Thoughts On The Rough Beast

 

It seems each day brings with it some new freakish incident, threat or claim in these sad times.  I doubt even Suetonius, who wrote of the peculiarities of the Julio-Claudian emperors, could imagine some of the grotesqueries being perpetrated and paraded in front of us by our ubiquitous media.  Whether it's merely ridiculous, like requiring public servants to wear outsized shoes, or actively fostering fear and chaos, those in power seem to be determined either to commit outrages or slavishly support them.

W. B. Yeats believed that the First World War overturned our civilization and deprived us of the traditions and morals on which it was founded, presaging an apocalypse of some kind or another.  So, he wondered what Rough Beast would be born of it.  The 20th century was full of beasts, and so Yeats was right to expect them.  But no Second Coming was forthcoming, as was the case with the many Second Comings which have been predicted by the self-righteous over the centuries.

Could Yeats have imagined a Rough Beast that was destructive of civilized values but merely vulgar, rude, scatterbrained, blustering, ignorant, self-centered as a spoiled child, albeit cunning in a shabby way?  I doubt it.  Yeats was a great poet and evoked beauty and described evil, but in a superlative sense.  I'm not sure he would have believed an apocalypse might be caused by crude, malicious but otherwise unremarkable people put in charge of forces capable of wrecking havoc on the world.

We had to wait for someone like Orwell to tell us that the beasts to be feared most are those who are not great in any sense, are unworthy, even contemptible, but are raised by the corruption of our society to the highest places and are tolerated and even encouraged by those who are part of the corruption.

It's difficult to think, like Yeats, that the current Rough Beasts have beliefs contrary to those which form the bases of Western civilization.  In fact they value what has always been of the greatest importance in the West; money and its relentless acquisition.  Money, of course, is power, which has also been desired.  And they also rely on hypocrisy and purported adherence to so-called Judeo-Christian morals, at least in public, another characteristic of our civilization. 

The Rough Beast no longer slouches towards Bethlehem, but marches against it, and lays siege to it. 

The Only Thing That Will Make You See Sense

The bigoted, elitist, but nonetheless incisive Sage of Baltimore comes to mind more and more as the horror of the mid-term elections looms larger and larger before us.  If I wanted merely to comment on the preposterous hypocrisy and venality of the election process, I'd be content to quote his assertion that elections are an advance auction sale of stolen goods.  But these are dark times, and dark times engender dark thoughts.  And so the quote which graces this post, above.

Was Mott the Hoople right when it sang all too long ago that Violence is the only thing that will make us see sense?  Yes, I mean Violence with a capital "V."  If it is, it's likely that it will only make us see sense in the short term, but that may suffice to resuscitate our dwindling civilization until the next time it's required to jolt us into remediative action.  Our history repeats itself in certain respects.  Think of the statement heard in movies featuring the Mafia, that a war is good for business now and then. Human society may not be significantly different from that of organized crime.  Fascists were destroyed in the Second World War but arise once more, in Europe and even here.  Read Sinclair Lewis; read George Orwell.

We've had many wars, but the war being spoken of by some now is war of a particular kind.  Political war within a political unit; that is to say, a civil war.  We've flirted with the idea of one lately, it seems. It may be that the thought of a civil war pleases some of us.  Those it pleases most are probably lovers of fantasies in which they figure heroically, brandishing weapons in defense of whatever they find important.

We had a real civil war during the 1860s, of course, but our capacity to forget is such that it's more or less a romantic memory now, even another fantasy, perhaps.  Some of us dress up and pretend to  be soldiers in that war (and other wars as well, unfortunately).  One of the memories of that war we should hold is that it was remarkably bloody; another is that we fight our best (that is to say, do the most harm) when we fight among ourselves.  And it seems clear to me, at least, that we're eager to fight among ourselves once more.

The internal war we may face is different from that civil war, though.  No great casus belli is available.  What causes there are seem mean, petty things taken in themselves--whether we think of sex the same way, or certain people the same way, or agree that certain books shouldn't be read, certain things shouldn't be said, or certain people shouldn't be here or whose love for our Great Republic is seemingly inadequate, or certain religions shouldn't be allowed or followed.  Most important, though, is the fear that others may have what we have or take what we have, especially if those others are different than we are.  

I suspect that if there is such a war it will be more similar to the internal wars of the French Revolution.  There's a kind of regime running this country, a regime born of and sustained by money.  Those who have the money despise or are at best indifferent to those who don't, and take great pains to appear as though they have the interests of those they despise or are indifferent to in mind when those of the regime act to foster their own interests.  Why it's thought that the regime seeks to benefit anyone but its own members is beyond me.  It should be obvious it does not, but suckers must indeed be born every minute.

Still, I can't help but feel that this enchantment will wear off, eventually.  And when it does, mere anarchy will be loosed upon the world in a way far more real than the aristocratic Yeats thought it had been all those years ago.  Every normal person will not only want to hoist the black flag and start cutting throats (some already do, I think) but will begin the work of slashing. If the kind of hate we see displayed in our society is any indication, many long for a new guillontine already, and there are wannabe Marats and Robespierres standing ready.

