The Greeks Had a Word For It: Thymos

 

 

I. 

 

The first time I remember hearing that the Greeks had a word for it was when listening to the 1981 single 'Chihuahua' by Bow Wow Wow [1] and it always rather amused and intrigued me; I wondered where, for example, McLaren picked the expression up from.

One possible answer is that he knew of the raunchy play of this title, written by Zoe Akins, which opened on Broadway in September 1930. She is generally given credit for coining the phrase. [2]. Of course, I don't know if that's the case - I'm just surmising; maybe he knew the expression from elsewhere.

 

 

II. 

 

Anyhoo, the above is merely a preamble - what I really want to speak of here is the Ancient Greek word thymos [θυμός] which Plato named as one of the three constituent parts of the human psyche; the others being logos (reason) and eros (sexual desire). Usually, the term is translated into modern English as anger, pride, or spiritedness. 

 

It seems to also have something to do with self-esteem and the need to be recognised by others (presumably as somebody of virtue and thus worthy of respect). As a concept, it therefore also has social and political importance. Francis Fukuyama picked up on this in The End of History and the Last Man (1992), as did Harvey Mansfield, in his book, Manliness (2006).

 

But the philosopher who has arguably given the most interesting contemporary reading of the concept thymos is Peter Sloterdijk, in his study entitled (in the English translation) Rage and Time (2010). 

 

 

III. 

 

Zorn und Zeit traces the unfolding of rage in Western history and promotes the Nietzschean argument that an active form of this emotion - free from ressentiment - might be something vital and productive. Unfortunately, however, rage in all forms has been suppressed as a form of evil within Christian-moral culture - as it has by psychoanalysis. For idealists of all stripes prefer to believe that all you need is love and mutual understanding for society to run peacefully and happily (or, at any rate, free from conflict). 

 

In an interview in which he discusses the above book, Sloterdijk says something I find very interesting in my present (extremely stressful and rage-filled) situation:

 

"If emotions weren't rational to some extent we wouldn't have them at all. That also makes sense in terms of evolutionary biology: if nature equipped us with some impulse or other it must involve a fitness benefit. It follows that pride and rage belong to the human make-up just as eroticism does. Evolution wouldn't have produced people capable of rage if that emotion were only senseless ballast. In fact, it is an important derivative of stress, and stress is the biological interpretation of acute danger, which means it is vital for survival. Normally a living being reacts to real present danger by fleeing or attacking. Both reactions require a high degree of energy, and that's exactly what the stress reaction provides. The early heroic poems describe great stress like a divine gift [...] that seems to flow into the soul from outside." [3] 

  

In other words, stress is a form of inspiration; which is a rather pleasing - thymotically positive - way to think of it ... 

 

The danger, as Sloterdijk acknowledges, is in allowing stress to become overwhelming; or bottling up rage until it becomes toxic and transforms into ressentiment. The trick is to remain calm and composed, even in those situations where it is difficult to act; which requires, of course, a certain asceticism (i.e., cruelty towards the self). Easy-peasy when you're sitting alone in your mountain cave, like Zarathustra, but difficult when providing extensive and intensive care for an elderly woman with Alzheimer's ...   

 

       

Notes

[1] It might be noted that the word given us by Annabella  - Chihuahua - is, like avocado, chocolate, and tomato, actually of Aztec origin rather than Greek, but I suppose that's by the bye. The single was taken from the brilliantly bonkers album See Jungle! See Jungle! Go Join Your Gang Yeah, City All Over! Go Ape Crazy! (RCA Records, 1981). Click here if interested in hearing the track and watching a video on YouTube.  

 

[2] Zoe Byrd Akins (1886-1958) was an American poet and playwright, who won a Pulitzer Prize for drama in 1935. The Greeks Had a Word for It is perhaps her best remembered play. It tells the story of three young women looking to find rich husbands and was adapted for the big screen in 1932. A more famous film version - entitled How to Marry a Millionaire, dir. Jean Negulesco, and starring Marilyn Monroe, Betty Grable and Lauren Bacall - was released in 1953.

 

[3] Peter Sloterdijk, 'Thus Spoke Sloterdijk', interview with Res Strehle, in Selected Exaggerations, ed. Bernhard Klein, trans. Karen Margolis, (Polity Press, 2016), p. 197.  

The Gods Have Become Our Diseases

Cover image - by the author's daughter, Flavia Tower - 
to the first UK edition (Victor Gollancz, 1971)

I.

"We think we can congratulate ourselves on having already reached such a pinnacle of clarity, imagining that we have left all these phantasmal gods far behind. But what we have left behind are only verbal spectres, not the psychic facts that were responsible for the birth of the gods. We are still as much possessed today by autonomous psychic contents as if they were Olympians. Today they are called phobias, obsessions, and so forth; in a word, neurotic symptoms. The gods have become diseases."  

- C. G. Jung, Alchemical Studies (Collected Works, Vol. 13)

  

In this crucially insightful passage, Jung provides the key to understanding Daphne du Maurier's short story 'Not After Midnight' - a tragic tale of two ruined lives: by Silenian dipsomania in the case of a brutish American collector of antiquities, Mr. Stoll; and by pederastic satyrism in the case of the English schoolmaster and amateur painter Timothy Grey.

II.

Grey, who narrates the tale, begins by informing us that he has, in fact, recently resigned from his teaching post at a boy's prep school, "in order to forestall inevitable dismissal" [56].

The reason he gave for his resignation was ill health. But Grey doesn't specify what the nature of his sickness is, or why it should make his dismissal inevitable. He simply says that it was caused by a "wretched bug picked up on holiday in Crete" [56]. Clearly, however, it's more than a funny tummy ...

Has he, perhaps, caught some kind of sexually transmitted disease? Is that the universal complaint from which he suffers? A dose of the clap would seem to be a possibility, but Grey is keen for us to know that the bug he caught "was picked up in all innocence" and was not due to "excess of the good life" [56].     

It also seems possible that Grey is, in fact, referring indirectly to what some consider a perverse disorder; did he resign because repressed homosexual desire had manifested itself and become known to his fellow teachers and pupils? The following statement lends credence to this:

"My complaint is universal, and has been so through the ages, an excuse for jest and hilarious laughter from earliest times, until one of us oversteps the mark and becomes a menace to society." [56]

Actually, this explanation - although mistaken - is nearer the mark. But what Grey suffers from is not the flowering of an all too human sexual predisposition; his erotomania is the result, rather, of divine madness - or what Grey describes as a form of insidious evil.

In other words, he's in the process of becoming-satyr, rather than merely coming out - and that's a much more problematic proposition within modern European culture; for whilst homosexuality has been decriminalised (and is, in fact, now thought of as something to celebrate), paedophilia certainly hasn't (and isn't).

III.  

