Food, Conspiracy, and the Homo Imperialis: A Theoretical Look at the Political Crises of Modernity

Food, Conspiracy, and the Homo Imperialis: A Theoretical Look at the Political Crises of Modernity

Over the last few months, years, and/or decades of my life, I have seen some interesting things, read some interesting books, and come to some conclusions about the crises of modern political life. In the last few months in particular, these conclusions have been sharpened by discussions, debates, and reading and crystallized into a few relatively simple, albeit very broad and rather tentative, theses. 

In Defense of Overly Broad Theoretical Nonsense

I fully recognize that this blog post constitutes in essence a smattering of overly broad theoretical nonsense (see above). However, I would, as a historian, defend the value for history and politics alike of extremely broad theoretical constructions of particular topics, periods, etc. While there is always a great danger that theoretical constructions will overwhelm the actual concrete complexity of different societies, situations, events, persons, etc, in fact this danger is generally less, I think, when the theoretical constructions in question are deliberately broad and explicitly theoretical. No one is likely to mistake a blog post or a Chesterton book about the economic and social problems of humanity en masse for a work of historiography; but they may well mistake an academic-historical theory of life or death or economics or religion or human nature contained in and shaping a history textbook for historiography. Academia is in fact littered with half-baked general theories, littering the footnotes and text of books and articles of esteemed historians and college freshmen alike. I have at least, I hope, had the decency to separate my grand theories out and put them elsewhere to be laughed at.

For the moment, however, I must formally ask you to trust, not only that the below theses are based on many hours and thousands of pages of reading in various historical topics and periods, but that the below theses are not designed to replace such content or such reading, but merely to (hopefully) illuminate it.

These theses, I think, have at least something to say about the disasters unfolding around us, and what to possibly do about them. So here they are.

Christmas and the Divine Creativity

Christmas and the Divine Creativity

Cur Deus homo? 

"Why is God a man?"

So asked St. Anselm of Canterbury, long ago; and so many us are hopefully compelled to ask, for the first or the hundredth or the thousandth time, by the Christmas season. Or perhaps not; perhaps, after a dozen or two or three or five or seven dozen Christmases, perhaps we simply take the angels and the Mother and Child and Wise Men and Shepherds all as givens. Perhaps we have never questioned them at all. Perhaps all our knowledge of Christmas comes from Hallmark Christmas movies. Perhaps we always thought that Christmas was a fictional holiday invented for Jim Carry's How the Grinch Stole Christmas. 

Why is God a man? Why is God a human being? Why is God a child, an infant, held in the arms of his mother, watched over by a stepfather, surrounded by animals and poor shepherds and exotic magicians? Why is God nursing, why is he crying, why is he sleeping? Why is God the descendant of the founding king of a minor Near Eastern dynasty? Why is God a political subject of Gaius Iulius Caesar Augustus? Why does God need a blanket?

Why is God something?

Of course, to even begin to answer the question posed above, we have to have some understanding of what God is; and also (a much harder question) what man is. Anselm had one very good answer to these questions; and I invite you to consider this answer at your leisure. For now, I will merely suggest some thoughts that came to me recently, and which were for me wrapped together inextricably with the event of Christmas. 

Sofia Coppola's Priscilla is a Disturbing Affirmation of Humanity

Sofia Coppola's Priscilla is a Disturbing Affirmation of Humanity

What do we want, and why do we want it? And what would happen if we got what we want?

These questions are, in one way or another, the heart of all of Sofia Coppola's films--as, indeed, of many films. What sets Sofia Coppola apart from practically all filmmakers of her (or any) generation is two things: (1) her almost exclusive focus on female desire and perspective, and (2) the honesty and empathy of her portrayal of desire and of the people caught in its spell.

From this perspective, Priscilla represents the peak of her career. This is, paradoxically, because it is by far her most restrained film, the film where she most lets go of typical auteur control and its accompanying obsessions and allows another person's perspective to fully take center stage. To take a small, but telling example, Sofia Coppola, like other auteur directors, has a stable of actors and actresses she uses repeatedly in her films; and Priscilla contains none of them. Yet Priscilla is at the same time a film that profoundly reflects, and fulfills, Sofia Coppola's prevailing style, aesthetics, and overriding obsessions. I honestly cannot think of any other director, any other artist, even, who could have created anything remotely like this film. And that is no small praise.

