Sun-Fucked (Extract)

Image by Zena McKeown (2012)

Strangely it always becomes necessary to speak about the phallus when thinking about the sun: for what is a hard-on other than the body of man declaring: I am the Sun. As Bataille writes, the verb to be and the integral erection tied to it is ultimately nothing other than an articulation of amorous solar frenzy.

For an erection, like the sun, is something that rises and falls and scandalizes, being equally obscene, equally demanding; a quasi-miraculous phenomenon resulting from a complex interaction of factors, often triggered by some form of sexual stimulation, though this need not always be the case.

Indeed, often the happiest of erections are ones that arise spontaneously and in all innocence and, interestingly, Lawrence explicitly reverses the idea that love calls potency into being. On the contrary, he suggests, it is power that gives rise to love; power that comes to us from outside and enters us from behind and below, where we are sightless and do not understand. And so, to be sun-fucked is, also, to be sodomised and some of us might once more think of Bataille and his notion of the solar anus.

Of course, however we get it, most of us want life and the feeling of power; although, ironically, the latter comes via the expenditure and exercise of power and not from its possession. When one is powerful, like the sun, one gives oneself away and life only comes to us when we dare to live and squander resources. For life does not mean length of days: "Poor old Queen Victoria had length of days. But Emily Brontë had life. She died of it."

That's a fantastic thought, isn’t it? Life kills! And energy eventually escapes its entrapment within form and is liberated back into the solar flux. For that’s all life is; a temporary arrest of sunlight. And death? Death is nothing but a release of power and what Nietzsche describes as a festive return to the actual.

Those who live with the greatest intensity and imitate the sun often die young, burning out like tiny stars. Those who go on and on into old age either lack vitality, or they are monsters of stamina - like Picasso. As a rule, it is better to live fast and die young than live like one who has never known the power of the sun; nor the love of another in whom the sun can be glimpsed.


Note: Line quoted is from D. H. Lawrence, 'Blessed are the Powerful', in Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (CUP, 1988), p. 322.

On Van Gogh's Ear and the Dangers of Sungazing

Picture by Phischer: Van Gogh's Ear (2007)

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Although the facts of the case were disputed in 2009 by two revisionist art historians looking to pin the blame on Gauguin, we all know the story of Van Gogh's mutilated ear and how he carefully wrapped the piece of severed lobe in newspaper before presenting it to his favourite prostitute, Rachel, at a nearby brothel, with instructions to carefully look after it.  

Very few of us, however, have bothered to place this story in a wider context of meaning; and no one has managed to do a better job of this than Georges Bataille in his 1930 essay on acts of sacrificial atrocity and solar-induced madness.

Bataille persuasively argues that Van Gogh's violent act of self-disfigurement was the result not of a tiff with Gauguin, but due to an inhuman and ultimately overwhelming relationship maintained with the sun; a fatal form of worship that is only fully revealed in the painter's canvases produced during his stay at the mental hospital in Saint-Rémy in 1889 (i.e. following the Christmas Eve ear incident).

Vincent's letters to his brother Theo written during this period, also indicate how his solar obsession had reached its peak; he felt that he and the sun - at which he stared for dangerously long-periods at a time as if he himself were a sunflower drawing nourishment directly from the latter - were burning with the same vital intensity and magnificence.

After his departure from Saint-Rémy in January 1890, the sun doesn't simply fade or set within his artwork, but, crucially, almost entirely disappears. Six-months later, Van Gogh takes his own life, aged 37.

The point is this: it is impossible to maintain a personal or safe relationship with the sun; the attempt to do so might promise enlightenment and a healthy tan, but it ends with death and dismemberment. For just as sun-gazers risk solar retinopathy, sun-lovers risk being proved fatally mistaken in their anthropomorphic conceit if they believe that the sun loves them in return.


Note: See Georges Bataille, 'Sacrificial Mutilation and the Severed Ear of Vincent Van Gogh', in Visions of Excess, ed. Allan Stoekl, (University of Minnesota Press, 1985).

Urophilia: From Golden Showers to the Art of Pussing

Man Ray: Tears (1930)

The above photo, despite the title, has always suggested something other than a weeping subject. 