There's only so much hypocrisy, venality, sanctimony, arrogance, fraud and contempt one can take.  Some day, someone or many someones will notice that things don't change, no matter what is said or done by those with power.  They don't change because those in power won't gain, but will rather lose, if change takes place.  What will the reaction be when we realize, collectively, that we've been bamboozled?

Which Dystopia?

Let's cavil no longer, and admit what is clearly the case.  We live in a dystopia, a bad, harsh place according to the ancient Greek on which the word is based; a society in which its inhabitants live wretched, dehumanized and fearful lives according to Merriam-Webster Online.  Thomas More used the word "utopia" in his novel of the same name, a word meaning "no place."  His utopia was a nearly perfect society, but of course did not exist, being nowhere.  There can therefore be no utopian society, but certainly can be a dystopian one, as we have proved or may be in the course of proving.

Various authors have imagined dystopias, some famously.  But if we live in one now, which of the fictional dystopias is it most like?  Such things may concern some few of us who are citizens of this one in particular.

Some fictional dystopias commonly result from some kind of cataclysmic or apocalyptic event, such as nuclear war or natural disaster.  I find it hard to isolate the cause of our own dystopia.  There's probably no one cause.  In any case, lacking such an event I think we can't compare our dystopia to those depicted in such novels as The Road by Cormac McCarthy or The Drowned World by J.G. Ballard.

As a citizen of God's Favorite County, the U.S.A., I can imagine with relative ease a dystopia created by the machinations of a particular religious sect as in the case of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale. The Abrahamic religions are inherently intolerant and exclusive, and the version of Christianity most popular here has always been particularly restrictive, though its adherents are notably flexible in their interpretation of the appropriate path whenever it suits them, which is to say for the most part whenever it limits their self-interest, selfishness and bigotry.

I doubt our dystopia can be called religious, however, as there is so much more contributing to the woeful condition of our society.  Economic inequality, for example.  I don't know that plutocracies have ever been considered dystopias, however.  Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged has been called a dystopian novel, but the plutocracy it idealizes, which separates itself from the rest of the world, is characterized as a utopia, made up of insanely wealthy geniuses some of whom seem to be aficionados of rough sex, like Ms. Rand herself.   It's unclear whether she considered a fondness for rape roleplay to be common among her super-men and women, if not a necessary condition of their exalted nature, but it figured prominently in her fiction.

The prevalence of violence in our dystopia, particular among the young, is reminiscent of Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange.  Our suspicion of books and tendency to restrict what is taught brings Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 to mind.  I don't think Orwell's 1984 is similar to what we have achieved to date, as we aren't quite as regimented and regulated, or unified enough, to be compared to its version of dystopia.  Also, our society isn't as puritanical.  We love our pleasures, and are committed to them and manipulated by them.  In that sense, it may be that dystopia as depicted by Huxley in Brave New World is more similar to ours than not.

Which brings me to The Garden of Earthly Delights, the peculiar masterpiece of that peculiar artist, Hieronymus Bosch, pictured above.  Paradise is on the left, hell on the right, and in the center is our world, in which we cavort.  Bosch portrays us as engaged in a grotesque romp.  The people he painted are silly, stupid, carnal, frenzied and mad.  Hell is obviously their destination--indeed, they seem to be rushing towards it.

One thing which I think has been lacking in fictional dystopias is the fact that we're quite capable of making our world a harsh place in which we live harsh and fearful lives simply by being stupid and ignorant.  I don't think it an exaggeration to say that stupidity and ignorance are two of the primary causes of our current dystopia.  What we accept and believe today as true is remarkably preposterous in certain respects. That we accept things as true without hesitation or efforts at verification is extraordinary in itself.  It's hard to think of other times when we've been so credulous, so willing to believe what we're told, particularly when it comes to our politics.  

As elections and primaries grow close here, we're inundated with commercials so pitiful, so corny, so clearly biased that it's difficult to believe they can be taken seriously by anyone.  Do those who create these vile, pandering, unintentionally comic advertisements really believe we're so shallow, so stupid, so easily manipulated?  Are we, in fact?

We all know the saying "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."  It's been attributed to Edmund Burke and John Stuart Mill.  That may well be true, but our dystopia may have come about not because we've done nothing to prevent the triumph of evil, but because we've been too stupid to recognize the evil taking place, or understand what is good, or do good.  

I don't think a novel with this theme will be forthcoming.

R. I. P. American Exceptionalism

Although it may still be possible to claim that the United States is, or may in the future be, the "shining city on a hill" the late Ronald Reagan would refer to now and then, that claim is less easy to make given recent events.

It's even more difficult, now, to make the claim that our Great Republic is remarkable and serves as an ideal for all other nations  because it's based on the rule of law, regularly holds free elections, is a bastion of democracy, based as it is on liberty, equality before the law, and unshakeable in its reliance on representative government.  It will be especially difficult to maintain, as we have in the past, America's moral authority when it comes to governance.