Poem: Good and Evil

 Good and Evil

I saw the Devil walking through the forest,

his hands bloodless, 

long fingers

extended

his face set 

in a glare of impotent hatred

fixed before the first tree grew on earth,

his eyes forward

searching, searching, searching

for one more victim

to destroy a little while, to curse, to

escape, to

deny

a little while

until caught in the blinding light

have I seen human faces like his?

has not my face been set also, in just this way,

have not my hands been extended?

but my face was not fixed, nor were my arms

set forever

when the light caught me, when it blinded me, when it

plunged me into darkness

it could heal, and not consume

there is little difference between he and I, except

that when the light came for me, when it blinded me, when it

took away all my power, made me forever weak, forever in the power

of another

I could turn my face towards the light, 

and hold it in the heart, and in the will, so that

it was mine forever

my hatred of the light

could be devoured by fire

and the desires of my heart

separated out, a bloody business,

great tearing, cutting, amputations,

one after another, until

my heart beat in the midst of everlasting flame

not defiant, obedient 

I was darkness, but

I could still become light

this is the only difference between he and I, the only difference

between me and all the damned

surely there are others like him, walking the streets, the narrow hallways, the

gilded boulevards, gliding

down the endless road

men with faces fixed in impotent rage, their hands extended

to destroy and to deny

for a little while

surely they are like me, and I am like them

surely we are like the devil

but

surely, they too can be saved

if you will plunge them into the darkness

at the heart of your light

and burn them until they become yours

if I can be saved, then surely

they also, however fixed their faces, however

broken their hearts, however full their hands

of empty efforts

surely you can save them also, my Lord

I am still in darkness, but surely your light is within my heart

I can extinguish it if I wish, I can fix my face

forever

in denial

but my Lord, I do not fear it, because I have seen your light

have mercy upon me, a miserable sinner

have mercy upon us all, do not permit us

to remain as we are

I saw the Lord walking through the forest,

his hands were bleeding, with unhealed wounds

stretching to embrace

his face fixed in the last agony of love

the last look of a dying man

his eyes emptied of tears, 

searching, searching, searching

for those whom he would save

you have so little time, my Lord,

to save us all

so little time

to suffer and die

lead me through the forest, let me follow close behind you,

the wounds in my hands bleeding, unhealed,

my eyes dropping tears, 

searching, searching, searching

for those whom you would save

Amen.

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.

Pope Francis and the Third World War

Pope Francis and the Third World War

In the far-off year 2014, the sun shone, Barack Obama was President of the United States, The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies was released, and the top-selling song of the year was named "Happy." And the Pope of the Catholic Church announced the beginning of the Third World War. 

Amid the ever-repeated excitement of such scintillating mass-media events that year, few people in America noted or marked the centenary of World War I. While in Britain and France, this war is still clearly remembered--if nothing else for its devastating toll on the population and landscape--in America it has always been a forgotten war, a mere footnote on the path to World War II and global dominance. Still, events were held, here and there, most in Europe and a few in America, and to one of them the recently-elected Pope Francis came. While a South American by birth, he is also the descendant of Italian immigrants, who no doubt passed on some of the legacy and legend of the Great War to him. And so, in September, he visited a cemetery where soldiers from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, that great rival of united Italy, were buried, and mourned the dead, and prayed for them, and said a few words in reflection on the conflict in which they died, as Popes have done for many decades now in regular succession.

In doing so, however, Francis, as he so often does, went off script, and began reflecting on contemporary events. "Perhaps," he mused, "one can speak of a third world war, one fought piecemeal."

This is, so far as can be told, the first time Francis mentioned the concept, only a little over a year after his election. He has since used the phrase and concept of "a third world war fought piecemeal" over and over again, dozens if not hundreds of times, mentioning it with greater and greater frequency as time has gone on and the world has grown more unstable.

Many things could be said about Pope Francis, for good and for ill, in many different dimensions. I hope to eventually write more about him and his significance.

The point of this essay, however, is to say that about this, at least, he is right, and has been since 2014. Something fundamental has changed, and the world has begun to look back to and recapitulate the horrors of the 20th century. And this must be understood, and stopped, while there is still time.

Poem: Harvest

 Harvest

“The harvest is great,

but the laborers are few.”

gather flowers while you can

before the night dawns

and the frost rises

out of the deep

the wind begins to whisper

down down

from the icy peak

in just a little while

it will blow inexorable

sweep the heads off the stalks of grain

carry them away 

into the endless distance

if you do not pluck them

gather them into the warm barn

to be dried

and laid beneath the blanket

eternal rest

and shelter

already the green of the leaves fades

the sunlight darkens

there is little time

run!

out through the fields

down into the valleys

the icy gorges

by which the smallest flower springs

pull it up

by the roots

whole and complete

carry it

to safety

in the house

the fire is burning

drying the air

warming

giving life

there

they will be preserved

forever

she will wear them in her hair

and place them in her crystal vases

about the hearth

thirsty, drinking up water

and light

the grain will be ground

hardened in the fiery furnace

and set in his presence

there to abide

forever

are you frightened?

do not let it stay you

do you not see the shadow at the window

the winged thing

whose breath is poison?

already they begin to wilt

the stalks lowering

the life draining

are you sorrowful?

then labor all the faster

do you not smell

the burning in the air?

they are coming

to kindle the fields

and the forests

salt the earth

reach down, down, down into its depths

pull out the little sprouted seeds

reserves of life

only beginning

bear them to the temple

do not grow weary

you have only a little while

to labor

for the night is coming

in which no man can work

then you will rejoice

Amen