On the Monstrous Nature of Philosophy

 Frankenstein's Monster x Ludwig Wittgenstein [1]

 

'Thinking has interests that do not coincide with those of the living ...' [2] 

 

I. 

 

Philosophers, like monsters, "are creatures that fail to meet prevailing measures and norms by radically exceeding or falling short of them ..." [3]. 

 

Their form of life - to use a term favoured by Wittgenstein in his later work - is unconventional to say the least; and some might even describe it as inhuman, although that is perhaps going a little too far, as even the most monstrous (and unintelligible) of philosophers share certain practices and customs with others and their thinking ultimately springs from the same bio-cultural reality [4].  

 

In sum: philosophers are not monsters per se; but their thinking is a monstrous form of life; i.e., both unnatural and prophetic [5]. And such a monstrous form of life "is not homogenous and smooth; its language is not a common and transparent one; it is not the unanimous and harmonious sound of angelic tongues" [6]. 

 

II.

 

According to the film theorist and philosopher Noël Carroll, the word monster is - rightly or wrongly - one that might easily be applied to philosophers. 

 

Why? 

 

Because monsters, like philosophers, "are unnatural relative to a culture's conceptual scheme of nature. They do not fit the scheme; they violate it. Thus, monsters are not only physically threatening; they are cognitively threatening. They are threats to common knowledge" [7].  

 

As David Birch notes: "There is an uncanny parallel here between the characterisation of monsters and the work of philosophers." [8] 

 

Indeed, we might even conclude that the best collective noun for a group or gathering of philosophers might not be a school, but a den of monsters.

 

Having said that, I repeat what I say at the end of section I: philosophers are not monsters per se; but their thinking is a monstrous form of life ... And, for me, the person who has developed this line of thought to its nihilistic limit, is Ray Brassier ...

 

 

III.  

 

In a book that I often return to and never tire of reading - Nihil Unbound (2007) - Brassier savages those philosophers who would attempt to stave off the threat (he would say promise) of nihilism by safeguarding the experience of meaning and everything else that humanity clings to and believes in. 

 

In brief, Brassier wishes to accelerate the process (or logic) of disenchantment that began with the Enlightenment and turn philosophical thinking into what he terms the organon of extinction:

 

"Philosophy would do well to desist from issuing any further injunctions about the need to re-establish the meaningfulness of existence, the purposefulness of life, or mend the shattered concord between man and nature. It should strive to be more than a sop to the pathetic twinge of human self-esteem. Nihilism is not an existential quandary but a speculative opportunity." [9]  

 

However else we might describe this speculative realism, it's certainly not thought as most people think it; it's thought in a monstrous form; "throwing us into a world we no longer recognise, and that does not recognise us" [10].

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Obviously, by linking the names of Frankenstein and Wittgenstein I do not wish to imply that the latter was a fan of Mary Shelley's 19th century queer gothic novel. Indeed, as far as we know, he never read the book, nor did he refer to it in any of his writings. 

      And whereas Shelley was very much influenced by David Hume - her novel might even be read as an exploration of the tragic consequences of a skeptical worldview and the limitations of empiricism - the same cannot be said of Wittgenstein, who had a largely negative view of the 18th century philosopher. 

      Interestingly, as David Birch reminds us, there is an astonishing passage in A Treatise of Human Nature (1739-40) in which Hume confesses that philosophical solitude results in his feeling like 'some strange uncouth monster, who not being able to mingle and unite in society, has been expelled all human commerce, and left utterly abandoned and disconsolate' (Treatise, Book 1, Part 4, Section 7). 

      See David Birch, 'Are Philosophers Monsters?', The Philosophers' Magazine - click here. I shall return to this essay later in the post. 

 

[2] Ray Brassier, Preface, Nihil Unbound: Enlightenment and Extinction (Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), p. xi. 

 

[3] Jasmin Trächtler, 'Speaking in Monster Tongues: Wittgenstein and Haraway on Nature, Meaning and the "We" of Feminism', in Forma de Vida (2023): click here. 

 

[4] Should AI systems ever achieve independent consciousness, we might not be able to say the same of them. For perhaps they'll reason in a way that is truly posthuman (or techno-monstrous) and we'll no more be able to understand than we would a speaking lion; see Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (Blackwell, 1953).   

 

[5] The word monstrous derives from the Latin mōnstruōsus (from monstrum), meaning unnatural. But it also etymologically relates to the Latin verbs mōnstrare and mōnēre, which mean to reveal and to warn.  

 

[6] Jasmin Trächtler ... op. cit. 

 

[7] Noël Carroll, 'The Nature of Horror', in The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism Vol. 46, No. 1 (Autumn, 1987), pp. 51-59. Click here to access on JSTOR. The lines quoted here can be found on page 56. They are also quoted by David Birch, in his article cited above. 

 

[8] David Birch, 'Are Philosophers Monsters?'

 

[9] Ray Brassier, Preface, Nihil Unbound ... p. xi. 

      This quote is not only pinned above the desk at which I write, but pretty much encapsulates what Torpedo the Ark is all about; i.e., that the disenchantment of the world "deserves to be celebrated as an achievement of intellectual maturity, not bewailed as a debilitating impoverishment" and nihilism is the "unavoidable corollary of the realist conviction that there is a mind-independent reality, which, despite the presumptions of human narcissism, is indifferent to our existence and oblivious to the 'values' and 'meanings' which we would drape over it in order to make it more hospitable" [xi]. 

 

[10] David Birch, 'Are Philosophers Monsters?' We should note that Birch is speaking of Hume here, not Brassier. 