In truth, what we saw on Capitol Hill is what we've seen in other countries we've thought were flawed in various respects.  Speaking frankly, we saw what's taken place in nations we've believed were inferior to ours, nations less fortunate than ours is, less favored, less solid, less moral, less truthful, less just--the list goes on depending on the extent of our self-satisfaction and self-righteousness.  We saw what we find contemptible in others.  

So, it appears our bragging rights have been revoked.  Strangely, they've been revoked by people who have relished exercising those rights.  To all appearances, American Exceptionalism has been ended by those most inclined to insist it exists, and loudly.  It will be difficult to maintain that we're better than the rest of the world.

That ending may have serious consequences.  Some would say that the U.S. has never had good cause to purport to be morally superior than other nations, and that recent events have merely made its depravity evident.  Some claim that America's statements regarding its superior moral status have always been cynical and hypocritical.  But America has been respected and is considered a leader.  Friends and foes of the country will be inclined, now, to wonder whether it's entitled to respect and leadership.  If the nation is as subject to thugs assailing the government as any banana republic, why should it be considered better than such countries?  What right have we to speak of evil empires, or an axis of evil, or criticize elections elsewhere?  How can we pose as the friend and protector democracies? 

While simple explanations are satisfying and no doubt will be sought, it can't be the case that one flawed person and his willing lackeys are responsible for our diminishment.  They clearly have responsibility for what's taken place and may still take place.  It can be said, fairly, that they incited insurrection, and did so for selfish motives.  One wonders if they were motivated solely by the desire to remain in power, to make as much money as possible off the nation, or if they were also motivated by the fear of retaliation once they're out of power.  George Orwell predicted that the world would come to be dominated by millionaires (it would have to be "billionaires" now) and thugs.  For a time at least, our Glorious Union has been so dominated.  It can be hoped it won't be any longer, but that may be a fond hope.  

There's Something About "Hamilton"

There's something about it, I think, that would explain its success and also explain why I wonder at it...and its success.  I don't mean to say that as musical theatre goes, it's bad.  We speak after all of entertainment, and that which entertains always has a value unless it corrupts.  There is no corruption here.  There is, instead, an overwhelming but unsatisfying sincerity.

I should admit that historical inaccuracy concerns me.  So, for that matter, does incongruity unless it is humorous, as it is in the case of farce, for example.  One can argue that incongruity, inaccuracy and humor are to be expected when history is put on stage, and there is an element of truth in that argument.  But when they're combined with sincerity, a problem results.  It's not possible to be sincerely inaccurate.  It's possible to sincerely strive to make a point and to do so while being deliberately inaccurate, though.  Accuracy in that case is avoided in an effort to make a moral point, or to engage in propaganda.

Looked at as a piece of musical theatre of the Broadway type, I would describe that portion of it which precedes the intermission as manic.  I'm not a fan of rap, but would think that even a fan would recognize that an effort is being made to compress decades into an hour or so, and that this numbs the mind and the senses.  We seem to race through time; there are no stops, no pauses.  It's like listening to someone doing an extended drum roll.  After intermission, things slow down.  There are actual melodies, but to me there is nothing memorable in them.  Usually when exiting a musical I find I can remember one or two songs fairly well.  That was not the case, for me, with Hamilton.

The inaccuracies are more galling than outrageous.  For example, Hamilton (the person, I mean) participated in more than one duel.  The cause of one of them is addressed--the affair with Mrs. Reynolds.  Jefferson, Madison and Burr didn't confront Hamilton about his adultery, though.  James Monroe did, and Hamilton challenged Monroe to a duel over it.  Aaron Burr brought about a reconciliation between the two, however, and a duel was avoided.  Presumably, the creator felt it was necessary to concoct some confrontation that didn't take place, and say nothing of Burr's friendly efforts, but I have no idea why; unless it was to show Burr, Jefferson and Madison in a bad light.

Incongruity as humor, or farce, is evidenced in the person of George III, and he thereby became my favorite character as he was certainly the silliest.  I longed for the silly.  Incongruity as humorless, however, was evidenced by the fact that in the case of this particular performance, virtually every historical figure known to have been white was played by a black actor.  Is this wrong?  No, but it's inaccurate and incongruous.  One can't help but wonder what the reaction would be if white actors played historical figures known to be black.  I think it would have been exceedingly negative.  Why is it otherwise when black actors play white characters?  Certain actors no doubt are given opportunities they wouldn't normally have.  That is fine.  But it would seem to me to be better in trying to create opportunities to create new roles, new plays, rather than bringing history to the stage.

