Showing posts with label heidegger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heidegger. Show all posts

14 May 2026

Torpedo the Ark Goes k-punk: A Little Bit More Politics (Sections VII - XIII)

Марк Фишер: Кислотный коммунист
(SA/2026)
 
Note: All page references in this post are to Mark Fisher's k-punk: 
The Collected and Unpublished Writings of Mark Fisher (2004 - 2016)
ed. Darren Ambrose (Repeater Books, 2018). 
 
 
VII. 
 
Fisher may have hated D. H. Lawrence, but perhaps he might have appreciated Lawrence's idea of a democracy of touch [a], as one of his criticisms of the smartphone and other forms of touchscreen technology is that they involve touch devoid of any sensuality
 
"When the fingers encounter the glassy surface of the iPhone, everything they touch on the screen feels the same. The fingers are effectively acting as extensions of the eye and the brain - an eye and brain that have now been radically re-habituated by cyberspace." (487) 
 
Fisher thinks it astonishing that this line of thought was anticipated by Baudrillard in the 1980s - but even more remarkable is the fact that Lawrence foresaw all this in the 1920s. 
 
And like Tanizaki, Lawrence also wrote in praise of shadows, which, rather surprisingly, Fisher calls for the cultivation of in addition to the carving out of spaces "beyond the hyper-bright instant" (487). I so much prefer this poetic-philosophical Mark Fisher to the one who bangs on about politics and the financial crisis of 2008. 
 
 
VIII. 
 
The phrase that best sums up Fisher's utopian phase - his acid communism - is red plenty (a phrase he borrows from Francis Spufford's 2010 book of that title). It refers to the collective capacity of the People to "produce, care and enjoy" (510) and is the thing which, he says, capitalism is set up to block: 
 
"The attack on capital has to be fundamentally based on the simple insight that, far from being about 'wealth creation', capital necessarily and always blocks our access to this common wealth." (510) 
 
In a post-capitalist future, technological advancements and the communist re-ordering of society will provide abundance for all: "Everything for everyone" (510), including bread and roses. Gone forever will be the days of artificial scarcity. 
 
Further, everyone will feel a sense of red belonging - a sense of belonging that has nothing to do with faith, flag, or family and cannot be "reduced to the chauvinistic pleasures that come from being an insider in any group whatsoever" (510-511). 
 
It is, rather, a "special sense of involvement that promised to transfigure all aspects of everyday life in a way that, previously, only religion had promised to, so that even the dreariest task could be imbued with high significance" (511). 
 
The great promise of red plenty and red belonging is that it doesn't matter "where you come from or who you are" (511), you will be cared for unconditionally. 
 
It's clear how this line of thinking might feed into the open borders movement. What's not quite so clear is how such thinking relates to Fisher's own mental health; frankly, I can't see how anyone can promote such ideas without being in some sort of delirium (similar to the mystical state experienced by those who suddenly find God) [b]. 
 
I know some of his more ardent supporters believe that Fisher's speculative nostalgia and hallucinogenic politics is the best way to confront capitalist realism, but for those looking for a rather more practical strategy for transitioning from neoliberalism to a democracy to come, Fisher's work is essentially worthless. It also seems somewhat at odds with his own more pessimistic views and criticism of the moralising left. 
 
In sum: whilst I'm all for the creation of new narratives and conceptual frameworks - and maybe even a little bit of libidinal engineering - Fisher's acid communism fails to convince and red plenty leaves me hungry for something more. 
 
 
IX. 
 
And back to the topic of consciousness-raising ... A practice (or range of practices) that Fisher believes to be of crucial importance to molecular revolution: 
 
"Consciousness-raising opens up the possibility of living, not merely theorising about, a collective experience. It can give us the resources to behave, think and act differently [...]" (514) 
 
For Fisher: 
 
"The roots of any successful struggle will come from people sharing their feelings, especially their feelings of misery and desperation, and together attributing the sources of these feelings to impersonal structures [...] mediated by particular figures to which we must attach populist loathing" (514). 
 
These figures would include, for example, landlords and entrepreneurs, whom Fisher brands as parasites. We might, I would suggest, see this as a succinct definition of what Nietzsche calls ressentiment and which is central to slave morality. 
 
Fisher claims that the aim of consciousness-raising is to produce more compassion "for others and for ourselves" (514), but I worry that his proposed method of consciousness-raising will only generate class hate and make people feel pretty rotten about themselves too; has knowing that others feel as desperate as you do ever really helped? [c] 
 
 
X.
 
Fisher is grateful to Francis Spufford for reminding us all that "when communism was defeated, it wasn't just a particular ideology that disappeared" (518). 
 
No, the demise of communism - and he's thinking here of the USSR - was also "the disappearance of modernism's Promethean dream of a total transformation of human society" (518). 
 
Now you might be forgiven for thinking that's a good thing. For this dream became a dystopian nightmare, did it not? Surely Fisher knows the history of the Soviet Union - and, indeed, he might also be expected to know what happened to Prometheus (for those who don't recall their Ancient Greek mythology, it ended even worse for him than for Trotsky).    
 
Is Fisher really falling back into what Nick Land would call a sentimental indulgence - i.e., the hope that a political revolution will lead to "new productive, perceptual, cognitive and libidinal possibilities" (518). 
 
I don't want to be a postmodern killjoy who radically lowers expectations and crushes dreams, etc. But, really, c'mon! Knowing, Mark, that there's no way back to old school communism [d], why pin your hopes on renewing (and resuming) class solidarity and the building of radical machineries of desire
 
 
XI. 
 
I mentioned above how, for Fisher, "the roots of any successful struggle will come from people sharing their feelings" (514). 
 
And yet, in another text from 2015, titled 'Anti-Therapy', Fisher acknowledges that the idea that "talking about our feelings could be a political act seems counterintuitive" (521) and that this new emotionalism seems closely linked to capitalist realism - born of Tony Blair's "manipulation of the extraordinary grief jamboree that ensued in the immediate wake of the death of Diana, Princess of Wales" (521). 
 
Fisher rightly says that the new emo-politics enforced by New Labour "went far beyond mere mood-setting" (522) - now we all had to possess the right feelings and share them in the approved manner. Blair "led the way in normalising the emotional self-exploitation that was necessary for the final phase of neoliberalism in Britain" (522) - a phase that Fisher amusingly calls spincerity (the public performance of an emotion you may or may not genuinely feel). 
 
It's enough to make one wish for the return of traditional British restraint and resolve; of stiff upper-lips and stoical detachment. However, Fisher sees this as reactionary and posits in contrast a third way (if I can use such a phrase); one based on his reading of Spinoza. 
 
For Spinoza's philosophy "makes the management of emotions central to its project" (524) and aims not to repress feelings, but engineer joy via the use of reason. This, for Fisher, makes Spinoza "a thinker whose work is an indispensable resource for any progressive project" (524) - a view that is not uncommon amongst neo-Marxist thinkers (particularly those influenced by Deleuze and Badiou) [e].  
 