 

 

My Name is Victor Frankenstein

Peter Cushing as Victor Frankenstein in  

The Curse of Frankenstein, dir. Terence Fisher, 

(Hammer Films, 1957) [1]

 

 

Although I have never read Mary Shelley's famous novel [2], I am of course familiar with the story of Victor Frankenstein and his monstrous creation [3] and, indeed, have always had an affinity for this noble and unorthodox young scientist - part thanatologist, part alchemist [4] - obsessed with generating new life from dead material.

 

For far from being the prototypical mad scientific genius, as portrayed in numerous cinematic adaptations of the novel, Frankenstein is actually a tragic figure, driven by a beautiful obsession.

 

And if, when things don't quite turn out as planned and he inadvertently endangers his own life and those of his family and friends, he comes to bitterly regret his unnatural experiments, nevertheless one has to admire him for challenging the judgement of God in the manner of a modern Prometheus.

 

But the primary reason I identify with Frankenstein - apart from his intelligence, curiosity about the world, and refusal to be bound by laws and conventions, is because I essentially use his technique as a writer. 

 

That is to say, I cut up dead bodies of text and stitch stolen ideas together in a diabolical manner. My creativity lies - if anywhere - in then being able to provide the electric spark or lightning flash of inspiration which makes the assembled piece of intertextual fiction-theory breathe with new life [5].

 

This might not make me an original [6] talent - any more than Frankenstein's work made him a god - but it does produce some interesting results, does require a certain degree of skill and hard work, and does make me, in a sense, both an artist and alchemist. 

 

  

Notes

 

[1] Readers might be interested to know that Frankenstein's first appearance on screen was in a silent short film released in 1910, dir. J. Searle Dawley, and starring Augustus Phillips as the good doctor and Charles Ogle as the Monster. 

      This was followed in 1931 by the famous Universal version of the tale, dir. James Whale, starring Colin Clive in the role of Frankenstein, opposite Boris Karloff as the Monster. Both actors reprised their roles in the 1935 sequel, Bride of Frankenstein (also dir. by James Whale).

      As much as I love Clive's portrayal, I have a particular soft spot for Peter Cushing's performance in The Curse of Frankenstein (1957), opposite Christopher Lee as the Creature, which is why I've used his image here. Cushing went on to star as Frankenstein in five more films for Hammer, subtly revealing different aspects of the character in each.

 

[2] I'm referring of course to Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus (1818), written by Mary Shelley (whilst only eighteen years of age). 

 

[3] For those who aren't familiar with Shelley's figure of Victor Frankenstein, here's a brief character description and story outline:

 

According to the 1831 edition, Victor was born in Naples, but he describes his distinguished ancestry as Genevese.

      As a youth, he was intrigued by the works of famous alchemists such as Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus and longed to discover the so-called philosopher's stone; a mythical substance that could transmute base metals, such as lead, into gold and which was also an elixir of life, promising physical rejuvenation and immortality. 

      Later, however, Victor abandons alchemy for mathematics, which, he thinks, provides a more secure foundation upon which to base an understanding of the world. However, whilst at University in Bavaria, Frankenstein rediscovers his love for chemistry - this time in its modern form - and he makes a number of significant scientific discoveries; including discoveries about the bio-chemical nature of life, which enable him to animate non-living material. This research culminates in his creation of a being resembling man, but whom he comes to regard as a mixture of creature and demon.

     Rejecting the responsibility to care for his creation, the monster decides to seek revenge upon his maker; he murders Frankenstein's youngest brother, his best friend, and strangles Victor's bride, Elizabeth, on their wedding night. 

      Feeling that he has nothing left to live for, Frankenstein vows to destroy the creature and pursues the latter all the way to the North Pole, where he, Victor, eventully dies. Somewhat surprisingly, the monster is so overcome with sorrow and guilt, that he decides to commit suicide, before then disappearing into the frozen Arctic night.    

 

[4] One is tempted to also think of Victor Frankenstein as a Romatic poet, particularly as Mary's lover at the time of writing - and soon to be husband - Percy Shelley, inspired the character; for not only did the latter sometimes use the pen name of Victor, but, whilst a student at Eton, Shelley had conducted chemical experiments involving electricity. His rooms at Oxford were also filled with strange scientific equipment.  

 

 [5] It's been pointed out to me that my understanding of Frankenstein's monster as pieced together from body parts taken from numerous stolen corpses and reanimated by the use of electricity, owes more to the movies than Shelley's novel. In the latter, apparently, Frankenstein discovers the secret principle of life and it's this that allows him to painstakingly develop a method to vitalise inanimate matter, though the actual process is left rather vague. Neverthless, Frankenstein does assemble body parts, so I think my comparison stands and there's no need to split hairs, Maria.        

 

[6] Along with authenticity, originality is one of the concepts I despise the most: I don't care if my posts on Torpedo the Ark lack originality. And besides, as the Irish writer Oliver Goldsmith once wrote in The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), we can "pardon the want of originality, in consideration of the exquisite talent with which the borrowed materials are wrought up into the new form". 

      Or, as Roland Barthes would argue, the post-as-text is not expressive of an author's unique being. It's explainable only through other words drawn from a pre-given, internalised dictionary. Every new post is therefore, in some sense, already a copy of a copy of a copy whose origin is forever lost and meaning infinitely deferred. 

      To put that another way, if, as I do, you accept the idea of intertextualité, then questions of authorship and originality go out of the window and Síomón Solomon is right to claim in his brilliant study, Hölderlin's Poltergeists (2020), that every piece of writing is already a translation at some level and the author, whilst masquerading as a unified subject, is actually a multiple assemblage - like Frankenstein's monster - who speaks with many tongues (some of which are forked).