The sincerity of the effort can't be doubted, but sincerity can be deceiving, in the sense that it induces some to accept inaccuracies as accurate.  I can't help but wonder how many feel that what appears on stage here is all of it historically accurate.  They shouldn't, I know, as this is theatre, and for that reason I'm more annoyed by the inaccuracies than outraged by them.  But in depicting history we should strive to be accurate.  Otherwise, people like Oliver Stone are free to indulge in fantasy and portray it as history. 

Maybe I've read too much Santayana and Orwell, but I'm sensitive to games we play with history just as I'm sensitive to claims that history cannot be known, which itself encourages gaming.  But it can be known, to a reasonable degree of certainty, and must be known if we're to learn from it and know what we are and how we became what we are.

Hamilton is so popular that I assume what I write about it will be unpopular, if indeed it's read.  I don't begrudge it its popularity as a piece of theatre, though I found it less than overwhelming and not worth the ridiculously high price of admission.  I merely hope it's thought of as no more than that, and not as history especially.

A Stay in Bedlam

 

It's unclear whether we're inmates or visitors, but I think we've reached the place.  Let us go then, you and I, into Bedlam.

 

It's said Bedlam is another name for Bethlehem Royal Hospital, an institution for the insane which was around for quite some time; the oldest such place by repute.  It's infamous for many reasons, but perhaps it's most notorious because it put the mentally ill or those who were thought to be mentally ill on display, to paying visitors.  It was a kind of human zoo, though those behind its bars were likely never treated as well as animals are in the better zoos we have now.  This post is graced by one of the prints of Hogarth's series of works called The Rake's Progress, showing the decline of a good-for-nothing son of a rich merchant, who ends up in Bedlam, eventually.  Served him right.

 

"Bedlam" the word as opposed to the institution has come to mean a scene of chaos or mad confusion.  Perhaps it's just me, but this is what I've come to think the politics of our Great Republic has become.  The spectacle is sometimes amusing in a grotesque fashion.  I like to think, and hope, that I'm an observer and not a resident.  I suspect I feel in those moments of amusement something along the lines of what visitors to Bedlam felt--a combination of embarrassment, amazement, distress and shameful enjoyment of the oddities who appear before me as I walk, if a viewer of TV or user of a computer can be said to walk, through the madhouse or rather the madhouses which are Congress and the White House.

 

How did it come to this?  Was it inevitable that our Glorious Union would come to be presided over by an ignorant, venal lout, and be represented by craven and equally venal lackeys of special interests?  Old Ben Franklin may have been right when he surmised that we would eventually become so corrupt as to require a despotic government.  We have as Chief Executive someone it seems would like to be a despot, is used to being one in his privately-owned business, but I think we're more a plutocracy than anything else.

 

Aldous Huxley and George Orwell not all that long ago created their very different dystopian visions of what they thought we and our masters might, or were likely, to become.  Neither of those visions, though, envisioned or encompassed a government by the obnoxious, for the obnoxious and of the obnoxious.  How else can we describe those who believe themselves to be our leaders?  Orwell, perhaps, came closer to the truth in his Animal Farm where pigs and humans become the same sad, selfish creatures.

 

My hopes for the government of our future are minimal.  I have no expectation of greatness or achievement by our leaders.  I merely hope to be left alone.  A solitary confinement, call it, in one of the cells, free for the most part from interference any more invasive than the yammering and posturing we can't escape from, really, in this world where the show is always going on and there is no respite.



History and Anachronism

 

 

Behold, above, "a chronological misplacing of persons, events, objects, or customs in regard to each other"; in other words (or more properly word) an anachronism.  In the case of this altered photograph Abraham Lincoln appears to be holding a boom box.  The image is amusing, as such things can be, because we all know that Lincoln could hold no such thing.  The thought of him carrying one blaring around the White House is funny, though, or at least is to me.

 

History, according to Napoleon, is a fable agreed upon.  I've read that he made other comments about it as well that were not quite as dismissive.  For example: "History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon."  "Past events" sounds somewhat more respectable than "a fable."  Another quote attributed to him is this one:  "Skepticism is a virtue in history as well as philosophy."

 

Skepticism certainly can be appropriate in history, I think, provided it is a healthy skepticism.    Doubt is appropriate when there is reason to doubt.  It happens that with respect to past events, particularly events long past, we can have reason to doubt, sometimes many reasons.  The extent to which we have reason to doubt depends on the circumstances, the sources available--the evidence.  That at least seems to me a sensible way to approach history.

 

I've noted before in some past post that it seems these days that authors of works of history take the time in lengthy "Forwards" to apologize for what they've done.  They acknowledge that they've dared to write about, and perhaps even draw conclusions regarding, another time, another place, people who lived then and events which seemingly transpired.  This, they confess, is not really possible, because we can't "really" know what happened nor can we "really" opine about it because we weren't there, we live in a different society/culture, etc., nearly ad infinitum.

 

I'm not as inclined as others are to maintain that we can't make reasonable inferences about other people, places, times and events.  But I think it's fair to say that those who make claims regarding history--people who lived, events which took place--have a responsibility to be as certain as possible, given the evidence, that what they claim is correct, or appropriately qualified.