Grey's problems begin when he bumps into the physically intimidating and drunken figure of Stoll, who gives him a gift; a drinking vessel which, whilst empty of libation, was nevertheless still able to intoxicate:

"It was a small jug, reddish in colour, with a handle on either side for safe holding. [...] The body of the jug had been shaped cunningly and brilliantly into a man's face, with upstanding ears like scallop-shells, while protruding eyes and bulbous nose stood out above the leering, open mouth, the moustache drooping to the rounded beard that formed the base. At the top, between the handles, were the upright figures of three strutting men, their faces similar to that upon the jug, but here human resemblance ended, for they had neither hands nor feet but hooves, and from each of their hairy rumps extended a horse's tail." [88]

That night, Grey has queer dreams from which he struggles to awaken; dreams that "belonged to some other unknown world horribly intermingled with [his] own" [89]:

"Term had started, but the school in which I taught was on a mountain top hemmed in by forest [...] My boys, all of them familiar faces, lads I knew, wore vine-leaves in their hair, and had a strange, unearthly beauty both endearing and corrupt. They ran towards me, smiling, and I put my arms about them, and the pleasure they gave me was insidious and sweet, never before experienced, never before imagined, the man who pranced in their midst and played with them was not myself, not the self I knew, but a demon shadow emerging from a jug [...]" [89]

Grey decides the rhyton is a source of magical malevolence and that the terrible dreams which it induced were utterly foreign to his nature - but one can't help wondering about this; perhaps it simply enables one to become who one is ...

Later in the tale, we discover that Stoll has also left Grey a bottle of home-brewed drink, which, surprisingly, he agrees to try:

"It was like the barley-water my mother used to make when I was a child. And equally tasteless. And yet ... it left a sort of aftermath on the palate and the tongue. Not as sweet as honey nor as sharp as grapes, but pleasant, like the smell of raisins under the sun, curiously blended with the ears of ripening corn." [91]

He even drinks the stuff for a second time; from the demonic jug, which, on reflection - and under the influence of Stoll's home-brew -, now appeared rather beautiful:

"I don't know how it was, but somehow the leering face no longer seemed so lewd. It had a certain dignity that had escaped me before. [...] I wondered whether Socrates had looked thus when he strolled in the Athenian agora with his pupils and discoursed on life. He could have done. And his pupils may not necessarily have been the young men whom Plato said they were, but of a tenderer age, like my lads at school, like those youngsters of eleven or twelve who had smiled upon me in my dreams [...]" [97]

Grey continues:

"I felt the scalloped ears, the rounded nose, the full soft lips of the tutor Silenos upon the jar, the eyes no longer protruding but questioning, appealing, and even the naked horsemen on the top had grown in grace. It seemed to me now they were not strutting in conceit but dancing with linked hands, filled with gay abandon, a pleasing, wanton joy." [97]

It is only upon discovering the body of Stoll beneath the waves - "grotesque, inhuman [... swaying] backwards and forwards at the bidding of the current" [99] - that Grey, with understandable panic, decides to fling the jug into the sea:

"Even as I did so, I knew the gesture was in vain. It did not sink immediately but remained bobbing on the surface, then slowly filled with that green translucent sea, pale as the barley liquid laced with spruce and ivy. Not innocuous but evil, stifling conscience, dulling intellect, the hell-brew of the smiling god Dionysus, which turned his followers into drunken sots, would claim another victim [...] The eyes in the swollen face stared up at me, and they were not only those of Silenos the satyr tutor, and of the drowned Stoll, but my own as well [...] They seemed to hold all knowledge in their depths, and all despair." [100]

IV.

The point of the tale is this: becoming-Greek in a Classical sense certainly opens up a whole new way of life and a whole new world of experience, but from the moral-legal standpoint of today it spells trouble, putting you at risk of a lengthy prison sentence and of having your name added to the sex offenders register.

Those who romanticise the pre-Christian past in all its pagan splendour and think the gods of Olympus were a splendid bunch, should maybe read a bit more history and acknowledge the tragic nature of Greek mythology in which incest, rape, murder, and sodomy (in its widest sense) were the norm.*

*Note: Some readers - with knowledge of my background in Dionysian philosophy and an openly pagan past - might be surprised (even disappointed) by this conclusion. But I would remind them that even a youthful Nietzsche, writing in The Birth of Tragedy, wasn't for frenzied excess and promiscuity overriding every form of law; he warns against the savage urges of lust and cruelty and advocates for their aesthetic sublimation.  
 

See: 

C. G. Jung, The Collected Works, Vol. 13: Alchemical Studies, ed. Gerhard Adler, trans. R. F. C. Hull, (Princeton University Press, 1983), 'Commentary on "The Secret of the Golden Flower"', para. 54. 

Daphne du Maurier, 'Not After Midnight', in Don't Look Now and Other Stories, (Penguin Books, 2006), pp. 56-100. All page references given in the text refer to this edition.

Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy, trans. Shaun Whiteside, (Penguin Books, 1993).

This post is for Maria Thanassa.

Notes on Plant-Thinking: A Philosophy of Vegetal Life by Michael Marder (Part 2: Vegetal Anti-Metaphysics)

Front cover design by Evan Gaffney

In part one of this post I discussed the introduction and epilogue to Michael Marder's Plant-Thinking. Here, and in part three, I'd like to discuss the five chapters that are divided between two main sections: Vegetal Anti-Metaphysics and Vegetal Existentiality.

As there's quite a lot of material to deal with, I hope I'll be forgiven for simply selecting out the bits that particularly resonate with my own philosophical interests as a floraphile ...

I. Vegetal Anti-Metaphysics

(1) The Soul of the Plant ...

 As Marder recognises:

"Modern readers are likely to greet positive references to 'the soul of plants' with suspicion. This is not only because it seems absurd [...] but also because we have grown deeply mistrustful of the heavy metaphysical and theological baggage weighing down this paleonym." [17]

That's not going to stop him, however, from using a phrase that combines the most ethereal with the most earthly of things, if only because Marder is happy to position himself outside (or on the margins) of "respectable philosophical discourses" and, more importantly, because he believes it is the conjunction of these two terms - soul and plant - that allow for a "point of entry into the post-metaphysical ontology of vegetal life" [18].

I'm not entirely sure how that might work, but Marder insists that each term importantly transforms the other: "the plant confirms the 'truth' of the soul as something, in large part, non-ideal, embodied, mortal, and this-worldly, while the soul, shared with other living entities and construed as the very figure for sharing, corroborates the vivacity of the plant in excess of a reductively conceptual grasp." [19]

In other words, plant keeps the soul real; whilst soul stops the plant becoming purely an object of scientific analysis (i.e. cut and dried) - it keeps the plant alive in all its obscure and exuberant otherness. Again, this might be nonsense, but it's seductive nonsense on a cold, wet afternoon in November - even if, like Wilde, I prefer to relate the beauty of the flower to a condition of soullessness.