Get Spinoza on board, says Fisher, and talking about our feelings can become a radical political act; "part of a practice of consciousness-raising that makes visible the impersonal and intersubjective structures that ideology normally obscures from us" (530).  
 
  
XII.  
 
This seems at first a rather disingenuous thing to write: 
 
"It's somewhat ironic that theories of the 'Event' have come to the fore [...] at just the moment in history when it has become clear that events in and of themselves don't change anything." (531)
 
For Fisher surely knows that the Event (as conceptualised by philosophers) is extremely rare and has little to do with the events covered by the news media, such as Live Aid, for example, or the G20 protests. The Event - at least as I understand it (inspired by Lawrence) - is a rent in the Great Umbrella; something that allows a glimpse of chaos and the discovery of a new world via the destruction of fixed forms [f].  
 
But perhaps Fisher was thinking of something said by Zarathustra to the effect that what matters more than noisy, violent events are those changes that take place in us in our stillest hours: "'The world revolves, not around the inventors of new noises, but around the inventors of new values: it revolves inaudibly.'" [g] 
 
Heidegger picked up on this idea after the War, when he attempted to purge his notion of Transzendenz - Dasein's ability to start over and transform the world - not only from its conventional ties to metaphysics but to the idea of action. What was required, Heidegger argued, was not some great event, but a form of silent waiting
 
What seems most to worry Fisher is that events often result in euphoric outbursts of feeling "followed by depressive collapse" (531) - but the same could be said of love, no? 
 
Still, if events are the be-all and end-all - if change doesn't happen through them alone - "there are nevertheless moments which function as thresholds, opening up a new terrain of struggle, and allowing different collective emotions to propagate" (532). 
 
Which is basically saying things can still happen out of the blue ...   
 
 
XIII.  
 
Finally, we come to the two short texts, both from 2016, with which part four of k-punk closes; firstly, 'Cybergothic vs Steampunk' and, secondly, 'Mannequin Challenge' ...
 
In the former, Fisher argues that the global terrorist network ISIS "holds up a mirror to twenty-first century capitalist nihilism" (544). A form of nihilism that is essentially a type of existential poverty. We might not like to admit it, but ISIS offer a solution to this (albeit a horrifically false solution). For like criminal gangs and religious cults, ISIS offer those who join fellowship and meaning.    
 
Perhaps more interestingly, Fisher describes ISIS in relation to his concept of the cybergothic:
 
"There are no 'pure' archaisms, nothing ever repeats without difference, and ISIS is properly understood as a cybergothic phenomenon which combines the ancient with the contemporary (beheadings on the web)." (546)
 
And whilst he is obviously not a supporter of ISIS, Fisher - a bit like Foucault, who greeted the Iranian Revolution in 1979 with warm enthusiasm [h] - is excited by "the rising tide of experimental political forms in so many areas of the world at the moment" (546). 
 
And that's because, for him, this shows that "people are rediscovering group consciousness and the potency of the collective" (546).     
 
I can't help wondering whether, if he were alive today, Fisher (like Foucault in his late work) would find it necessary to rethink questions central to the Enlightenment and to liberalism. To concede, for example, that whilst the individual is a political fiction, it's nevertheless a useful one which needs vigorously defending; as does secular society when threatened by militant religious fascism. 
 
In the latter piece, Fisher comments on Donald Trump and his successful campaign in 2016 to become President of the United States. 
 
In contrast to Clinton and her team of "political robots playing out an exhausted programme" (547), Trump's campaign "was possessed of a sense of effervescing excitement, of anarchic unpredictability, the feeling of belonging to a building-movement" (547). 
 
Fisher understands how Trump caught the mood of popular dissatisfaction with capitalist realism and performed with a certain libidinal freedom that was attractive not only to his supporters, but to many who wouldn't vote for him in a million years and were appalled by his rhetoric and immoderation. His campaign may have been ugly, but at least it wasn't boring. 
 
In brief, like many other commentators of a certain generation, Fisher recognised that Trump was the punk candidate (what this tells us about the latter is an interesting question we might discuss one day).   
 
Notes
 
[a] I have written several posts referencing this Lawrentian idea; see, for example, the post dated 14 May 2014 - 'Towards a Democracy of Touch' - click here
      Note that the word 'hated' is used deliberately here; Matt Colquhoun confirmed to me in a recent email (7 May 2026) Fisher's visceral hostility toward Lawrence.
 
[b] Normally, I would not comment on someone's mental health. However, since Fisher and his followers make such a point of politicising depression - arguing that it is a social phenomenon heavily influenced by capitalism rather than a purely chemical or biological issue - I feel justified in doing so.
      Note, however, that my use of the term delirium is not simply intended in the narrow clinical sense, but more in the philo-political sense deployed by Deleuze and Guattari, for whom delirium is a way the unconscious invests in the social field, sometimes opening up revolutionary lines of flight. I suggest that Fisher's vision of acid communism operates as this precise kind of political delirium; an elaborate, idealised alternative reality constructed to escape the immense psychological claustrophobia of capitalist realism. Such a vision of utopia functions as a temporary, internal flight mechanism from profound depression. Suddenly, the world feels meaningful and loving once more. 
      However, as a political strategy, this hallucinogenic clarity borders on a mystical state rather than practical materialist organising. And, unfortunately, such states seldom last; when the speculative fantasy dissolves, the individual comes back down to earth with a bump, resulting in renewed depression. Fisher, as most readers will know, tragically committed suicide less than two years after writing the text discussed here.
 
[c] Historically, of course, it has. In the second-wave feminist consciousness-raising groups of the late 1960s and 1970s, for example, sharing personal experiences of isolation, shame, and subjugation was precisely what allowed women to see that their private misery was structural and political. This collective realisation was a vital catalyst for solidarity and agency. 
      However, my contention with Fisher is that his specific formula for consciousness-raising risks short-circuiting this therapeutic transformation. Rather than moving from shared misery to structural agency, Fisher's explicit demand for populist loathing targeted at parasites paves a direct line toward Nietzschean ressentiment. It risks trapping the participants in a permanent state of reactive anger and class hate, which ultimately toxicifies the self and breeds a new form of psychological misery. 
      Of course, Fisher himself is aware of this danger, which is why he later refers readers to Wendy Brown's essay 'Wounded Attachments' (1993) - an essay in which she diagnoses the psycho-libidinal origins of an identity politics and what those on the right call wokism
      Fisher writes: "Drawing on Nietzsche's account of resentment [...] Brown wrote of a political subjectivity which 'becomes deeply invested in its own impotence, even while it seeks to assuge the pain of its powerlessness through its vengeful moralizing, through its wide distribution of suffering, through its reproach of power as such'" (526-527). And Fisher concludes that today "the mixture of moralizing aggression and investment in impotence has proliferated in a political atmosphere now substantially shaped by the online environment" (527).
      Brown's essay can be found in Political Theory, Vol. 21, No. 3 (August 1993), pp. 390-410. It can be accessed via JSTOR by clicking here.  
 