 

Anachronism may be employed deliberately in order to be amusing, or by artists, composers and authors, creatively in pursuit of some entertaining or artistic purpose.  The most prominent current example I can think of is the musical Hamilton, which (I haven't seen it) apparently depicts the Founding Fathers of our Glorious Republic rapping, and uses in some cases black actors to play historical figures we know to have been white.  Of course nobody (yet?) believes that George Washington, for example, was black, and incongruous as it is to watch him rap it would also be incongruous to watch him sing at all.  But this use of anachronism in itself does no disservice  because it's safe to assume that it will be recognized as such; nobody will think that Washington and it seems all the Founding Fathers were rappers, or that the slave-owner Washington was himself black.  Anachronism can be harmful, though, when it is confused with history or purports to be historical.

 

Unfortunately, we see this now and then.  Oliver Stone's movie JFK comes to mind.  Stone may have been trying to make some point regarding the implications of sealing records, but in doing so he actively depicted as true conspiracy theories which have no significant basis.  Regrettably, people believe such theories and films and other works of art can demean history, reasonable efforts at relating history in a responsible manner, and contribute to the perversion of history.

 

We seem to be especially vulnerable to the misuse of history and even the description of current events now that everyone can purport to be not only a historian but a journalist, even an expert, simply by being able to type and download or upload information on  a computer.  If we take liberties with history, we change our perception of the past, which is to say that we don't know it and so can't learn from it.  

 

As George Orwell wrote:  "Who controls the past controls the future.  Who controls the present controls the past."  We live in a time where the ability to shape perception of the present and the past is omnipresent, and where there is a widespread belief in the malleability and of facts and their significance; not just absolute, objective facts, but even of the reasonably probable.  The more we treat history carelessly, the more we'll be careless in the here and now.





Zugzwang in the Voting Booth

As I may have mentioned before in some post or other, "zugzwang" in chess (and perhaps in other games as well) takes place in the case where the pieces are in such a position that any move which can be made results in a disadvantage and therefore is a "bad" move.  Here is an unlikely, but easily understood, example:

 

 

Neither White nor Black can make a move without facing disaster.  The pawns of course can't move at all; only the kings can.  If either king is moved, the opposing king can take the now undefended pawn of the opponent, and that's the end of that.

It occurs to me that "zugzwang" is a word which describes, most appropriately, the position each of us will be in when voting in the upcoming presidential election.

I've been dissatisfied with the nominees of both of the two major parties in the past, and so have on more than one occasion voted for a third party candidate or indulged in a useless "write in" vote.  I suppose I could do the same in this case.  But this election is remarkable in that the nominees of both major parties are so peculiarly unlikeable; even contemptible.  It seems I'm not alone in this opinion.  If polls are accurate, there have never been candidates for the presidency who were so unliked.  As one of those nominees will necessarily be elected, the result of the election won't merely be unsatisfactory, it will be revolting.

So, there's an understandable inclination to abstain from voting or, if one feels voting is a privilege which should be exercised in all cases regardless of circumstances, to vote for anyone who isn't a member of the dreadful duo.  But is this appropriate when there's so much at stake in this election?

That there's a great deal at stake in any case seems to be the prevailing view.  There's a sense of crisis, and we seem to become more and more angry, emotional, irrational.  We're polarized (that word seems to be used more and more these days).  The world is more dangerous than it has been; America isn't what it once was.

This is what many people say.  More significantly, this is what we are told that they say, and we're told this over and over.  Our ability to communicate, even when that communication is unwanted and unsolicited, is virtually unlimited.  The news media is ubiquitous; it can't be escaped.  It's always available and is always there, not merely on TV and radio but on the Internet, our PCs, laptops, tablets, smart phones.  Every dispute, every opinion, all conduct is noted and on display.

Those like me, who are cynical about human nature, may hold the opinion (also like me) that in actuality our circumstances are no different than they have been in the past.  They merely appear to be different because it simply wasn't possible, even in the not so distant past, to know or at least be told about ourselves and others and our multitude of disputes, opinions, problems, mistakes, crimes, immorality to the extent we can now.  There's a limit to what we can read in a newspaper, what we can hear on AM radio, what we can see and hear on TVs with 13 channels.  We were every bit as chaotic and misguided in the past as we are now, we're just better informed (or misinformed) than we ever were; and of course there are more of us.

Even so, though, we're more capable of causing damage and doing harm now than we ever have been, and that's particularly the case for those in power.  And we're more easily subject to manipulation.  George Orwell was keenly aware of the power of political manipulation and the tendency of government to manipulate us.  He was aware of the uses to which the media of his time could be put to foster manipulation as well.  But he couldn't fully anticipate the tools we have available to us now or how much they facilitate manipulation.