Still, as long as the soul is being seized by the scruff of her neck and kept down amongst the plant pots, I'm prepared to go along with it, though do feel a little happier thinking plant life in terms of obscure non-objects, rather than vegetal soul; "obscure because it ineluctably withdraws, flees from sight and from rigorous interpretation; non-object, because it works outside, before, and beyond all subjective considerations and representations" [20].

One should also mention the virtual immobility of plants - that too is surely a crucial aspect of plant being. Fichte, as Marder reminds us, refers to this barely perceptible motion as das erste Prinzip der Bewegung in der Natur. Watching a plant grow or reposition itself (without the aid of time-lapse photography) isn't as boring as watching paint dry, but for a fast-moving, impatient mammal such as ourselves, it certainly requires a huge amount of discipline.

The pace and rhythm of plant life is simply "too subtle for our cognitive and perceptual apparatuses to register" [21] and that explains why we often think of them as being closer to inanimate objects than living animals. Because the cactus in the corner doesn't leap about like the cat, we think it is less vital, or that it only seems to be alive. Two-and-a-half millennia after Aristotle, D. H. Lawrence was still pushing the same line; insisting, for example, that there is a hierarchy of life in which the fast-moving little ant is superior even to the pine-tree, because more vividly alive:

"We know it, there is no trying to refute it. It is all very well saying that they are both alive in two different ways, and therefore they are incomparable, incommensurable. This is also true.    
     [...] Truly, it is futile to compare an ant with a great pine-tree, in the absolute. Yet as far as existence is concerned, they are not only placed in comparison to one another, they are occasionally pitted against one another. And if it comes to a contest, the little ant will devour the life of the huge tree."* 

The inferiority of plants is just how things are in nature; it's not something to lament over or try to reform. Only in the fourth dimension of being do things become nonpareil; i.e., perfect beyond comparison. But in the realm of existence, says Lawrence, plants are subject to and less vital than animals (though he admits that daisies were here before us and will continue to flower long after even our mightiest monuments have crumbled into dust). 

It's precisely this kind of thinking - rooted in a theo-fictitious vitalism - that Marder is attempting to overturn. He wishes to know more of plant-soul in all its "non-human and non-animal modality" [22]. Our leafy friends may not dance and may not have eyes, but they're not ontologically lacking, defective, or incomplete.

However, plants should not be fetishised, says Marder; by which I think he means wrapped in myth and venerated and whilst I don't much like his use of the term in this manner, I'm glad he's alert to the danger of worshipping plants as magical objects invested with sacred spirit. 

If plants don't move much or very quickly, they do of course grow and as Marder points out:

"The dunamis of the vegetal soul, its capacity for growth but also for decay and the assimilation of nutrients, sets itself to work in a seemingly limitless extension in every conceivable direction, not just in a heliocentric tending toward the light." [37]

In other words, plant life expresses itself via a spatial becoming that is also a becoming-literal of intentionality; by the putting forth of new leaves, the extending of roots, and the fading of its flowers, the plant exercises and enacts the capacities of its soul "without ever fully actualizing or accomplishing them" [38].

I suppose a Nietzschean might at this point speak of the plant's will to power and ask if it's really all that different from that found in animal and man; a desire to become-more (to blossom) and to experience the feeling of power via a (paradoxical) expenditure of energy. Like Plato - but unlike Aristotle who vehemently resisted the idea - Nietzsche accepted plants as desiring beings, but he uncoupled his concept of desire from the negative connotations of absence and lack. Marder, however, isn't very happy with Nietzsche's "reductive view of the plant as a vegetal manifestation of the will to power" [40].

Partly, this is because he buys into Heidegger's reading of Nietzsche as an inverted Platonist and the last metaphysician. And partly, it's because Nietzsche robs vegetal life of its "multiple semantic layers" [41] and obscurity: "besides projecting anthropomorphic feelings and behaviours onto plants, he [Nietzsche] includes them under the concepts of sameness and identity ... [ignoring] the fact that in the absence of a clearly demarcated space of psychic interiority, they [plants] are incapable of incorporating anything in their souls which merge with the materiality of their bodies" [41].

I think what this means is that, for Marder, Nietzsche is guilty of an insensitive imperialism that still hinges upon notions of self and non-self, with the latter existing only to be conquered or appropriated. In his own post-metaphysical philosophy, in contrast, the plant's "inability to establish an identity with itself by means of the other" [41] is a prerequisite for a radical understanding of difference and becoming. 

It's a bit harsh: and, in fact, it's quite simply false to say, as Marder says, that will to power is all about accumulating power to the self and that Nietzsche "does not entertain the hypothesis that the phenomena of life [...] often preclude the hoarding of power" [42]. Nietzsche scorned the ideal of self-preservation; he thought it at best an indirect consequence of a living being's desire to discharge and even to squander its strength.   

The thing is, for onto-political reasons, Marder doesn't want plants to be selfish and aggressive beings; he desperately wants them to be caring, sharing members of a vegetal democracy, whose "inherent respect for alterity" [42] is key:

"Positively understood, the dispersed life of plants is a mode of being in relation to all others, being qua being-with [...] vegetal democracy is open  [...] to all species without exception." [51-52]

And in some sweaty, subtropical wetland or godforsaken jungle, I can hear a Venus flytrap begin to laugh ...


(2) The Body of the Plant ...

"What does metaphysics have to do with plants? What can this group of heterogeneous beings [...] tell us about being 'as such and as a whole', let alone about resisting the core metaphysical values of presence and identity that the totality of being entails?" [54]

One can imagine how a sceptical reader might well reply ... But I'm intrigued by what Marder has to say; particularly his claim that the loss of plant varieties and biodiversity is symptomatic not just of capitalist economies, but "of a much more profound trend - the practical implementation of the metaphysics of the One [...] in human and non-human environments" [55].

This monolithic and monomaniacal enframing is something that has long concerned me, but I've not stopped to consider (until now) that plants might have "a crucial role in the ongoing transvaluation of metaphysical value sysytems" [55], precisely because they have been so shut-out of traditional philosophy and its political-economic avatars.

From the position of absolute exteriority, "plants accomplish a living reversal of metaphysical values [...] and thus contribute to the destabilization of hierarchical dualisms" [56]. Or at least that's Marder's fantasy; a green deconstruction carried out in perfect silence (apart perhaps from the rustle of leaves) that we might think of as a sort of Derridean day of the triffids.  

The familiar narrative in European philosophy goes like this: blame it all on Plato! And Marder doesn't disappoint us by going off-script; the inception of Western metaphysics, that privileges the onto-theological status of the human, is rooted in Plato's thinking. And yet, amusingly, Plato also considers man as a kind of heavenly plant with both head and roots located in the sky above (i.e. the eidectic sphere).