[d] Fisher says as much: "I don't believe that the old signifier 'communism' can be revived [...] It is now irretrievably tainted by terrible associations, forever tied to the nightmares of the twentieth century" (520). Funnily enough, however, a few months later he names his new politics of desire emerging from the future ... acid communism.  
 
[e] As a Lawrentian, I have my reservations about Spinoza and his rationalism. Nevertheless, his work is useful in exposing the myth of the autonomous individual at the heart of the liberal tradition which drags with it notions of free will and responsibility.   
 
[f] See the post titled 'on Poetry, Chaos and the Great Umbrella' (10 June 2013): click here.  
 
[g] Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, trans. R. J. Hollingdale (Penguin Books, 1969), pp. 153-154.  
 
[h] Writing in an Italian daily newspaper (Corriere della Sera), Foucault praised the Iranian Revolution as an authentic anti-imperialist movement and a spiritual revolt against Western-imposed modernity, rather than just a religious coup. See my post dated 14 August 2014, in which I discuss this: click here
 
 
This post is a continuation of my previous post on Fisher's political writings in the book k-punk (2018): click here
 
And for earlier thoughts on Fisher's political writings in the above work, please click here.
 
  

5 Mar 2026

Reflections on Two Recent Poetry Collections by Simon Armitage 2: New Cemetery (2025)

Simon Armitage: New Cemetery (Faber & Faber, 2025) 
Cover Image: Insecticide 24 (2008) by Matt Collishaw 
 
'In this collection, if the poems concern themselves with one kind of mortality, 
then the moths relate to another: death within nature.' 
 
 
I. 
 
Armitage opens his new collection with a preface entitled 'Moths': "Because moths / bring word / from the dead" [a]. A moth also features on the front cover of the book; a powerful image by contemporary British artist Matt Collishaw [click here to visit his website].  
 
And so, we're off to a good start: for moths are one of the privileged creatures on Torpedo the Ark - click here - and unlike Armitage, I do not think they are drab and dull in comparison to butterflies [b]. 
 
Armitage explains that a new cemetery was recently built near to his moorland home in West Yorkshire and that rather than object to this development, he decided to make "peace with the dead" (xi) and accept them as his new neighbours. And I think he's right; better to look out over the dear departed than a car park, shopping centre, or a new housing estate (see the poem '[Dark Brocade]', pp.4-5).   
 
And, as it turned out, the cemetery proved a source of poetic inspiration and Armitage produced a significant number of new verses; I've not counted, but there must be over fifty or sixty poems collected here, written "in short-lined tercets linked with/by intermittent rhymes and half-rhymes" (xii). 
 
That's a size and structure I'm personally very fond of and I loved the fact that Armitage describes the process of writing the poems and assembling them into a book as like "threading daisy chains or stringing shells" (xii).  
 
What I didn't love, however, was Armitage's confession that, in the end, he "fell back on a fairly conventional approach" and that he belongs to a school of thought "that believes the best way of enclosing the lifespan of a written sentence is with a capital letter and a full stop" and that finally admitting to this has provided him with "a kind of grammatical relief" (xiii). 
 
That offends me not just as an admirer of E. E. Cummings [c], but as a Nietzschean, who regards grammar as the presence of God within language, i.e., its metaphysical component subscribed to by theologians as well as pedants, pedagogues and, apparently, our present Poet Laureate [d].     
 
Enclosing language with capitalisation and periods is an impossibility in an intertextual universe; you can no more do that than you can permanently enframe being within technology. Any logical stabilisation or relief gained can only ever be temporary.   
 
Still, I'm happy for now to overlook this compromise with grammar - which arguably mirrors his making peace with the dead - and move on to the poems themselves, which are intriguingly named (but not titled) after a species of moth, 
 
In a lovely passage, Armitage explains his thinking: 
 
"Any relationship between a specific moth and the specific subject of the poem is at best ambiguous, and at times accidental. Instead, their inclusion is a form of honouring and memorialising. They are the dedicatees of the poems, and if it is stretching a point to claim that each three-line stanza should be thought of as two wings and a body part, in my mind there is something intentionally fragile, diminutive and moth-like about their construction and design." (xiv)
 
 
II.  
  
The collection opens in Armitage's shed, where it seems he likes to (if not exactly bury) then at least busy himself with his writing: a "stripped-back world / of a wooden chair, an old desk" (3). 
 
One thinks of Heidegger's hut; but also of Van Gogh's bare little room in the Yellow House. And perhaps even of Jesse Pope, as played by Mark Williams in The Fast Show, coming out of his shed to announce that this season, he will be mostly writing poems about moths and the recently deceased.  
 
It is followed by '[Dark Brocade]', mentioned above, which is one of my favourites in the book, dripping as it is with contempt for the living and preference for the company of the dead who "shore up the good earth" (5). 
 
I rather like the idea that, in some ways, the deceased are more vital than obese consumers and weed-killing gardeners.   
 
 
III.  
  
Sometimes, the writer can sit so still at the desk, lost in contemplation, that they might almost be mistaken for one of the dead by an electronic device: "a sensor detects / no movement, /no signs of life, and turns out /the one light bulb" '[Blossom Underwing]' (7).  
 
I think it was the American conductor and composer Leonard Bernstein who said: 'Stillness is our most intense mode of action. In stillness, the human being becomes a poet or most resembles an angel' [e]. Or a moth. 
 
 
IV. 
 
In its modern sense, the word smug refers to someone who is self-satisfied and shows excessive pride in their achievements; not quite arrogant, but moving in that direction. 
 
Poets are not immune - even Armitage with his cheeky-chappie grin and boyishly annoying haircut - might be found a little smug by some readers on occasion, including me (not least when he consents to having the title Poet Laureate printed under his name on the covers of his books) [f].  
 
But the universe, despite being the totality of all space, time, matter and energy, is not smug and nor does it possess a face and to suggest otherwise - as the poem '[Speckled Yellow]' suggests - is profoundly annoying. I do wish Armitage would abandon his attempts at humour - can't someone at Faber take him aside and speak to him about this ...? 
 
His bathos, vulgarity, and anthropomorphism may be very knowing, but it simply isn't funny.     
 
 
V. 
 
I like '[Vapourer]': for one can never tire of descriptions of mummification. 
 
And I like '[Pine-Tree Lappet]' for its "undying loyalty / to simple things" (20); wristwatch, comb, leather belt, shaving brush, wallet, boots, and pen. We remember the dead best of all by the objects they handled [g].        
 
And I really like '[Figure of Eight]' - it seems to me that Armitage really ups his game when it comes to writing about foxes (even dead vixens which he's obliged to bury); perhaps they're his totem animal, who knows? [h]    
 
Some of the poems, however, I don't really understand, or see how they belong in the collection; '[Reddish Light Arches]', for example. 
 