Due to an evil fate or our own foolishness, we're in a position where our next president will be one of two people, neither of whom should be president.  It's not in our power to prevent that from taking place.  It's prudent to consider which of them is less likely to cause harm, to us and the rest of the world.  One appears to be someone with no principles, someone profoundly ignorant, who is likely to make decisions based on whatever the last person he spoke to told him if experience is any guide, is erratic, with no experience in government and a tendency to act thoughtlessly and emotionally.  The other is venal, corrupt, secretive, stupid it seems in some things, a purely political creature, with considerable experience in government, who seems intent on benefiting herself and her friends, cronies and allies more than anything else. 

I think the latter is less likely to do damage than the former.  In these disturbing times, that may be the only reasonable basis on which to decide how to vote.  We're in zugzwang, yes.  But there are two moves available, and one move is less likely to cause disaster or at least will likely result in less of a disaster than the other.  Happy days.

Tolstoy and Sanctimony

Donald Bartheleme wrote a most amusing story titled At the Tolstoy Museum. It begins with the sentence "At the Tolstoy Museum we sat and wept."  The museum is said to display thousands of pictures of Tolstoy.  In the story, museum staff carry with them buckets filled with handkerchiefs for the use of weeping visitors.  The story contains illustrations.  One displays a colossal figure of Tolstoy next to a tiny Napoleon.  Another shows Tolstoy "tiger hunting in Siberia" a la Hemingway.

The museum is said to have, I think, three levels, each being larger than the one below, so it appears to be falling on its visitors.  This is to impress upon them the weight of Tolstoy's vast moral authority.

It seems there are many Tolstoy museums, and I wonder if there really is one similar to the one in the story.   I rather hope there is such a place.

Tolstoy is considered by many to be the greatest writer in history, or to have written the greatest novel.  That's the gargantuan War and Peace, as one might guess.  That happens to be the only work of Tolstoy I've read from start to finish.  If it's the greatest novel ever written, I'm sad.  I don't think it's a novel, really; I think it's a kind of treatise in which the author uses characters, some historical and some not, to express a theory of history and opine somewhat ponderously, I think, on various human characteristics and philosophical issues.  Sometimes he doesn't even bother with characters.

The work is pervaded by a sense of rightness; or, perhaps more accurately, a sense of righteousness.  Tolstoy is throughout busy making moral points with varying degrees of subtlety, but it's difficult for someone convinced they know better--so much better--than others to be subtle in their expressions regarding what they know to be true.  So, Tolstoy is not particularly subtle in this novel, and I suspect he's not in his other works.  Nor would I expect him to be witty in them.  Holy men aren't known for their wit.

Tolstoy allowed himself to be drawn and photographed to an extraordinary extent.  This of course is indicative of the extent of his popularity, and the reverence in which he was held; a reverence in which he's still held, as spoofed by Bartheleme.  In many of them he's portrayed as farming, or praying, or generally looking wise and even holy.  He kept meticulous diaries recording his movements and thoughts.   He was a vegetarian, a pacifist, a sort of anarchist, and a Christian of the kind who know what Jesus really meant.  He was an exponent of non-violent protest and inspired Gandhi and others.  He became a kind of cult figure, and it seems was devoted to the nurturing of his cult.

George Orwell lambasted Tolstoy for his opinion of Shakespeare.  Tolstoy wrote that he couldn't understand the fame of Shakespeare or why Shakespeare was thought of so highly.   Tolstoy claimed he was repulsed by Shakespeare.  Shakespeare was not moral, he didn't address questions of real importance, he lacked the dignity required of a great artist.  As Orwell noted, Tolstoy was repulsed by Shakespeare because Shakespeare was a humanist, and Tolstoy's views were religious, for all his contempt for clergy.  Tolstoy, according to Orwell, wasn't a saint but tried very hard to become one.  I would go so far as to say he believed himself to be one, in any case.

Tolstoy was admirable in many ways, but was self-consciously good, and this I think is the problem with him and his work.  He knew himself to be good, and expected others to know that as well.  He made great efforts to show himself to be good, by his renunciation of his lands and title, for example (he was a Count).  He was a kind of exhibitionist when it came to his morality.

It's not clear to me that someone who considers himself to be uniquely moral, who is convinced that he knows what is right and what is wrong, is capable of being a great writer of fiction.  I think such a person would be too compelled to proclaim what is good and true, to lecture, to at best create morality tales and declamations in the guise of fiction.  The temptation to pontificate would be irresistible to such a person.  It would be particularly irresistible to a writer, as opposed to other artists such as a painter, composer or musician.  One might successfully create a painting or music which expressed what one thinks to be the truth without seeming to preach, but when we try to communicate by words, by prose at least, we can't avoid being obvious, even leaden, in our righteousness.  Perhaps a poet could be convinced of his/her holiness and still write great poetry, but Tolstoy was certainly not a poet.

I'm not repulsed by Tolstoy as he was repulsed by Shakespeare, but I think his sanctimony limited him in his art.  His work is overwhelming and hectoring.  He's more a moralist than a novelist.