We are literally nourished by ideas and Western metaphysics begins with "the inversion of the earthly perspective of the plant, a deracination of human beings uprooted from their material foundations and transplanted into the heavenly domain" [57]. This has been disastrous for mankind and also produced a "correlatve devaluation of the literal plant, mired with its roots in the darkness of the earth as much as in non-conscious existence" [57].

No wonder then, that modern thinkers, such as Nietzsche and Heidegger, who are anti-Platonic and wish to deconstruct Western metaphysics, tend to side with the plants and exploit vegetal metaphors in their writings. For both, man (and culture) blossoms only when rooted in the soil.

Now, there are, admittedly, problems with such organic thinking, but I'll not address these here; suffice it to say that I agree with Marder that "the first targets of the transvaluation of values are the transcendental ideals now brought down to earth, back to their concealed roots in the sphere of immanence" [59] and that all vegetal materialisms are, to some degree or other, an inversion of Plato's own inversion of reality.   

I also agree that it's important to remember that "germination commences in the middle, in the space of the in-between" [63]. In other words, "it begins without originating and turns the root and flower alike into variegated extensions of the [de-centered] middle, in marked contrast to the idealist insistence on the spirituaity of the blossom and the materialist privileging of the root" [63]. 

Thus: "The root and the flower are neither essential nor radically indispensable, having lost their metaphysical status as the spiritual culminations of vegetal being." [64] And for Marder, this makes plants onto-politically ethical; "they cover the earth but do not dominate or conquer it; they seek their 'place in the sun' but do not usurp the place of others" [66]. Again, I can hear the laughter of jungle plants at this point ...

I mean, plants may do all kinds of wonderful things - including mediating between the living and the dead - but I'm extremely wary of sentences like this: "While plant existence is ethical, post-metaphysical ethics is vegetal." [69] That's just too morally convenient to be true and the radical dependence of plants on its environment shouldn't be mistaken for altruism or unconditional generosity. 

But of course, it's hard to know; if only because plants themselves remain silent on the issue; and the silence of plants is "unbreakable and absolute" [75]. That's not to say they don't find other ways to communicate - chemically, for example - but, as even Prince Charles might concede, talking to plants is not the same as speaking with them. Indeed, as Pardner discovered, when you talk to the trees, they don't even listen to you ...

Despite this vegetal rudeness, for Marder, the language of plants belongs to a "hyper-materialist tradition" [75] that is about posturing and spatial relations and relies as much on the poetic thought of Francis Ponge as it does Walter Benjamin's language of things. Ultimately, each and every tree or plant has it's own unique language - which is why the destruction of each and every tree or plant "signals the obliteration of the meaning that it is in the extended materiality of its posture" [76].  
 
That's a profoundly beautiful point; one that those responsible for the destruction of the rainforests - or, indeed, for casually cementing over their front gardens so they can conveniently park their cars - are never, ever going to understand. But, in the long run, it's vegetal life and not human life that's probably going to have the last laugh and the figure of the plant which "furnishes the prototype for post-metaphysical being" [90].  

* Note: D. H. Lawrence, 'Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine', in Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge University Press, 1988), p. 357. 

See: Michael Marder, Plant-Thinking: A Philosophy of Vegetal Life (Columbia University Press, 2013). All page numbers given in the text refer to this work. 

Part one of this post - encountering plants and ethical offshoots - can be accessed by clicking here. 

To read part three - on vegetal existentiality - click here.

Philosophical Reflections on Self-Partnering

Emma Watson
Photo: Action Press / Rex / Shutterstock

As members of the Hollywood set are amongst the most self-absorbed, self-obsessed, and self-indulgent individuals in the world, it came as no surprise to hear Emma Watson speak in an interview with Vogue about self-partnering [click here to read online].

Of course, such a single-positive proposition is really nothing very new: we could trace out a long and fascinating history of self-partnering from Narcissus to Jerry Seinfeld; "Now I know what I've been looking for all these years - myself. I've been waiting for me to come along. And now I've swept myself off my feet!"*

And although some people seem to react with hostility to the idea, there's really nothing to get angry or judgemental about. In fact, I would encourage people to be happy for Ms Watson - particularly as she seems to be so content with the arrangement.

Ultimately, self-partnering is better than sitting around moping like Bridget Jones, or complaining about not having met your soulmate - that special someone who will complete you as a human being (as if Aristophanes's amorous fantasy was anything other than that).**

I also agree with Foucault that care for others shouldn't be put before the care of oneself; that the latter is ethically prior due to the fact that the relationship with oneself is ontologically prior. ***    

The only problem comes when you grow tired of the arrangement and seek a conscious uncoupling; i.e., a releasing of oneself from oneself  - 'cos breaking up is hard to do (comma, comma, down dooby doo down down).  

Notes

*Dialogue from Seinfeld, 'The Invitations', (S7/E22, 1999), written by Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld, episode dir. Andy Ackerman. Click here to watch a clip on YouTube.

** Plato, The Symposium, ed. M. C. Howatson and Frisbee C. C. Sheffield, trans. M. C. Howatson, (Cambridge University Press, 2008).

*** Michel Foucault, 'The Ethics of the Concern for Self as a Practice of Freedom', in The Essential Works of Michel Foucault 1: Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth, ed. Paul Rabinow, trans. Robert Hurley and Others, (The New Press, 1997).

Readers who enjoyed this post will probably find an earlier one on sologamy also of interest: click here.

When Ancient and Modern Worlds Collide: Notes on the Profane Fate of Plato's Sacred Olive Tree

A preserved section of Plato's olive tree

Agricultural University of Athens

According to legend, the ancient Greeks had the minor deity and culture-hero Aristaeus to thank for teaching them three essential skills: cheese-making, bee-keeping and - most crucially of all - the care and cultivation of olive trees.

For whilst the Greeks liked their feta and honey, they really loved their olive oil ...

Not only was the latter a key ingredient in their cuisine, for example, but they would anoint their kings and champion athletes with it. Indeed, even ordinary citizens, including philosophers, liked to rub olive oil onto their bodies in order to keep the skin supple and healthy.

Thus, it's really no surprise to discover that Plato's Academy was situated next to a sacred olive grove dedicated to the goddess Athena. It's believed that each of the twelve gated entrances to the school had its own tree standing as an evergreen sentinel and symbol of wisdom, fertility, and purity.

But there was also one very special olive tree under which Plato was said to have taught his students. And this tree continued to stand for thousands of years - long after the Academy itself had crumbled into dust - until, on one fateful day in October 1976, a bus was driven into it, breaking the noble trunk in two.

The upper section was taken to the Agricultural University where it has been preserved and displayed ever since. The lower part, however, including the enormous roots, remained at the original site until being dug up in January 2013 to serve as firewood by local people adversely affected by the Greek financial crisis.

Or so the popular story goes, as reported widely at the time by both local and international media ...  

Seeking to clarify the situation, however, the General Directorate of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage issued a (seemingly little-read) statement a few days later explaining that Plato's olive tree had, in fact, been uprooted and killed - not merely damaged - as a result of the accident 37 years earlier.