And it transpires that many of the poems did, in fact, appear elsewhere originally - including the latter, which was "commissioned by Aberdeen Performing Arts, for an exhibition of poetry and illustration for the reopening of Aberdeen's Music Hall (2018)" (vi) ... So what has it to do with the new cemetery on the outskirts of Huddersfield?   
 
  
VI. 
 
The annoying thing is, when he wants - and when he resists the urge to play the joker - Armitage is capable of writing some really lovely lines, full of powerful and evocative imagery. Lines like these from '[Lunar Thorn]':
 
 
But at night
            the false moon 
                        of the moth trap
 
bloomed and bloomed,
            the unwordly glow
                       of the 'black light'
 
drugging the air,
            the lawn and flower beds
                       under your window 
 
steeped in an ultraviolet brew. (42)
 
 
I would like a little more of that. 
 
But then perhaps I'm one of those readers that Armitage lampoons in the poem '[Brown-line Bright-eye]' (47); i.e., one who wants shrivelled chestnuts, rusty apples, and human gravediggers shovelling dirt; one who cannot accept plots being dug by heavy machinery and litter being strewn on graves.
 
Perhaps when it comes to death I remain Romantic ...
 
 
VII. 
 
'[Reed Leopard]' is a meditation on a millipede that ends with a terrible thought: if humanity could be vanished with just one magic word leaving the world / to the world, would you / say it? Would you / sing it out loud?" (51) 
 
Armitage doesn't answer: but we know how Rupert Birkin would respond and his reassuring fantasy of a posthuman future expressed in Women in Love is a vision that is shared by several groups on the radical fringes of deep ecology whose members believe, like Birkin, that mankind is an obstruction and a hindrance to the future unfolding of evolution and that only man's self-extinction will allow life to continue perfect and marvellous and non-human [i]. 
 
I have to admit, I'd also find the temptation to whisper the word almost irresistible.  
 
 
VIII. 
 
Is the narrator-poet of '[Heath Rivulet]' the same as the poet-author and did he really call an exterminator "in T-shirt and shorts / to pump white dust / under a roof tile" (52)?
 
That is to say, did he really arrange for the destruction and removal of a wasp's nest in his attic? 
 
I find that more than a little disappointing: readers familiar with Torpedo the Ark will recall my battle with moths in the summer of '22 and how my reluctance to spray them ultimately won out over my bourgeois desire to protect a new carpet. See the post 'Insouciance Über Insecticide' (31 July 2022): click here.     
 
Were the lines in the preface mourning the rapid and shocking decline of insect numbers over the last twenty or thirty years [j] just so many words?  
 
 
IX.
  
Another verse I love: '[Maiden's Blush]' ... off-white moths and ghostly barefooted women - what's not to love? 
 
One is almost tempted to credit Armitage with having established a zone of proximity [k]. Almost.   
 
Another verse I hate: '[Burnished Brass]' ... here's an additional anagram we can (almost) make with the author's name: I am a monster ego [l]. 
 
What is the point of this lipogrammatic exercise; is he trying to say his name is legion and that the unified subject is a convenient fiction (that the 'I' contains a multiplicity of selves)? Or that the living are all the names in history as they embody the molecules and memories of the dead? [m] 
 
Maybe. 
 
But this seems an overly generous (and overly philosophical) reading in my view. And the one thing I have discovered reading this book is that Armitage loves to see himself reflected in his own verse and play with his own literary persona - he's worse than Lawrence (though perhaps not as narcissistic as I can be).
 
 
X. 
 
Speaking of Lawrence, the fat brown trout  "hammocked in amber water / next to St Oswald's church" (62), reminded me of the shadowy fish that "slide through the gloom of the mill-pond" at the beginning of his debut novel The White Peacock (1911) - even though these fish were neither fat nor brown, but "grey descendants of the silvery things that had darted away from the monks, in the young days when the valley was lusty" [n]. 
 
It's funny the connections that the mind makes. Not just between literary fish, but rainbows too; cf. Armitage's "Cheap rainbows everywhere" (69) with the vast rainbow that Ursula Brangwen observes and which fills her heart with anguished hope. 
 
For she saw in the rainbow "the earth's new architecture [...] the world built up in a living fabric of Truth" - even as realises that "the sordid people who crept hard-scaled and separate on the face of the world's corruption were living still" [o]. 
 
And when Armitage writes: "Think of / your hand or arm / brushing / actual skin" (73), who doesn't reacall Lawrence's idea of the democracy of touch and by which he refers to:
 
"The touch of the feet on the earth, the touch of the fingers on a tree, on a creature, the touch of hands and breasts, the touch of the whole body to body, and the interpenetration of passionate love." [p]   
 
Armitage has admitted to being an admirer of Lawrence and often turns to his work for inspiration. But I wonder if he ever wishes he could write like him - or would that be admitting too much for a professional writer and Poet Laureate?   
 
 
XI. 
 
The fact that Armitage's father died when he was about to finish New Cemetery certainly adds a level of poignancy: 
 
"I had been ready to draw a line under the collection early in 2021, but my dad's sudden death that year provoked further poetic responses, less abstract this time, driven and informed by deep personal loss." (xiii)  
 
One wonders if it always takes the loss of a loved one - a parent, a partner, a child - to really bring home the visceral reality of death. And if that's so, what does this tell us about the limits of art and philosophy?  
 
(Having said that, I can't stand those people who value experience above everything else and boast that they are graduates of the University of Life.)    
 
 
XII. 
 
'[Straw Dot]' and '[Grey Chi]' are two further poems worth a mention and worth a read, although they require no further commentary, except to say that Armitage's direction and cinematography are at their best in the latter and his humour at its most charming in the former.   
 
And the line in '[Coronet]' "Here he isn't again," (94) brilliantly captures the absent presence of someone recently departed. When you enter the home of your dead mother or father, you do expect to see them rise from their chair to greet you.
 
It's pointless saying one doesn't believe in ghosts when the dead so obviously leave a presence of some kind. Whether we best think of this in spiritual or tangible terms is really the only point of debate; is it an emotional trace or memory left behind, or is it something a bit more like the mucous trail left behind by slugs and snails?  
 
Either way, I find it more comforting than disconcerting to experience this presence of a loved one. And whilst I clearly have certain issues with Armitage as a poet, I'm grateful to him for this collection in which he reminds us of the important truth that although the dead are "unable to love", they are "capable still /of being loved" (100).  
 
 
Notes
 
[a] Simon Armitage, '[Scotch Annulet]', in New Cemetery (Faber and Faber, 2025), p. 78. Future page references to this book will be given directly in the post.  
 
[b] To be fair, Armitage goes on to concede that, upon closer inspection, one sees within the somewhat sombre colouring of moths "arrangements of dazzling complexity and hypnotic intricacy" (xiv). 
 
[c] The 20th century American poet E. E. Cummings is known for his modernist free-form verse and much of his work uses idiosyncratic syntax and lower-case spellings in order to strip "the film of familiarity" from language and from the world, as Norman Friedman notes.   

