A healthy, happy child has no higher nature,
no purity, and no ideal being. - D. H. Lawrence
I like babies. And so I don't want to see them exploited or humiliated; used, for example, as fashion accessories, propaganda, or living props in a photo session that is nothing but an infantalising fantasy. For despite what many parents seem to believe, babies aren't cute, sentimental, or stupid.
They are, rather, little bundles of will to power, full of die Unschuld des Werdens; alien beings who, without even trying, live beyond good and evil in happy indifference to morality; an astonishing combination of the prehuman, inhuman, and overhuman. In brief, babies are natural born Nietzscheans.
And that's why despite being placed in a Santa sack alongside Eeyore, the old grey donkey, who has himself been Disneyfied and forced to uncharacteristically smile, I'm glad to see that Mia refuses to look at the camera and in this way displays her displeasure (and boredom) with the situation.
For now at least, my great-niece retains something of the pristine integrity of a newborn; she hasn't yet been fully subjectified and made drearily Allzumenschliche, though I'm sure her mother and father are working hard at it. If only they would realise that she's an as yet impersonal creature, laid soft and vulnerable on the face of the earth, not merely a machine to be programmed.
They, the parents, have a responsibility "to see that this unformed thing shall come to its own final form and fulness, both physical and mental". But that doesn't mean turning her into a good little girl according to a recipe overloaded with sugar and spice.
They, the parents, have a responsibility "to see that this unformed thing shall come to its own final form and fulness, both physical and mental". But that doesn't mean turning her into a good little girl according to a recipe overloaded with sugar and spice.
Perhaps the best thing they can do is leave her alone - not in a neglectful manner - but so as to allow her to be, unprovoked and undisturbed in all her beautiful remoteness, before, of her own accord, she makes the fall into consciousness and individuality.
See: D. H. Lawrence, 'Education of the People', in Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge University Press, 1988), p. 118.