A new tree, with three trunks, had been planted in its place by the Agricultural University of Athens and it was one of these that was removed, having died, on January 6th, 2013 (the other two trunks remaining intact and in situ).       

Whilst there are amusing aspects to this tale, one can very well imagine what Plato - who esteemed truth above all things - would think of fake news: False words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil.

Photo: Olive Oil Times Collection

Reflections on the Death of a Sparrow (In Memory of Jodie Chesney)

A Trace of Feathers: Derridean Ornithological Absence 
(SA/2019)

I.

Yesterday was witness to an act of savage beauty as a sparrowhawk made a meal of one of the birds that live in the tangle of blackberry, honeysuckle and rose bush in the back garden, leaving nothing behind but a trace of feathers that gave rise to philosophical thoughts of presence and absence ... 

II.

The ontological terms presence and absence have a long history within Western philosophy, usually with the former being privileged over the latter, referring as it does to being in a positive sense; i.e., that which is directly at hand in a non-mediated manner and therefore linked to reality and to truth (the ultimate form of presence for Plato).

Derrida, however, famously deconstructs such thinking and shows how absense is not merely parasitic upon presence - is not merely a form of non-being there - and how presence is in fact always mediated and, indeed, reliant upon absence (i.e., being rests upon non-being, not vice versa).    

In so doing, Derrida is developing Heidegger's work on the metaphysics of presence, as set out in Being and Time (1927); attacking notions of origin, for example, and showing how the relationship between presence and absence is much more subtle - and much more playful - than many thinkers have realised.

For Derrida, representational absence is itself a form of presence; thus traces of feather, for example, speak not merely of a poor sparrow's death and absence, but also of their life and continued presence-as-absence. 

And, in a similar manner, we might suggest that the purple ribbons presently tied all over Harold Hill - on trees, fences, lamp posts, etc. - speak of Jodie Chesney's continued presence-as-absence ...    

III.

Nothing makes sense of the death of a sparrow - nor of a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl murdered as she sat in a park with her boyfriend, listening to music. But, thanks to the work of writers such as Derrida, it's at least possible to think beyond a dreary binary distinction that assigned value exclusively to presence and made of absence something inferior, something false. 

Feathers and ribbons don't do away with or disguise the fact of death. But such traces provide poignant reminders of lives once lived and allow us to know that the dead are with us still ...

Thanks to Símón Solomon for suggesting a Derridean perspective on the subject matter of this post.

On Socrates and the Electric Ray (Or How Philosophy Begins in Stunned Silence)

Socrates (Homo philosophicus) and the common torpedo fish (Torpedo torpedo)

As most people know, the term torpedo - in the modern sense of the word - refers to a self-propelled underwater weapon with an explosive warhead, designed to detonate either on contact with its target, or in close proximity to it.   

But what many people don't know, however, is that the word comes from the name of a genus of electric rays in the order Torpediniformes (which, in turn, comes from the Latin torpere - to be numb or stiff).

And what hardly anyone knows - apart from those rare few who have been infected with the love of wisdom (what the ancient Greeks termed φιλοσοφία) - is that Socrates was on one occasion called a torpedo fish ...

In one of Plato's dialogues, a student by the name of Meno visits Athens in order to discuss with Socrates the nature of virtue. Before long, however, the latter starts to irritate and perplex the younger man (as he did a great many others) with his dialectical (and diabolical) method.

Meno says:

I was told before meeting you, Socrates, that you delighted in self-doubt and in making others feel unsure of themselves. No surprise then, that you should seek to beguile me with your magic tricks and incantations, reducing me to a state of utter confusion. You appear to be in all respects - if I may lightheartedly say so - like the flat torpedo fish; a deep-sea creature which anaesthetizes anyone who comes into contact with it. Certainly you have done something of this sort to me. For in truth, I feel my soul and my tongue both numb and I'm incapable of answering you. [79e-80b]     

This important passage tells us something vital about the origin of philosophy; it doesn't just begin in amazement and curiosity, or awe and admiration, but in stunned silence.

Before you can begin to wonder, that is to say, you have first to be rendered speechless before the world; something that the sophists - believing human language to be the key to everything - would find difficult to accept and Meno, it will be recalled, was a student of Gorgias.

Who knows, when people learn to shut the fuck up for a minute, perhaps even virtue becomes a possibility. And even if not, the electrifying truth of philosophy is shocking.  

Notes

The passage quoted from Plato's Meno is a new translation by Dr Maria Thanassa, based on the Greek text (in consultation with the English translation by W. R. M. Lamb), in the Loeb Classical Library edition, (Harvard University Press, 1977). 

For information on a fantastic project called the Torpedo Fish, by Diego Agulló, that involves art, dance and philosophy and attempts to investigate the affinity between the Body and Event, click here. 

Xanthippe

I: The Nietzschean View of Marriage

Nietzsche famously declares that all great philosophers are instinctive bachelors who dislike marriage as well as that which might persuade them into it. For a free spirit, the prospect of settling down to a domestic life with a little woman by their side and a pair of slippers by the bed is anathema. They dream of living on mountain top or in those unexplored realms of dangerous knowledge. Home sweet home strikes them as a kind of cosy prison built in the name of Love. 

And Nietzsche even provides us with a convenient list of unmarried philosophers to prove his point; a list that includes Heraclitus, Plato, Descartes, Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer - and, of course - himself. None of these thinkers ever wed and, what's more, it's almost impossible to imagine them married.

A philosopher who has tied the knot, concludes Nietzsche, belongs to comedy - as the case of Socrates proves. Whether the latter wed ironically in order to demonstrate this point, as Nietzsche claims, I don't know. But the fact is, Socrates - an undoubtedly great philosopher - did marry and I'd like to say a few words about his wife ...

II: The Blonde Horse

Xanthippe was an Athenian from a possibly noble (certainly privileged) family, who, despite her name, is believed to have had flaming red hair. She was also much younger than her husband, to whom she bore three sons. Plato portrays her in the Phaedo as a devoted wife and mother, but she is described in other works - such as Xenophon's Symposium - as difficult and argumentative.

Socrates, however, is said to have found these latter characteristics attractive and crucial to his own development as a philosopher; perhaps less so after she allegedly emptied a chamber pot over his head in a fit of jealous rage, although even this he accepted with philosophical grace, saying: "After the thunder comes the rain."

This, and other stories of her violent temper, have rightly or wrongly left us with the impression that Xanthippe was - to put it crudely - a bit of a bitch. Indeed, her name has now come to mean any sharp-tongued and assertive woman. In Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew, for example, Petruchio famously compares Katherine to Xanthippe. More recently, the sarcastic and rebellious teen character played by Dylan Gelula in the Netflix comedy Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt is named after Socrates's wife.