[d] In Twilight of the Idols Nietzsche famously writes: "I fear we are not getting rid of God because we still believe in grammar ..." I'm quoting from Hollingdale's translation (Penguin Books, 1990), p. 48. For those using other editions, see the section 'Reason in Philosophy' (5). 
      You can tell grammar is ultimately a matter of faith by the fact that Armitage says he believes in it - that his use of it is not simply a preference or a question of convenience.    
 
[e] I'm paraphrasing from memory, so note that this might not be entirely accurate. I'm sure readers who wish to can track down the actual quotation.  
 
[f] No doubt Armitage was persuaded by the marketing people at Faber that this would be a good idea, but one assumes he gave permission for this. He is, of course, fully entitled to use the title Poet Laureate, but, like Foucault, I would welcome a time in which books were published in complete anonymity so that they could be judged on the contents alone and not the author's name, reputation, or title. 
      See Michel Foucault, 'The Masked Philosopher', in Foucault Live: Collected Interviews, 1961-1984, ed. Sylvère Lotringer, trans. Lysa Hochroth and John Johnston (Semiotext[e], 1989), pp. 302- 307. 
 
[g] See the post 'Notes on the Material Remains of My Father' (6 June 2016): click here.  
 
[h] Armitage wrote a poem with the title 'The Fox' which can be found in Ruth Padel's 52 Ways of Looking At a Poem (Vintage, 2004), p. 138. See also his fox poem 'Den', in the collection titled Dwell (Faber & Faber, 2025), pp. 12-13. 
 
[i] See D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love, ed. John Worthen and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 127-129. See also my post on the movement for voluntary human extinction (12 Oct 2013) - click here - and my post 'Birkin and the Ichthyosaur' (7 Mar 2023): click here
 
[j] Insects in the UK have experienced a severe (and ongoing) decline throughout the 21st century. Studies indicate a drop in numbers of over 60% between 2004 and 2023. See my post 'Insecticide and the Eco-Apocalypse' (21 Oct 2017): click here
 
[k] A zone of proximity is a concept used by Deleuze and Guattari to describe a chaotic space wherein distinct forms, subjects, or species - such as human and insect - lose their boundaries and become indistinguishable (thus they sometimes refer to it as a zone of indiscernibility). It is such zones, in other words, that allow the process of becoming to unfold.
      The reason that I hesitate before saying such is what Armitage establishes in his poem is because he shows little inclination to think in such terms and I don't want to simply map alien concepts and personal concerns on to his work. Needless to say, however, it would add a good deal of interest and philosophical depth to his poetry were he to do so.
 
[l] This only works if I am kindly given permission to swap an unwanted 'i' for an additional 'a' and 'e'.    
 
[m] See the post 'Even the Dead Don't Rest in Peace' (2 July 2013) - click here - in which I argue that, thanks to the conservation of mass, the carbon atoms of the departed are forever recycled and reincarnated and in this way the souls of the dead might be said to re-enter and pervade the souls of the living. 
      See also the related post: 'Atomic: the D. H. Lawrence Memorial Post' (1 Mar 2021): click here.  
 
[n] See D. H. Lawrence, The White Peacock, ed. Andrew Robertson (Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 1. The poem by Armitage I'm quoting from is '[Shining Marbled]'. 
 
[o] D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow, ed. Mark Kinkead-Weekes (Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 458-459. The poem by Armitage I'm quoting from is '[Mother Shipton]'.   
 
[p] D. H. Lawence, The First and Second Lady Chatterley Novels, ed. Dieter Mehl and Christa Jansohn (Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 323. 
 
 
For my thoughts on another recent collection of poems by Armitage - Dwell (2025) - please click here. 
 

2 Mar 2026

Reflections on Two Recent Poetry Collections by Simon Armitage 1: Dwell (2025)

Simon Armitage: Dwell 
(Faber & Faber, 2025)

Jetzt wär es Zeit, die tiere träten / aus bewohnten Dingen ... 


I. 
 
As a Heideggerian, I was obviously going to be intrigued by a book with the title Dwell
 
For dwelling [wohnen] is one of the key ideas in Heidegger's later work and refers to the fundamental way human beings exist in the world; not simply occupying space like bumps on a log, but caring for, preserving, and finding meaning as earth-dwelling mortals beneath the sky and before the gods [b]. 
 
It's the antithesis of the homelessness that for Heidegger characterises modernity. But so too is it distinct from the Nazi idea of a life rooted in Blut und Boden (even if it has a Völkisch feel to it) and is tied to the Heideggerian ethic of letting be [Gelassenheit]. 
 
When we dwell, we allow other beings to be what they are in all their complexity and do not seek to dominate, manipulate, or exploit them as a resource. 
 
Poetically speaking - and Heidegger links dwelling explicitly to poetry - man learns how to inhabit the earth by acknowledging the sacred mystery of otherness (be that in the form of birds, beasts, flowers, or demons) and finding a new revealing other than the revealing of technology, which he terms enframing [Ge-stell]. 
 
He names this new revealing poiesis - a term that refers to the act of creation as a bringing-forth (or unfolding) into being.
      
 
II.  
 
So, then, to the collection of sixteen poems by Poet Laureate Simon Armitage (illustrated by Beth Munro); a work which attempts to illuminate and reimagine the dwelling places of animals native to the UK and particularly those that inhabit the Lost Gardens of Heligan [c]. 
 
Interestingly, and in a way in which I approve, distinctions between human and animal are curdled without ever denying their otherness. Similarly, Armitage blurs the distinction between natural and cultivated when it comes to dwelling places inhabited by creatures, such as the twig-and-leaf construction of a bird's nest. But he also "warns of the fragility of these spaces and their dwellers, exposed to relentless and sadly familiar environmental threats" [d].   
 
Just as even a small back-garden can provide refuge for whatever wildlife remains in this, one of the most nature-depleted nations in the world, so too, hopes Armitage, can his poems "offer lasting homes to those who dwell within their lines" [e].
 
However, Armitage also notes that, as a bare minimum, actual flesh-and-blood creatures also need to eat and breed in the extra-textual world; "and to achieve those things they need the shelter of somewhere to live" as the "consequence of homelessness for most living things is extinction" (x). 
 
Unfortunately, "human dominance on Planet Earth has proved disastrous for the habitation needs of most non-human populations" (x). As a species, we are, at the very least - and it's a word I'm borrowing from Armitage - inhospitable.  
 
Because, ultimately, he's a humanist, Armitage soon says things such as this: animals should be valued because they "encourage the expansion of the human mind" (x) and "enhance what it is to be human" (xi). That's not my position: I try to think animality (and, indeed, vegetal life) outside of their value to us; to think of them as beings in their own right - but not beings that should be accorded rights by Man. 
 
As beings with irreplaceable singularity they exist independently of human evaluation or legal frameworks and should not be driven into extinction nor subjected to industrial scale slaughter. Armitage seems slightly uncomfortable at the use of the word genocide with reference to this, although he admits it has a "certain amount of justification" (x).
 