Orwell's Foresight

Eric Arthur Blair, a/k/a George Orwell, has been much on my mind during these fearful times.  We've all read Animal Farm and 1984, of course; most of us had to read them.  Sometimes, the American system of public education requires that good and interesting books be read.  Other times, it might require that Goodbye, Mr. Chips be perused by young scholars.  But I speak of what was read in my youth, and can't speak to what is read now.

But I prefer Orwell's essays and nonfiction, for the precision of their style and their insights into many people and things.  He's said to have been something of a prophet regarding the politics of the future.  I was inclined to agree with this assessment in certain respects, and being an American thought his gift of prophecy was limited or directed to Soviet Communism.  But the profound nature of his foresight is most striking in an essay he wrote regarding W.B. Yeats which I read just recently, and it seems to me that in criticizing Yeats he intuited a world to come.

He treats the poet (one I admire) rather roughly in the essay, not as to his poetry necessarily, but the political, social and cultural views which are reflected in his poetry.  He portrays Yeats as a frustrated aristocrat, essentially conservative, contemptuous of the modern world and its people, drawn to the occult and inclined towards Fascism.  This infatuation seems to have been a characteristic of certain artists and intellectuals of the West of that time--Ezra Pound is the usual example--or at least those of them who were not similarly infatuated with Communism.  According to Orwell, Yeats longs for the chaos of the times to produce an authoritarian civilization ruled by a cultured elite, but fails to see that civilization will not be aristocratic.  As Orwell sees it:  "It will not be ruled by noblemen with Van Dyck faces, but by anonymous millionaires, shiny-bottomed bureaucrats and murdering gangsters."

The cynics among us might say that is a very striking description not just of western civilization, but of our global civilization today (we must of course substitute "billionaires" for "millionaires").  The wise jurists sitting on our Supreme Court were wrong to hold that money is speech, as I've noted before, but it is most certainly power, and those who possess that power become an increasingly small and insulated group.  They are served by a host of lackeys who do their bidding and assure that all others will do so as well.  Those who do not or cannot turn increasingly to violence as a means to acquire money and power themselves.

This is a simplification of course, but it seems nonetheless to have a certain ring of truth to it, does it not?  How did Orwell manage to foresee this state of affairs and describe it so well, so succinctly?

It requires a great knowledge of human nature and history, I would say, as well as art.  But also required is a kind of pitiless, almost ruthless, perception.  Orwell seems to have no illusions of any kind, or dreams of any kind.  He assesses but doesn't admire.  His is a grim task; to review, analyze, criticize, and to in most if not all cases to find fault and lay it bare.

This may be a pose, of course.  I imagine a critic is inclined to ferret out defects to begin with, and skillful critics necessarily do so most efficiently.  One at least seems most efficient when detached.  Is this the kind of literary criticism one hears of spoken together with philosophy (philosophy being naught but a kind of literary criticism, I mean)?  Philosophy may be said to consist at least in part of the rigorous criticism of language in its use by others.  Taken in that way, it may be said that philosophy is literary criticism and intend by it a sort of compliment.  But I fear that's not the case, or perhaps I should say not the narrative, there being nothing that is the case that is not part of a narrative, it seems.

Not so much a pose in Orwell's case, I think.  It seems to be more of a way of thinking, and thinking ahead to anticipate the future without the benefit of hope or faith in humanity or God.  And Orwell may have chosen such an approach deliberately, as he writes that it is to be expected given the decline of Christianity that we will face the future hopeless and faithless, at least as those states were conceived in the past we've abandoned.

Perhaps such cold appraisal is required for one to be an oracle.  The priestess of the Delphic oracle was named after the Python, the great cold-blooded serpent slain by Apollo when he established the oracle.  Those who consulted the oracle would claim they could still hear the serpent, hissing.

Orwell and Wells

George Orwell is another fine essayist I enjoy reading, along with Vidal, Hazlitt, Montaigne and others.  Not quite as ornate or elegant in his language, perhaps, but most insightful.  He wrote an essay regarding the odd couple of H.G. Wells and Adolph Hitler I find interesting enough to comment on here.

He begins with a succession of quotes of Wells from various publications of the time, superciliously denouncing Hitler but most of all asserting he is a kind of silly, preposterous buffoon; mentally defective, perhaps, but relatively harmless.  One sees that the quotes are taken from writings made over time--Wells goes on to minimize the threat of the Nazis and the German war machine.  Even after the war has commenced, he opines that the Germans are played out early in the conflict and will soon enough disappear along with their barbaric ways.  Wells comes across as something of a simpleton; all will be well, in the garden, he tells those who troubled to read him in those troubled times.  Just wait until winter ends.

Orwell doesn't quite treat Wells as a simpleton, however.  He seems to treat him more as an intelligent, talented man who is dangerously naive, and also a kind of anachronism.  An Edwardian liberal among fascists and totalitarians, commenting snootily and ineffectively while they demonstrate how completely Wells failed to comprehend humanity.  He notes that Wells seemed incapable of grasping the extent to which emotion and the irrational dominate our affairs, especially our violence and our propensity for war.  Orwell remarks that Napoleon is the villain of Wells' sweeping and opinionated Outline of History.  I've read that far less than impartial stab at history, and am inclined to agree.  It's a bit like Bertrand Russell's "history" of western philosophy--anyone different from the author comes out looking either nasty or ridiculous.