Ultimately, who's to know what kind of woman Xanthippe was - or why she agreed to her parents suggestion that she marry an ugly, elderly, penniless philosopher who spent a good deal of time drinking with his friends whilst pursuing his love of wisdom (and young boys). Nevertheless, she stuck with him to the bitter end, which shows fidelity on her part and indicates that he must have had something about him that she found lovable.

Even the Moon's Frightened of Me! (Philosophical Reflections on the Case of the Invisible Man)

 Claude Rains as The Invisible Man

(Universal Pictures, 1933)

"We'll begin with a reign of terror, a few murders here and there; murders of great men, murders of little men - 

just to show we make no distinction." 

I: The Invisible Man and the Ring of Gyges

The Invisible Man is one of the most philosophically interesting fictional characters within the cultural imagination. First appearing (and disappearing) in a short novel by H. G. Wells in 1897, he challenges us to address important ethical questions, including the following: Is virtuous behaviour dependent upon observation?  
 
In order to answer, we might refer back to Plato's Republic and the Ring of Gyges ...

The Ring of Gyges, for those unfamiliar with the above text, is a magical object which granted its owner the power to become invisible at will. In the Republic, Plato's brother Glaucon doubts that any man is so naturally good that he'd resist the temptation of performing wicked deeds were he invisible:

"No man would keep his hands off what was not his own if he could safely steal what he liked from the market, or enter houses and fuck with any one at his pleasure, kill, or release from prison whom he wished and in all respects be like a god among men."

This proves, he argues, that morality is a social construct - not an inherent trait - whose foundation is a desire to maintain one's reputation and avoid public shame or punishment. If, however, there was no danger of that thanks to an ability to become invisible, then one's moral character would also soon vanish and the just man would be indistinguishable from the unjust. 

Glaucon concludes that all men know in their hearts that crime pays and that anyone who had the power of invisibility but failed to exploit it fully would be thought to be an idiot by others. Thus he's obliged to take personal advantage of the power in order not to seem stupid. In other words, whilst the man who can be seen protects his public image by being virtuous, the man who becomes imperceptible only keeps face by behaving in an immoral fashion.

It takes him a while, but Socrates eventually addresses this argument and reaffirms his belief that moral virtue is divine in origin rather than social and that it's ultimately always in the individual's best interest to be just rather than unjust, because the gods love the former and will reward them accordingly if not in this life then in the next.

Those who would abuse the gift of invisibility, are, says Socrates, enslaved by their own base appetites; only the man who freely chooses not to use such power remains master of himself and is therefore truly happy.      


II: The Invisible Man and the Helm of Darkness

If Plato helps explain why Dr Griffin's invisibility triggers his criminality, it doesn't answer why we find him so much more disturbing and unheimlich than other masked maniacs, such as the Phantom of the Opera, for example. Why is it that the latter exposing his facial disfigurement doesn't unnerve us as much as when the former strips away his bandages to reveal no face at all?

To help answer this, we must again turn to the ancient Greeks and consider the Helm of Darkness worn by Hades ...

In Greek mythology, the Helm of Darkness is a helmet that enables the wearer to become invisible. Zeus has his lightning bolt; Poseidon has his trident. But it's Hades, the chthonic god, who possesses the magical helmet which gained him his title of the Unseen One.    

It's because of this link between invisibility and the Underword - i.e., between invisibility and the gloomy realm of death - that the Invisible Man continues to unsettle as a figure. For no one wants to be reminded of the death that awaits them; an undifferentiated state devoid of all personal characterization into which all mortal things eventually vanish.  

Certainly the ancient Greeks didn't. To them, Hades was a fearsome figure and they avoided even mentioning his name if possible (indeed, around the 5th century BC they began to refer to him by the more positive-sounding name of Pluto) and when they made a sacrifice to him (often of a black sheep) they always made sure to hide or avert their faces - as if making themselves invisible before him.  

In sum, in as much as the Invisible Man triggers some kind of mythological memory of Hades, this is why he creeps us out. He particularly upsets those who refuse to confront the ontological truth that Dasein rests upon the void of non-being (sein Nicht-mehr-dasein, as Heidegger writes). It's this that produces horror in those egoists who, as D. H. Lawrence says, dare not die for fear they should be nothing at all.


See: Plato, The Republic, 2:358a-2:360d and 10:612b. 

Sympathy for the Devil: The Case of Milo Yiannopoulos

Photo of Milo Yiannopoulos by Jill Greenberg 
for a feature-interview by Chadwick Moore 
in Out Magazine (21 Sept 16).

 

Darling of the alt-right and troll provocateur, Milo Yiannopoulos is, without question, an irritating and often obnoxious little prick; someone who mistakenly believes that because he has a beautiful mouth, he can get away with saying ugly things.

However, I would absolutely defend his right to say those ugly things and think the decision by Simon and Schuster to cancel publication of his autobiography, Dangerous (due out later this year and for which they reportedly paid him a $250,000 advance), is as absurd as the moral guardians at Twitter placing him under a lifetime ban from their news and networking service.

For it seems to me that freedom of speech has to cover what many would identify as hate speech or abusive language, in order to be worth defending. If it only guarantees the right of snowflakes to hear what they want to hear in the comfort of their safe spaces, or merely serves to reinforce liberal values and public opinion, then we may as well rip up the First Amendment.

Similarly, if you pride yourself on an ideal of tolerance, then, my friend, you must learn to tolerate that which and those whom you find intolerable. Only tolerating that which and those whom you find tolerable is nothing to be proud of - in fact it's nothing at all; a mere pretence of sufference in order to hypocritically virtue signal.

Simon and Schuster’s decision followed outrage over the release of a recording in which Yiannopoulos was said to endorse paedophilia. What he actually says, however, is that the age of consent is purely arbitrary - which, obviously, it is - and that a pederastic relationship between a younger boy and an older man can be a hugely positive experience - which, as the ancient Greeks demonstrated, can certainly be the case (I suggest Milo's outraged critics read Plato).

Thus, claims that Yiannopoulos advocated or endorsed the sexual exploitation of children are false and far more scurrilous than anything he has ever said or written. And so, whilst it's hard to feel too sorry for him, I nevertheless find myself sympathetic on this occasion - doubtless thereby earning the contempt and stern, po-faced disapproval of the anti-Milo that is Owen Jones ...


Note: those who are interested in this debate might like to read Owen Jones's righteously indignant piece in The Guardian entitled 'Milo Yiannopoulos's enablers deserve contempt - and must be confronted' (21 Feb 2017): click here.
   
See also the related post on Milo Yiannopouos: click here. 

Rilke: Letters on Cézanne (Some Brief Remarks)

Rilke is one of those poets I should probably appreciate more than I do. But, if I'm honest, I find the lyrical intensity and the mysticism of his verse a bit much. Even his Dinggedichte are not quite concrete and thingly enough for me; push comes to shove, I prefer the work of Francis Ponge.