Finally, before we take a look at the verses themselves, let me quote what Armitage says re the topic of dwelling. Obviously, he's not Heidegger, but it still has some interest:
 
"If Dwell is about 'the garden' as a sanctuary or refuge, about the locations we must provide and safeguard if we are serious about co-existing with lives other than our own, its simultaneous meaning is an encouragement to slow down and spend time with ideas. [...] And the poems themselves are dwellings, too - constructions built from language and contemplation, places to enter." (xii-xiii)    
 
 
III. 
 
The short collection opens with a poem titled 'Pond'. 
 
That's a good place to start, as the word pond derives from an old English term for a confined space - particularly an enclosed body of water - which, of course implies a dwelling place, and Armitage mentions the newts that live there. 
 
However, rather strangely, he seems more concerned with the surface of the pond; "the glassy water's / two-way mirror" (3), which merely reflects life  - and that's a little concerning; as is the cinematic metaphor that follows, suggesting animals are but projections upon a screen. 
 
On a less troubling note, the verse is primarily about the fragile (but resilient) stillness of life, which Armitage (rightly) finds magical. Violent disruptions are inevitable, but the world eternally returns.      
 
 
IV. 
 
'Pond' is followed by 'Drey' which opens with the lovely description of a squirrel's dwelling place:
 
 
It's a twig-and-leaf crow's-nest squat
wombed with feather and moss
wedged in the fork of an oak. (6)
 
 
If it had been me, I'd've finished there; for it's kind of perfect as is and whilst the 26 lines that follow tell us what the poet thinks of the squirrel, they don't reveal anything of what the squirrel thinks of the poet.
 
I suppose, as a long-time reader of Lawrence, I was expecting a rather more ontologically insightful verse; to hear something of the vital, non-human otherness of the squirrel and not simply be told that squirrels have beady black eyes and are jumpy creatures which like to steal nuts from bird-feeders.  
 
Also, I don't mind a degree of anthropomorphism, but it has to remain critical in nature and not merely be a projection of human traits on to animals in an attempt to be humorous. And so, for the record; squirrels do not wear "soft work-gloves" (6) in order to tackle daily jobs and beavers - the subject of the following verse, 'Lodge' - do not watch cable TV, read House and Garden, or sip Earl Grey tea (8) [f]. 
 
If - as I've seen it said - Armitage wishes to satirise the Disneyfied manner we often think of animals by incorporating twee and sentimental images into his own poetry, then, unfortunately, I think he fails on this occasion. In other words, it's a self-defeating move that obscures the actual creature, creates a collision of tones, and takes away from the poem's ecological seriousness.
 
V. 
 
'Den' is a much harder and superior poem to 'Lodge' and 'Drey' - and I like it! One wonders: does Armitage prefer foxes to squirrels and beavers; do they more readily set his mind on fire? 
 
He certainly seems to have a greater degree of imaginative understanding and I was excited to encounter the Armitage fox emerging "out of ash and filth" into "a wet morning" and "dripping with flames" (13).
 
 
VI. 
 
'Hive' is one of my favourite poems in the collection - and not just because I love honey or "jars of sunlight / in edible form" (17), as Armitage writes.   
 
Of course, it's not just sunlight that can be devoured; the darkness too can provide vital nourishment - if you're a bat! And in 'Roost', Armitage speaks of that twilight hour when the sun "fizzles out" and bats "unhug themselves and fly" from their dwelling places ready to "eat the night" (19).  
 
 
VII.
 
If I liked 'Hive' and 'Roost' on the one hand, I hated 'Insect Hotel' on the other: a series of imaginary online reviews posted by six-legged guests on a site such as TripAdvisor. Obviously, it's intended to be comic, but, unfortunately, it isn't funny at all - indeed, it just may be, to paraphrase Comic Book Guy, the Worst. Poem. Ever.   
 
And considering that it's written by a Professor of Poetry whose work has received numerous prizes and awards - in 2018, for example, Armitage was even given the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry) - it's a poem that, if I were him, I'd seriously consider removing from the collection. 
 
It may have a place in a children's poetry anthology, but it does not belong in a book which is intended to address a painfully tragic situation: "Tragic for the plight of animals, of course, but also a pitiful reflection on our own attitudes and activities." (x) 
 
Armitage seems to think he can have it both ways: offering a profound poetic meditation on dwelling and animality on the one hand, whilst giving us anthropomorphic dad humour on the other; but he can't. There's nothing fun or wacky about ecocide and the extermination of wildlife (including insects) and not even Beth Munro's illustrations [h] can save you this time, Simon.  
 
 
VIII.    
 
It's an interesting philosophical idea to conceive of rabbits as the intelligence of the hillside: 'Warren' (31); i.e., to suggest that consciousness is just an epiphenomenal effect of non-sentient matter.  
 
I also liked the first six days of 'Deer Diary' (32-33), in which the distinction between animals and their environment was shown to be anything but clear cut; the narrator mistakes wood smoke, a heap of leaves, shadows, patches of snow, and heat haze for various deer. 
 
I could do without Sunday's unicorn (33), however; just as I could do without the young girl's angel in 'Nest Box' (36). 
 
Again, actual biological entities such as deer and barn owls, are magical and awe-inspiring in themselves - we don't need legendary creatures and supernatural spirits, ta very much. 
 
(At a push, if feeling generous, I'd concede that all objects are equally real objects and exist on the same flat ontology, but can't help feeling that here unicorns and angels add nothing and detract from the poetic realism of the work.)  
 
 
IX. 
 
Compared with 'Insect Hotel', 'Cote' is a masterful work: and at least it rhymes. 
 
But, again, for all its attempted witty word play, it's got that depressingly unfunny comic tone and so fails to do what it wishes to do; namely, challenge the idea that the value of birds is their symbolic significance for man.  
 
We may like to believe that a dove, for example, is a symbol of the holy spirit, or divine love, or peace, hope and purity, but such idealism degrades the actual being of the bird in all its avian alterity and complex biological nature.   
 
And it also fails to offer them any protection, which is why, for example, many populations of dove are in severe decline and/or critically endangered [h]. 
 
 
X.
 
I began this post by discussing Heidegger's notion of dwelling and I'd like to close with one of Heidegger's thought-poems [Gedachtes], which affords an interesting contrast in style and tone with Armitage's verses: 
 
 
Forests spread
Brooks plunge
Rocks persist
Mist diffuses
 
Meadows wait
Springs well 
Winds dwell
Blessing muses [i] 

 
Notes

[a] I'm reworking the famous opening lines of an untitled poem written by Rilke about a year before his death in 1926 (see Insel ed., II. 185), replacing daß Götter with die tiere, so that it reads in English: 'Now it is time that the animals emerge / from things by which they dwell'.    
 
