, reacting, emoting, and speaking; two old men in decline. I admit that, like Augustine's friend, I simply could not resist the spectacle.

What I saw for those two hours still haunts me. 

Column 07/07/22: How I Met Elon Musk at Waffle House

[Please note that none of the below events have ever actually occurred.]

I met Elon Musk at Waffle House recently. Given the stature of Waffle House's contributions to American society, I think we can all agree the story is worth recounting.

Poem: Super Hanc Petram

"Καὶ ἐκπορευομένου αὐτοῦ ἐκ τοῦ ἱεροῦ, 

λέγει αὐτῷ εἷς τῶν μαθητῶν αὐτοῦ: 

διδάσκαλε, ἴδε ποταποὶ λίθοι καὶ ποταπαὶ οἰκοδομαί."

They took the City, they took her. They took Thessalonika, they took even Hagia Sophia. Do you see these stones? When the Romaios passed through those lands, Clad in bright mail, gleaming with gold and precious stones, The little people, οἷ πολλοί, asked him, βάρβαροι, their speech broken: “Where are you going?” But he only said: “Eις τήν πόλιν.“ Not one stone will be left on another They did not understand. Our citadel is broken; It has become The citadel of our enemies. Nam Divus Titus vicit. “God has spoken!” The man said, his voice pompous, but his cheeks hollow. They raised him up from the pit Where he had lain So many days. “You are the Christ.” He said. “To you God has given Power without end.” And though he was afraid, deep in his heart, the Divine Titus rejoiced. “It is the Temple of the Lord!” They shouted in the street, all together, as one. “The temple! The temple of the Lord!” It is the God-protected city, bastion of the Virgin. It shall not fall εἰς αἰῶνα.
There is the Pious Emperor, Father of the Faithful, King and Priest He is seated on a throne set high above the world. Forever he will rule, For he is nothing but an image of stone. Amen, amen, I say unto you: The City shall fall. Sed dico tibi: I am in Jerusalem in the desert, high on the walls of Constantine: In the distance, the dust of the Saracens rises, And I know it is the end. Tu es Petrus All the stones have fallen, fallen Every stone that once stood Proud against the sky And said that it would stand forever. “God has given you into our hands.” the chamberlain said. Then he cut off his pallium, and the laces on his sandals. Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up. Et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam The statue speaks, his lips stiff and swollen: “I am both Emperor and Priest. I the Restrainer, I the Image. I will not fail εἰς αἰῶνα.” Down at his feet, there is a little stone. He grinds it beneath his feet Perpetually: “You have betrayed the Emperor.” The statue is anointed with oil, sacred Chrism from the hands of God. He is greater than the small stone, Greater than the heavens and the earth, For he is made of many stones, and great foundations Set one upon another. The City will stand forever, For God protects it. Forever it will stand, For God protects it. “You have abandoned God, and he has abandoned you.” And I saw a beast coming up from the sea It had many heads And many crowns. Look, teacher! See the stones. The kingdoms of this earth Have become the kingdoms of God And his anointed one. For the beast has been anointed With the sacred oil. Divus Titus vicit, nam Christus est. “What hope have you?” Et portae inferni non praevalebunt adversus eam. “The City has fallen, and I am still alive.” And so I must die. And I looked, and behold, the great image, That all the earth served, Crumbled into dust before my eyes And the walls were encircled, And the abomination of desolation was set up in the holy place Until the consummation, and the end. And the city of the Virgin became The city of her enemies And the small stone endured Compacted, without seam and division And it became a great mountain And filled the whole world. Nam is est Petrus. I give thanks for all things To the only immortal King.