Similarly, Cézanne is an artist I should also admire more than I do; the only modern painter that Lawrence officially endorses - not so much because of his achievement as because of his struggle and his willingness to admit that material objects actually exist. But, if given the choice, I'd rather have a Picasso on the wall.
      

Reading Rilke's Letters on Cézanne, however, has made me want to learn how to love the work of each man more ... 

Rilke wrote the letters to his wife, Clara, during the autumn of 1907, following repeated visits to an exhibition in Paris of paintings by the great French artist, with whom he felt an increasingly powerful sense of kinship. It was such a decisive encounter in terms of impact that, after this date, Rilke often cited Cézanne as the most formative influence on his poetry.

However, as the letters also reveal, Rilke felt dismay as well as delight before the paintings; Cézanne causing him to reflect upon his own inadequacies and shortcomings as an artist. Did he really have what it takes to produce greatness and to devote himself exclusively to his craft? Could he accept the challenge that Cézanne throws down to all those who come after him, which is to know the apple in all its appleyness and smash what Lawrence terms the optical cliché?

Crucially, Rilke recognises that Cézanne's work is a fundamental turning point - and not only within the history of Western art; Cézanne's oeuvre is a wider cultural and philosophical event that challenges Plato's Idealism. This is why he, Cézanne, is not only impossible for old ladies, but offensive to all those good bourgeois corpses who secretly feared and hated him.      


See: Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Cézanne, ed. Clara Rilke, trans. Joel Agee, (North Point Press, 2002).

See also: D. H. Lawrence, 'Introduction to These Paintings', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004). 

And for an alternative - more empassioned, much better illustrated - reading of the letters, see 'Being Your Work's Bitch' - a blog post on The Musing: click here.

Post 666: Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia

As numerical phobias go, fear of  666 - the number of the Beast - is certainly right up there within the cultural imagination; perhaps only the number 13 frightens or discomforts more people.    

Let those who have understanding reckon with this number, entreats the author of Revelation. And trying to puzzle out the precise nature and identity of the Beast has been something generations of scholars, theologians, artists and occultists have spent their lives doing. Aleister Crowley famously declared himself to be the Beast 666 and the number is key within his magickal system of Thelema.

According to Crowley, it's an important solar number; though whether this refers to the Ideal sun of Plato radiating Truth, Beauty and Goodness, or the malevolent sun of Bataille that decays and incites acts of sacrificial madness, I don't really know and, if I'm honest, don't really care - 'cos Crowley always rather bored me.     

Thus if, when young, I painted the number 666 on the collar of a shirt emblazoned with the words I am an anti-Christ / I am an anarchist, I was being more Rotten than Beastly ...       

Love Devalued (A Post for Valentine's)

When love becomes an ideal - when it becomes caught up in a system of values - then love becomes a problem. 

Not that you would know this to hear most people speak. For the majority, love remains a final solution, not something troublesome or in any way ambiguous; not even something particularly complex. Love is simply synonymous with the Good, the True, and the Beautiful. 

I know this having attended a public debate on the subject last night at Richmond Adult Community College, chaired by Filiz Peach. Not only did members of the audience seem to agree that Eros should be forever bound by the altruistic values of Christian moral culture, but, shamefully, so did the panel of speakers (even if they referred us not only to Jesus, but to Plato, Darwin and Freud). 

Half-hearted attempts to suggest a biological or psychological basis for love, didn't disguise the fact that essentially they remained believers in and advocates of a non-narcissistic love of self and a non-exploitative love of the other; i.e. a pure love that is all-embracing, ontologically-rooted, and prepared to sacrifice anything (or anyone) to ensure its triumph. A love to live for, a love to die for, and, ultimately, a love to kill for.

This might appear to be a rather extreme interpretation of what was said by the speakers, but it is precisely because love as an ideal knows no limits that it ends by becoming suicidal and homocidal. The murderer, says Lawrence, is all too often a lover acting on the recoil. 

This is lethal enough at an individual level, but it becomes far more fatal on a collective level when love as an ideal is allowed to infect our social and political life. Fascism, communism, and liberal humanism all act in the name of love and all bring death in their wake.

We need, then, to rethink this question of love. To free Eros from his ideal chains and forced complicity within a system of moral values. To make of love a game and an art; a way of playfully giving style to our lives, not of discovering some profound meaning. When we resist the urge to make love definitive of the truth of our being, we might even find we can enjoy it again ...

  

The Owl of Minerva

Photo of  the poet-philosopher Simon Solomon,

by Sara Larsson (2015).  

simonsolomon.ink

Here we are then at the fag end of another year; drifting about in that awful grey twilight zone that lies between Boxing Day and January 1st. Naturally, one reflects with a certain sad shyness on the twelve months past.

Indeed, according to Hegel, one is condemned as a critical thinker to do nothing but look back with large eyes and a sharp beak on historical events and ideas. For philosophy is a retrospective practice par excellence – ‘The owl of Minerva spreads its wings only when dusk begins to fall’ – as he put it so beautifully.

In other words, philosophy cannot legislate for the future or even legitimately analyse the present, because it understands only with hindsight; it doesn’t appear until life has unfolded and already completed its processes. Like anatomy, philosophy presupposes a corpse.

Perhaps that’s why so many philosophers choose to ignore Plato and turn to poetry, which is a form of thinking and speaking the truth that has maintained something of its prophetic or visionary character – something alien to the world of pure reason. Poetry memorializes the past, but it also responds to the nowness of the moment and anticipates the day after tomorrow (or the god who is coming).

The thinker-as-poet, who challenges the divide between metaphor and concept and the separation of the real and the imaginary, does far more than simply play with words from behind a fool's mask, or frolic on rainbows. Theirs is a thinking which, as Heidegger says, is the topology of Being; i.e., that which tells Being the whereabouts of its actual presence (in things).

Like Lawrence, I think it a great pity that philosophy and poetry have been kept in an antagonistic relationship for so long; it's been damaging to both our intellectual and emotional life. We should value those writers who further textual promiscuity and remember Zarathustra's eagle, or Shelley's skylark, not just Minerva's wise old owl ... 

Chaturbate and the Question of Cynicism

Georg Viktor: Diogenes in der Tonne (Raku ceramic figure) 

www.viktor-ge.org

For those of you who don’t know, Chaturbate is a popular pornographic website where individuals live-stream themselves engaged in sexual activity, either solo or with a partner or partners. Performers can earn money in the form of tips from viewers, but they are essentially amateurs in the pure sense of the term; i.e. they do it because they love to live an unconcealed and shameless life; a life that is constantly under the watchful eyes of others and before the virtual gaze of the camera.

Some critics argue that such behaviour is unnatural and immoral and I’ll come to this philosophically naive charge shortly. Others suggest it constitutes a way of being that is unique to the age in which we live; one that can only be understood in terms of the technology that facilitates it. But, of course, despite what the posthumanists think, there’s nothing new under the sun, and even so-called cybersex might be seen as nothing more than a digital restaging of life in its libidinally material reality.