[b] Heidegger refers to these elements - earth, sky, mortals, divinities - as the fourfold [das Geviert] and argues that dwelling is a harmonisation of these things (it's not just about constructing a shelter - even if that shelter happens to be a Black Forest hut). 
      The important essay 'Building Dwelling Thinking' (1951) can be found in Martin Heidegger, Basic Writings, ed. David Farrell Krell (Routledge, 1993), pp. 343-363. Or in Martin Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought, trans. Albert Hofstadter (Harper Perennial, 1975), pp. 143-161.   
 
[c] Armitage was invited (i.e., commissioned) to write a series of poems for the Lost Gardens of Heligan; a large garden restoration project and major tourist attraction, in Cornwall: "Protected and carefully managed, the Gardens also provide a haven - both intentionally and inadvertently - for wildlife." 
      See the 'Welcome Note' to Dwell supplied by Armitage, p. xii. All future page references to this book will be given directly in the text.   
 
[d] Quoted from the publishers blurb found on their website and on the inside of the book's front cover.  
 
[e] Ibid.   
 
[f] I did like the description of beavers as teeth "that have grown bodies and tails" (9) and, again, there is little wrong with Armitage's description of a beaver's lodge, as "a kindling hut" held together "with sludge and stones" (8); a description which made me think of Heidegger's little three-roomed cabin in the Black Forest and known as die Hütte
      Readers who are interested in the latter might like to see Adam Sharr, Heidegger's Hut (MIT Press, 2006), a work which explores the intense relationship between a man and his environment and how thinking is related to dwelling.    
 
[g] Beth Munro is a hybrid printmaker and illustrator: click here to visit her website. It might be argued that Munro's complex and clever illustrations add a necessary extra layer of philosophical seriousness to Dwell - the images are certainly not just decorative.
 
[h] The European turtle dove, for example, is on the brink of extinction in the UK, its numbers having fallen by 99% since the 1960s, due to intensive agricultural practices, habitat loss, shortage of food, and shooting for sport by the French, Spanish, and Portuguese.   
 
[i] See Martin Heidegger, 'The Thinker as Poet', in Poetry, Language, Thought ... p. 14. 
      Readers who wish to read more should also get hold of Martin Heidegger, Thought Poems, trans. Eoghan Walls (Rowman & Littlefield International, 2021). 
 
 
For reflections on another cleection of verse published in 2025 by Armitage - New Cemetery - please click here.
 
 

26 Feb 2026

Reflections on Simon Critchley's Philosophical Short Cuts (Part 1)

Simon Critchely: Bald (Yale University Press, 2021) 
Essays edited by Peter Catapano 
Cover design by R. Black
 
 
I don't know Simon Critchley: but he's one of the Simons that I can't help admiring and to whom I feel a vague connection, that is part philosophical in nature and part generational; we share many of the same ideas and points of reference and we were all born in the same decade [a]. 
 
Having said that, there are differences between me and the Simons, including Herr Professor Critchley, whose collection of essays Bald (2021) I'd like to discuss here in an amicable if still critical manner. Readers might best see this post then as less the staging of a confrontation or a reckoning [Auseinandersetzung] and more an attempt to offer an insightful commentary in the same kind of engaging, jargon-free - or bold and bald - style that Critchley adopts in this work.  
 
Note: whilst there are thirty-five essays in Bald - all originally published in the New York Times - I'll not be discussing each of them here; just the ones that really catch my interest or which I find particularly provocative [b]. The titles in bold are Critchley's own. And all page numbers refer to the 2021 edition shown above. If the post becomes overly-lengthy - as these posts often do - I'll publish it as two (or possibly even three) parts.   
 
 
Happy Like God  

What is happiness? 
 
In an attempt to answer this question Critchley calls on Rousseau, who provides him with the idea that happiness might simply be the feeling of existence; a feeling that fills the soul entirely. 
 
Perhaps in order to update the language slightly, Critchley reframes this feeling as one of "momentary self-sufficiency that is bound up with the experience of time" [5]. Happiness, in other words, is learning to enjoy the nowness of the present (no regrets and no longing for a better tomorrow). 
 
Achieve a state of joyful reverie and, says Rousseau, you become like God - and Critchley doesn't demur, which is slightly strange for an atheist, but indicates the direction his thinking often takes; i.e., towards secular mysticism (whether this makes him a crypto-theologian more than a critical theorist is a question we can return to later). 
 
And where and when is Critchley happiest? 
 
Sitting by the sea, or in his lover's bed; happiness can be a solitary state, but "one can also experience this feeling of existence in the experience of love" [6]. Maybe: though I'm not sure that love is ever that blissfully straightforward and Critchley is honest enough to admit that even the most oceanic feeling of happiness is outrageously short lived: "Time passes, the reverie ends and the feeling for existence fades." [6].
 
Didn't Goethe once say that no one can enjoy looking at a beautiful sunset for more than a few seconds without getting bored; and I remember also Johnny Rotten once characterising love as less than three minutes of squelching noises. 
 
In other words, we are incapable of being permanently happy (or even happy for long) [c].  
 
 
How to Make It in the Afterlife 
 
As a thanatologist, what I like about Critchley is that, sooner or later and no matter what the topic - he's going to speak about mortality. And sure enough, we quickly pass from happiness to death and the relation between them, which he discusses in relation to ancient Greek philosophy (his other specialist subject). 
 
The key is: live a good life and die a noble death and happiness will be yours. Which means that "happiness does not consist in whatever you might be feeling [...] but in what others feel about you" [13]. 
 
In other words, happiness is something posthumously ascribed - a very unmodern view, but one worth considering; particularly if the adoption of such a view encourages us to live in a more beautiful manner so as to be remembered with smiling fondness.  
 
 
The Gospel According to Me
 
That's a nice title. And it's a crucial short essay attacking the search for individual authenticity, which Critchley rightly recognises is born of a "weak but all-pervasive idea of spirituality [...] and a litugy of inwardness" [15]. 
 
This ideal of authenticity - which was central to existentialism before becoming central to New Age therapeutic culture - is basically a type of selfish conformism; something which "disguises acquisitiveness under a patina of personal growth, mindfulness and compassion" [16]. 
  
Those who think the quest for authenticity is an ethical practice, might be surprised to find Critchley dismiss it as a form of passive nihilism. Passive nihilism and the zen fascism of the 21st century American workplace. For when the office is such a fun place to be and encourages you to be yourself and express yourself, then "there is no room for worker malaise" [17] or class war and in in this way authenticity becomes "an evacuation of history" [17] [d].    
 
I like it when Critchley nails his colours to the mast and pops his political hat on; exposing not just the fantasy of authenticity, but the evils of the workplace - even those that allow us to wear our favourite T-shirt "and listen to Radiohead" [17] on our i-Phones while at our desk. 
 
And I like it too when he relates his philosophical and political critique to literature; pointing out, for example, that Herman Melville, "writing on the cusp of modern capiatlism" [19] in the mid-19th century, had already twigged that "the search for authenticity was a white whale" [19]; i.e., an obsessive quest that is "futile at best and destructive at worst" [19] [e].   
 