In fact, it brings to mind the charming scene in Bataille's short novel, The Story of the Eye, in which sixteen-year-old Simone asks her equally young but nameless lover to piss up her cunt. When the latter points out that due to the position of their bodies, his urine will almost certainly splash on her dress and face, she simply asks: So what?

This rhetorical question is thrown down as a kind of challenge; it wants to provoke an action, rather than be met with an answer. In a sense, it's as profoundly nihilistic as asking who cares? Met with this, the protagonist-narrator has no choice but to do as he is told. Not that he seems reluctant to indulge in watersports, or any other perverse sexual act that aims not at pleasure so much as the destruction of human happiness and integrity.

Personally, I'd find it a little disconcerting to be asked by a woman to urinate on her like a male porcupine. On the other hand, I'd have no objection were the roles reversed and, like many men, find the sight of a woman pissing strangely enchanting; not simply arousing, but also reassuring and rather touching. It's no wonder, therefore, that it's such a recurrent and popular theme in Western art.

And nor is it surprising to discover the growing popularity of pussing - although one suspects it's the semi-clandestine and semi-illicit nature of this activity that excites almost as much as the consensual voyeurism, or the sex that often follows.  

Of course, not everyone approves of this. Indeed, some might suggest that despite the close anatomical connection between our sex organs and the excretory functions, it's a sign of instinctual collapse to conflate acts of love with the voiding of bladders and so end up fucking in public toilets.  

Reflections After a Visit to London Zoo

Photo of Guy the Gorilla by Wolf Suschitzky (1958)

When Georges Bataille visited London Zoo in the summer of 1927, he was overwhelmed to the point of ecstasy by the naked splendour of an ape's anal protuberance. In this obscene eruption of red raw flesh, smeared with excrement, he saw something that was not merely bestial, but radically opposed to all that is upright and human in a mankind whose own anal opening has secluded itself in a crack between the buttocks and seems destined never to bud or blossom.

As for me, I was delighted in a rather more innocent manner on my first visit to the Zoo as a young child by the sight of chimps taking tea with their keepers and thrilled most of all by the sounds and smells of wild animals caged at close quarters. 

For even in 1970, London Zoo remained a zoo in what is now thought of as the bad sense of the word: a place where big cats paced from side to side in cages with bars that you might stick your fingers through, sea-lions balanced balls on their noses whilst clapping their flippers together and elephants stood about in stone compounds with bales of hay, pissing and shitting, or waiting for a sticky bun to be thrown their way.

In other words, it was still a place where animals were openly on display for human amusement and no one cared too much about their welfare, nutritional needs, or positioning on the list of endangered species. Now, however, everything's very different: London Zoo prides itself as a site of conservation and the whole place feels like a moralizing and sentimental animal rehab rather than an animal madhouse.

Doubtless the resident creatures are better fed, better housed, and better looked after. But in subjecting them to the milk of human kindness and charity, they seem to have lost something which the earlier animals still managed to retain, despite being maltreated and often humiliated for our entertainment: something that I'm tempted to call their bestial authenticity and which Bataille thought of as their divine or sacrificial wonder.

And so, whilst Kumbuka may live the good life and make an excellent 'species ambassador', he's not a patch on Guy the Gorilla. 

Story of the Eye

Illustration by Jules Julien: julesjulientumblr.com 

The small whitish eyeball that has been gauged from its bloody socket remains in all its soft luminosity one of the most fascinating and disturbing of all objects. And when Simone playfully inserts such into her vagina and invites us to look between her thighs, she knows exactly what she's doing.

(Stare long enough into the abyss, says Nietzsche, and it will eventually stare into you ...)

Wuthering Heights

No coward soul is mine / No trembler in the world's storm-startled sphere

"We're a long way from Wuthering Heights," as Michel Houellebecq rightly points out. Nevertheless, it remains one of the few truly great works of fiction and continues to implicate its readers in what Bataille calls the crime of literature and by which he refers to the fact that writing has a complicity with evil. For what literature reveals is the possibility of a form of sovereignty that does not negate or exclude morality, but which demands a hyper-morality existing beyond biblical injunction. 

What Charlotte regrets as the immature and immoderate faults in her sister Emily's novel are in fact what lend it such savage beauty and potency. And what is so admirable about the younger sister is that she has the courage to allow the demon to speak directly in her poetry and prose; Charlotte prefers to gently but firmly place her hand over the demon's mouth so that she may at all times speak for him. 