As such, Chaturbate constitutes a novel revival of an obscene and scandalous ancient practice - Cynicism. Diogenes masturbated in the market place and his disciple Crates liked to fuck his wife in public; our twenty-first century cynics do these things online. But far from being corrupt or perverse, it’s actually a form of the good life; a type of true love taken to the logical extreme. For as even Plato knew, true love never hides itself away; it’s that which is always happy to reveal itself before witnesses.

Now, this is not to say that Plato would have approved of Chaturbate. He may have taught that truth loves to go naked, but he also subscribed to traditional rules of Greek propriety. There were limits and it was best to exercise caution and moderation. For Plato, Diogenes was beyond the pale; he was a Socrates gone mad. And Plato knew that if you push ideals to their extreme, then you effect a kind of transvaluation.

What Michel Foucault writes of the Cynic dramatization of the unconcealed life, is precisely what we might say of Chaturbate’s interactive community of cam-girls and cam-boys and their attempt to love with complete openness: chaturbating is “the strict, simple, and, in a sense, crudest possible application of the principle that one should live without having to blush at what one does”.

But, as a result of this, all the rules, habits, and conventions of behaviour which this principle initially accepted and reinforced, are now overturned. Cynicism explodes the code of propriety and offers the possibility of a radically different (more brazen, perhaps more brutal) form of life: one that is watched over by the goddess Anaideia.

See: Michel Foucault, The Courage of Truth, ed. Frédéric Gros, trans. Graham Burchell, (Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), The line quoted is on p. 255 of this paperback edition. 

On Queerness, Cynicism, and the Question of True Love

The notion of true love is central within Western culture. It's a concept founded upon the four values identified by Foucault as belonging to aletheia:

“True love is first, love which does not conceal ... because it has nothing to hide ... it is always willing to show itself in front of witnesses ... Second, true love is an unalloyed love ... in which sensual pleasure and the friendship of souls do not intermingle. Third, true love is love in line with what is right, with what is correct ... It has nothing contrary to the rule or custom. And finally, true love is love which is never subject to change or becoming. It is an incorruptible love which remains always the same.” [220-21]

You can find this ideal model of love developed in both Plato and what Nietzsche derided as Platonism for the people (Christianity). It’s a straight and straightforward form of love without subterfuge, disguise, or even curiosity; love that prides itself on its sincerity and its naturalness, rather than a sense of playfulness or sophistication. There’s simply nothing queer about it. It’s what normal, healthy, men and women share and upon which the sanctity of marriage is based.

Homosexuality, on the other hand, is, at its best - that is to say, at its most defiantly queer - the love that refuses to speak its name; the love that likes to stick to the shadows and hide in closets; the love that finds pride in its perverse, plural, and promiscuous character; an ironic, gender-bending, form of love that delights in artifice and in camp; a love that doesn’t conform to the heteronormative rule, or give a fig either about the judgement of God or what Nature dictates.

One might describe this queer radical style of homosexuality, as separatist. It certainly doesn’t want to fit into straight society and doesn’t keep banging on about equal rights; doesn’t long for a lifestyle involving monogamous marriage and the prospect of breeding. It isn't even particularly gay ...

In fact, we might best characterize it as Cynical in the ancient philosophical sense. That is to say, a type of practice which has a very militant idea of what constitutes the truth (of love and of life) and which has been “stamped by a scandal which has constantly accompanied it, a disapproval which surrounds it, a mixture of mockery, repulsion, and apprehension in reaction to its presence and manifestations” [231].

If Cynicism was the disgrace of ancient philosophy, then queer-cynical homosexuality is the travesty of true love; holding up a funfair mirror before Eros so that the latter can recognise himself, whilst, crucially, at the same time see himself outrageously distorted and made multiple.

See: Michel Foucault, The Courage of Truth, ed. Frédéric Gros, trans. Graham Burchell, (Palgrave Macmillan, 2012). Page numbers given refer to this paperback edition.

Return to Plato's Pharmacy

Say what you like about Socrates, but at least he didn't take any shit from poets.

This - of all things - was recently said to me - of all people (and in all seriousness) - by someone who really should have known better before offering not only a highly dubious defense of the spoken word, but what has become after Derrida a philosophically untenable privileging of the latter over the written text.

Who would have imagined that phonocentrism would still be making its voice heard in the digital age?

But, unfortunately, it is. And so we must return to ancient Greece once more and re-examine the Socratic prejudice against writing, which is conceived as a pharmakon - i.e., as a type of drug that has both beneficial and potentially lethal aspects.

According to Socrates, the gift of writing was one of many given by the Egyptian inventor-deity Theuth to the god-king Thamus. Theuth informs the latter that writing is useful as a powerful aide-memoire, but Thamus protests that its effect is likely to be quite the opposite; that whilst it might superficially remind people of the truth, it will not help them to genuinely remember and to know the truth as it essentially resides within the soul. In other words, writing creates the appearance or illusion of wisdom, but not the reality. The gift is thus returned and determined to be a grave danger rather than a great blessing (a poison, rather than a pleasure).

Developing this theme, Socrates tells his young companion, Phaedrus, that a written text is not to be trusted because, unlike an actual speaker, it lacks living, breathing presence and cannot answer questions or defend itself. A true lover of wisdom will always wish to address an audience in person and have his words heard directly by the ears of his listeners, rather than make use of the external marks of writing to be seen by the eyes of unknown (and perhaps unworthy) readers in private. Or, if a philosopher does succumb to the temptation to inscribe his thoughts, he will nevertheless be ready and willing to defend them in discussion with others; affirming his paternity or authorship of the text whilst at the same time having the decency to concede that his writings are derivative and of little value in comparison to his spoken words.

Derrida would have none of this Ideal nonsense and he rejects the myth of presence and the privileging of the voice and ear over the hand and eye. His reading of the Phaedrus is exemplary I think - despite predictable objections coming from some quarters. Without either agreeing or disagreeing with the arguments put forward by Socrates, Derrida exposes their gaps and instabilities, deconstructing the very logic upon which the Socratic method is founded. In other words, Derrida shows how Plato's attempt to casually insert writing into a system of metaphysical dualism fails because writing's status as a pharmakon means it cannot be fixed or stabilized; rather, it remains a play of possibilities that moves in, out, and across all oppositions slowly but surely infecting or polluting the entire system.

In the end, suggests Derrida, if you wish to understand language, then you need to acknowledge that it rests upon a model of arche-writing - and not the spoken word. This is not to advance an empirical assertion to the effect that writing emerged chronologically earlier than speech. That would be silly and factually incorrect. But writing is not secondary nor some kind of parasitic supplement to speech.

And the poet is not simply a poor relation to the philosopher ...