 
Abandon (Nearly) All Hope
 
Having demolished the ideal of authenticity, Critchley now attacks the ideal of hope: is it, he asks, such a wonderful thing? 
 
Obviously, I don't think so and I've long been an vociferous opponent of this Christian virtue: see the post dated 6 Feb 2022, for example, on Shep Fairey's Obama poster: click here. Thus, I was pleased to see that Critchley is also hostile to the idea, regarding it from a Graeco-Nietzschean perspective as a form of moral cowardice that "allows us to escape from reality and prolong human suffering" [20].    
 
Hope, says Critchley - contra Obama - is not audacious; it is mendacious; something exploited by our religious teachers and political leaders alike. And what we need is not blind hope but clear-sighted courage in the face of reality (including the courage to abandon hope). 
 
Or, to put that another way, "skeptical realism, deeply informed by history" [25], that knows how to smile like Epictetus (the slave turned Stoic philosopher admired by Nietzsche).    
 
 
What Is a Philosopher? 
 
An idiot who falls down the well (like Thales); or one who takes their time ...? 
 
Probably a combination of both: 
 
"The philosopher [...] is free by virtue of his otherworldliness, by the capacity to fall into wells and appear silly" and this freedom "consists in either moving freely from topic to topic or simply spending years returning to the same topic" [71] [f].   
 
Critchley endorses this Socratic defnition further by agreeing that the philosopher is also one who is indifferent to convention; shows no respect for rank; never joins a political party or a private club. Of course, this kind of attitude and behaviour can get you in trouble - Socrates  was ultimately put on trial and condemned to death for impiety and corrupting the youth of Athens [g]. 
 
Thus, Critchley (amusingly) decides: "Philosophy should come with the kind of health warning one finds on packs of European cigarettes: PHILOSOPHY KILLS" [72]. 
 
It is thus not only a perverse love of wisdom - a form of erōtomaniā (see below) - but a risking of one's own life; i.e., a practice of joy before death. 
 
Critchley concludes (in a slightly confessional, slightly self-dramatising manner):
 
"Nurtured in freedom and taking their time, there is something dreadfully uncanny about philosophers, something either monstrous or godlike, or, indeed, both at once." [73]
 
 
Cynicism We Can Believe In
 
Ancient cynicism is "not at all cynical in the modern sense of the word" [83], writes Critchley. 
 
And that's certainly true; ancient cynicism was a rigorous philosophical way of life that involved self-debasement in order to make its case, whilst modern cynicism, on the other hand, is "an attitude of negativity and jaded scornfulness" [83]; often no more than a fashionable pose.  
 
The modern cynic isn't expected to live like a dog, eat raw squid, or masturbate in the market place and his cynicism lacks the moral and political radicalism of the hardcore cynicism that Diogenes practiced. 
 
But in a world like ours - self-interested, lazy, corrupt, and greedy - "it is Diogenes's lamp that we need to light our path" [85]. Though I think we can do without the flash-wanking or pissing in public, thank you very much.    
 
 
Let Be - An Answer to Hamlet's Question
 
For Heidegger, letting be [Gelassenheit] is a fundamental granting of freedom, born not of indifference, but an active concern for otherness and a refusal to see the world as something to be manipulated and exploited. In other words, it's a form of care. 
 
Critchley - who certainly knows his Heidegger - prefers to think the idea of letting be in relation to Shakespeare's Hamlet, however. In response to the play's famous ontological question - 'To be, or not to be?' - he says 'Let be'. 
 
But in order to let be, requires, he says, the cultivation of "a disposition of skeptical openness that does not claim to know aught of what we truly know naught" [107]. 
 
He elucidates:  
 
"If we can cure ourselves of our longing for some sort of godlike conspectus of what it means to be human, or our longing for the construction of ourselves as some new prosphetic god through technology, bound by the self-satisfied myth of unlimited human progress, we might let be." [107] 
 
I think we can all agree this would be a good thing. But it's not going to happen, of course; man is the creature who just can't help interfering and organising and wanting to be master of the universe; Homo sapien is also Homo importunus.   
  
 
Notes
 
[a] The other Simons include Reynolds and Armitage - see the post dated 17 Jan 2026: click here - and also the monstrous figure of Síomón Solomon; see the post dated 19 Jan 2026: click here
 
[b] Readers will note that I don't, for example, refer to any of the five essays in the section entitled 'I Believe'. Essentially, that's because I don't know anything about (or have much interest in) Mormonism, Russian literature (Dostoevsky), or Danish philosophy (Kierkegaard). 
      Nor do I share the (quasi-religious) faith of a football fan and find Critchley's paean to Liverpool FC a bit cringe if I'm honest. Does he really believe that football teaches us something important about our humanity and that being a Red inculcates a set of purely noble values: "solidarity, compassion, internationalism, decency, honour, self-respect and respect for others" [63] -? (Opposing fans sometimes accuse Liverpool supporters of moralising sentimentality and hypocrisy, but we can leave this for another post, another day.) 
      The essay on money - 'Coin of Praise' - I did read and found myself nodding in agreement with the idea that our financial system essentially rests on faith; i.e., money is the most ideal of all material things and our one true God. But saying that didn't seem to justify an entire section in this post.      
 
[c] See the follow up piece entitled 'Beyond the Sea' (pp. 7-11), in which Critchley addresses some of the comments and criticisms he received from readers of 'Happy Like God'. Crucially, he recognises that happiness in the moment is often topped by happiness of the memory of our happiness in the moment; that the best kind of happiness isn't ecstatic, but melancholic.  
 
[d] Michel Foucault famously dismissed what he called the Californian cult of the self in comparison to the ethico-aesthetic stylisation of self as practiced by the ancient Greeks and modern dandies. See 'On the Genealogy of Ethics: An Overview of Work in Progress', in The Foucault Reader, ed. Paul Rabinow (Penguin Books, 1991), p. 359. 
      And see also what Foucault writes on the 'arts of existence' and 'techniques of self' in The History of Sexuality 2: The Use of Pleasure, trans. Robert Hurley (Penguin Books, 1992)
 
[e] Critchley also refers to his hero Shakespeare, reminding readers that no one is more inauthentic than Hamlet and that the depiction of his radical inauthenticity "shatters our moral complacency" [19] as witnesses to the drama that unfolds.    
 
[f] I would suggest that just as there are two types of philosophical freedom, so too are there are two types of philosopher; I belong to the first type, who flit from topic to topic; my friend Síomón Solomon belongs to the latter type and enjoys the freedom to return and ruminate upon the same problems over and over. This naturally enough produces a different type of thinking and writing style.
 
[g] Critchley notes: "Nothing is more common in the history of philosophy than the accusation of impiety" and philosophy has "repeatedly and persistently been identified with blasphemy against the gods" [72]. Because their attitude is perceived (rightly or wrongly) as one of not giving a fuck, philosophers are often regarded as "politically suspicious, even dangerous" [72].
 
 
Part 2 of this post can be accessed by clicking here.