Thus Charlotte, when editing the 1850 edition of Wuthering Heights, not only changes the paragraphing and punctuation in an attempt to regularize Emily's idiosyncratic style, she also seeks to impose an element of contrived and conventional humanity into the work at the expense of that which is uniquely and diabolically inspired.  

Thankfully, the perversity, the cruelty, the madness, and the morbidity that characterize the novel continue to shine through and Wuthering Heights remains one of those books that readers weary of the narrow limitations imposed by moral or literary convention (not to mention interfering siblings) will continue to find of much value. Emily's understanding of love - based not on worldly personal experience, but impersonal inner intensity - not only linked sex to death, but suggested that each of these contained the essential truth of the other. Her novel thus illustrates the basic premise underlying authors such as Sade and Bataille: eroticism is the affirmation of life all the way to its fatal conclusion.

It is this disconcerting truth that lies at the heart of Wuthering Heights and which gives it an affinity with the great works of Greek tragedy; all of which ultimately concern the violation of the Law (be it divine, human, or natural in origin). Emily dreams of a sacred and transgressive form of violence via which lovers might regain paradise (or childhood innocence). If this was promised by Romantic literature in general, it is Wuthering Heights which most powerfully shows us the full horror of atonement and the tragic character of life (it bleeds, it suffers, it dies, it returns). This may not make it a holy book in a religious sense, but it certainly makes it a great work of art.

Necrophilia

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The eroticised encounter with death is not something that many persons actively seek out. And those who do enjoy romancing corpses mostly do so in silence. And secrecy. And shame. Necrophilia remains one of the very few forms of love that still daren't speak its name and which hasn't been co-opted by mainstream society or made chic within the media.

The relationship between sex and death is, however, extremely intimate and long established and eroticism would be a fairly insipid state of affairs if this were not the case. For as Bataille points out, it is the latter that ensures the power of the former and only in conjunction do they constitute the tragedy of human existence. 

What do those who love long hair and sharp nails imagine excites them after all?

Even the Dead Don't Rest in Peace

Georges Bataille was not mistaken when he spoke of death as a shipwreck into the nauseous and repeatedly emphasized the excremental nature of the corpse which, thanks to putrefaction, rapidly dissolves into noxious base matter. 

First to go, as home to the greatest number of bacteria, are the digestive organs and the lungs. The brain also soon liquifies, as it is nice and soft and easy to digest. The massively expanding numbers of bacteria in the mouth chew through the palate and transform grey matter into goo. Quite literally, it runs out of the ears and bubbles like snot from the nose; in this manner, we're all destined to lose our minds. 

After three or four weeks, all of the internal organs will have become soup. Muscle tissue is frequently eaten not only by bacteria, but also by carnivorous beetles. Sometimes the skin gets consumed as well, sometimes not. Depending on the weather and other environmental conditions, it might just dry out and naturally mummify. Whatever remains, however, will be obliged to lie in a stinking pool of organic filth, or a coffin full of shit. 

Burial might serve to prolong the process of decomposition, but it certainly doesn't prevent it or delay it indefinitely. As Mary Roach in her amusing study, Stiff (2003), writes: "Eventually any meat, regardless of what you do to it, will whither and go off." Only the skeletal structure beneath the soft pathology of the flesh will last for any significant period of time. But bones too - just like laws and monuments - are ultimately destined to crumble into dust.

Thus we have little real choice but to accept the biological fact that life dies. But is this the end of the story? No. The truth is, we never stop dying because, in a material, non-personal, inhuman manner, we never stop living. In other words, it's mistaken to confuse our individual death with non-being.

"Is it because we want to believe in the loyalty of our substance that we make this peculiar equation?" asks Nick Land.* Probably the answer to this is yes. But it's a somewhat shameful answer. 

For whether we like to believe it or not, matter is always struggling to escape essence and to abandon complex existence; always seeking to return to a state of inanimate and blissful simplicity. Our bodies have no allegiance to life and do not seek to stave off disintegration or shut out death. They grow into the embrace of the latter (we term this ageing) and our mass of atoms enjoy a veritable orgy of delight after having broken free from their temporary entrapment in life.