While Orwell plainly considers Wells to be terribly impatient of reality, and especially of our part in it, he considers others to be disingenuous if not dishonest and hypocritical.  This comes across not only in the essay in question, but in another in which he writes of his memories of the Spanish Civil War in which he participated on the Republican side.  The left wing intelligentsia are targeted by Orwell in that piece.  Although they were otherwise anti-war up to that point, they glorified it and rhapsodized over the fight against Franco in that case.  Orwell isn't apologizing for the fascists and imperialists; he notes their illusions as well.  He is out to maintain that war, any war, is disgusting and that those who fight wars do so without any thought for those who insist that they take part in it, always for a good cause, but somehow manage to avoid fighting it themselves.

Orwell knew us better than Wells.  What would Wells think of us now?  Would he believe that the perpetual war of our times ("perpetual war for perpetual peace" pace Charles Beard and Gore Vidal) is just a frolic and a detour engaged in by humanity on its inevitable rise to One World Government, peace and welfare for all?  There is indeed such a thing as willful blindness, and it's likely H.G. would be as blind now as he was then.  We hold our illusions very dear, particularly our intellectual illusions, I think.

Intellectual illusions are eminently affordable; that is to say, sustainable.  This is because such illusions are generally those held, and savored, when there is nothing to lose and by those who have nothing to lose.  They are held by the comfortable, who have the time and opportunity to indulge in them and have no need of testing their beliefs by fighting for them or otherwise putting them to the test personally.  Those holding intellectual illusions assume no risk but, to the extent those illusions make a difference in our lives, expect others to do so for them.

Wells had his, and others of his kind now, on the left and the right, religious and non-religious, have theirs.  Strangely, and tragically, it seems the most powerful of those illusions involve the lives and conduct of others.  We are never so eager and certain than when we are telling each other how to live.  Thankfully, relatively few of us have the power to compel others to do our bidding, but those few are growing in power and it has never taken more than a few to make the lives of many miserable.

The Age of the Dilettante

I was reading William Hazlitt's essay on Jeremy Bentham, and it struck me that a well-written essay is a very fine thing.  If well-written, an essay may invoke admiration even when one disagrees with the author.  I don't disagree with much of what Hazlitt writes concerning Bentham, but think that certain of his assertions regarding that remarkable man and his work would send Bentham spinning in his grave, if he was in a grave and not for the most part sitting stuffed in a chair at University College London.  I think though that one might disagree with a skilled essayist and still enjoy and benefit from reading his/her essays.

A good essay is a coolly intelligent, witty, ostensibly analytic, discerning bit of observation and commentary, and so I fear essays will become rarer and rarer in these exclamatory, frenetic times of mere assertion.  Montaigne is generally considered the inventor of the "modern" essay, and remains a model.  I can think of few I would consider able essayists in recent history.  Gore Vidal wrote some fine ones indeed, but seems now to lack the patience needed to engage in this kind of effort.  The late Christopher Hitchens wrote some admirable essays, though he became more of a polemicist than an essayist over time.  The same may be said of his fellow "new atheists" in my opinion.  They say John Updike wrote formidable essays, but I must confess I have never been inclined to read anything he wrote.  George Orwell was an impressive essayist; Graham Greene was as well.

The technology which now allows us to spray our opinions over the world with little or no effort (and which makes this blog possible, of course) may lead to the extinction of the essay, or at least of any extended essay--and perhaps much else.  We bloggers, texters, Twitterers, etc. become used to expressing ourselves effortlessly, and unfortunately that which is done without effort is often done without thought, or at least without skill, and skill is essential to a good essay.  It's useful to pause, now and then, to see if one is making any sense, or is capable of making sense out of what one is observing or reading and to pause today is to not react, and reacting immediately is what we seem to feel is appropriate if not necessary.  And react is something we most certainly can do; we can respond to most anything in an instant, without reflection or effort, and are increasingly inclined to do just that.

A good essay is an examination of someone or thing, and examination requires reflection.  Reflection is not encouraged when one may be incessantly interrupted, or when one seeks intrusion, through the nominally beneficial technology we have with which to amuse and enlighten ourselves.  Those commercials where smug possessors of technology mock others as being "so 15 seconds ago" are amusing in some respects, foreboding in others.

We may be seeing the beginning of the Age of the Dilettante, where all are not by choice but necessarily somewhat knowledgeable regarding but without real commitment to any art, theory, subject, philosophy, person, association simply because we may know them superficially with such ease.  We must strain ourselves to learn something well, indeed to even to think, when information is forthwith available.  I wonder if we will find the effort to be too much of an inconvenience.