Unfortunately for them, they don't get to enjoy their freedom for long. For death proves to be but a "temporary refreshment ... before the rush back into the compulsive dissipation of life".* Which is to say, atoms are so vigorously recycled at death that they don't ever get to rest in peace. 

It further means that we, the living, all house and reincarnate the carbon atoms of the departed and in this way the souls of the dead might be said to re-enter and pervade the souls of the living. Thanks to the conservation of mass, we can legitimately declare ourselves to be 'all the names in history'.    

* See: Nick Land, The Thirst for Annihilation, (Routledge, 1992), p. 180. 

Why Bataille's Work Remains Crucial

André Breton was not the last to describe and attempt to dismiss Bataille as an excremental philosopher. But such a characterization, whilst not entirely unfair or inaccurate, nevertheless fails to appreciate that it is precisely because the latter obsessively returns us to the idea that life is no more than a moment of temporary stabilization before the collapse back into the filth and chaos from which it arose, that his books say the essential and are essential.  

We need to have our noses rubbed in the fact that there is ultimately no difference between the magnificence and splendour of the sun and a coffin full of shit. Idealists like André Breton may not like it, but flies, dung-beetles, and base matter of every description belongs to the same general economy as all that he finds noble and elevated. 

In the end, what makes us beautiful and keeps us sane as human beings, is not the fact that we are capable of moral and aesthetic grandeur, but that we leave stains upon our underwear. It's the mind's inability to accept this fact and it's sense of disgust when faced with evidence of the body's physicality that is problematic and shameful. 

Like Heidegger, Bataille realised that thinking doesn't overcome metaphysics by attempting to transcend it in some manner; on the contrary, thinking overcomes metaphysics by climbing back down Pisgah and substantiating itself in the touch of bodies and the strangeness of objects. 

And so it's only when, like a young child, you can happily parade a lump of dog shit on a stick in the knowledge that here too the gods come to presence, that you'll be able to affirm the world as it is; with flowers that fade and corpses that rot.

Ikizukuri

Cruelty, writes Nietzsche, is one of the oldest festive joys of mankind. Indeed, to practise cruelty - to refine it into an art form and a virtue - is the mark of human culture; a means by which we express our power over life and our divine indifference to suffering, be it that of animals, slaves, or those regarded as enemies of the state.

For it is not only beasts that are tortured and butchered, or sea-creatures that are turned into sashimi. And so as my companion's plate of ikizukuri was prepared and served with all the delicate knife-work that a Japanese chef is capable of, I thought once more of Fu Chou Li, who was executed in 1905 by being cut into a hundred pieces. 

The public dismemberment of this poor wretch - guilty of murdering a prince - was something that obsessed Bataille, who kept a photograph of the event which played a decisive role in his thinking. For he saw in the picture not only great horror, but also a look on the victim's face of ecstatic joy that seemed to transcend his torment. And it was this that lent the picture an almost unbearable beauty and fascination:

"The young and seductive Chinese man ... I loved him with a love in which the sadistic instinct played no part: he communicated his pain to me or perhaps the excessive nature of his pain, and it was precisely that which I was seeking, not so as to take pleasure in it, but in order to ruin in me that which is opposed to ruin."

- Inner Experience, trans. Leslie Anne Boldt, Albany State University Press, 1988, p. 120.

I understand, I think, where Bataille is coming from - and why he finds the anguished eroticism of human sacrifice and sadism so rich in meaning. But as I looked down at my friend's plate and saw the still-living but semi-sliced fish attempt to take one last gasp of air, I was glad I had chosen the noodles.

Senescence

People - especially women over 35 who hold degrees in psychology - like to talk about spiritual growth and personal development, but are much less keen to talk about biological ageing.

Partly, this is because the violent changes to molecular and cellular structure over time invariably result in deterioration and death and no matter how priests, poets, and philosophers might like to dress it up, there's nothing fun about growing old and no one dies with dignity. In fact, death is the ultimate loss of dignity: a shipwreck into the nauseous, as Bataille so charmingly puts it.

The precise etiology of senescence is still largely undetermined and the process seems to be complex. Nevertheless, you can see it every time you look in the mirror, or, as here, by simply placing a series of photographs side by side showing the full ravages of time and decade after decade of fading youth and the failure of homeodynamics.