The Money Post

Alec Monopoly: Scarface Money Monops (2017) 

Acrylic on canvas with resin (30 x 48 inches)  

artsy.net

 

 

"Money makes the world go around / The world go around / The world go around 

Money makes the world go around / It makes the world go 'round." [1]

 

 

Despite this dynamic aspect - and all too predictably - D. H. Lawrence hated money - hated it! 

 

In one poem, for example, he calls it our vast collective madness and in another he says that money is a perverted instinct [...] which rots the brain, the blood, the bones, the stones, the soul [2]. 

 

In his 'Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine', meanwhile, Lawrence describes money as a golden wall which uniquely cuts us off from life; "not even the most fanatical dogmas of an iron-bound religion, can insulate us from the inrush of life and inspiration, as money can" [3].

 

Apart from these instances, there are many, many other occasions on which Lawrence delivers this anti-money sermon and even his fictional characters are obliged to trot out the same rhetoric. When not fucking Connie six ways from Sunday, for example, Mellors can't resist informing her that it is money - along with modern technology and forms of popular entertainment - which is to blame for sucking the spunk out of mankind [4].  

 

 

II. 

 

Interestingly, Lawrence's puritanical attitude towards money (and the love of money) aligns his thinking with those one might otherwise regard as his moral, political, and philosophical opponents: Christians, Marxists, and Freudians ...

 

This must surely make one suspicious of his thinking on this subject and question whether, as a matter of fact, money might be thought of in a more positive light; as that which creates happiness, rather than being at the root of all evil. 

 

That was certainly the view of the perverse materialist and utopian socialist Charles Fourier, who argued that happiness consists in having a number of diverse passions and - crucially - having the necessary financial means to satisfy them. In Fourier's ideal state, wealth is redeemed and money not only becomes desirable, but "participates in the brilliance of pleasure" [5].

 

Roland Barthes helps us understand why it is that Fourier insists that les sens ne peuvent avoir toute leur portée indirecte sans l'intervention de l'argent:   

 

"Curiously detached from commerce, from exchange, from the economy, Fourierist money is an analogic (poetic) metal, the sum of happiness. Its exaltation is obviously a countermeasure: it is because all (civilized) Philosophy has condemned money, that Fourier, destroyer of Philosophy and critic of Civilization, rehabilitates it: the love of wealth being a perjorative topos [...] Fourier turns contempt into praise [... and] everything, where money is concerned, seems to be conceived in view of this counter-discourse [...]" [6]

 

To advise his readers to seek out tangible wealth - gold, precious stones, and those luxury goods despised by our ascetic idealists - is, as Barthes says, a scandalous thing to do; a major transgression against the teachings of all those (including Lawrence) for whom money is something base and corrupting. 

      

I have to admit, I'm sympathetic to Fourier's view and have always smiled at a remark often attributed to Bo Derek: Whoever said money can't buy happiness simply didn't know where to go shopping.   

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Lyrics from the song 'Money, Money', written by John Kander and Fred Ebb for the big screen version of the musical Cabaret (dir. Bob Fosse, 1972). To watch the song being performed by Joel Gray (as the Master of Ceremonies) and Liza Minnelli (as Sally Bowles): click here. 

      Whilst this is still my favourite song written about money, mention might also be made of ABBA's 1976 single 'Money, Money, Money', written by Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus: click here. And 'Money (That's What I Want)', a rhythm and blues track written by Berry Gordy and Janie Bradford and originally recorded by Barrett Strong in 1959, but which I remember as a single by the Flying Lizards in 1979: click here.          

 

[2] See the poems 'Money-madness' and 'Kill money' in The Poems, Vol. I., ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 421-22. 

 

[3] 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. 363.  

[4] D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, ed. Michael Squires, (Cambridge University Press, 1993), p. 217. See also the closing letter written by Mellors to Connie (pp. 298-302), in which he again expresses his hatred for money and complains about the fact that modern people have conflated living with spending.    

[5] Roland Barthes, 'Fourier', in Sade / Fourier / Loyola, trans. Richard Miller, (University of California Press, 1989), p. 85. 

[6] Ibid., pp. 85-86.

 

 

To read another recent post on Fourier, click here. 

Reflections on the Killing of a Porcupine

Sterling silver brooch inspired by Wharton Esherick's 

woodcut illustration for D. H. Lawrence's  

Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine (Centaur Press, 1925)

Wharton Esherick Museum

 

 

I.

 

Perhaps due to a lingering sense of shame, Lawrence somewhat disingenuously calls his essay 'Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine' [1], when, in fact, the animal in question was very deliberatey killed by his own hand ...   

When he first encounters a large porcupine [2] on his ranch in New Mexico, D. H. decides to leave the poor creature alone; despite finding him repugnant and full of the same squalor that he identifies in bugs:

 

"The animal had raised all its hairs and bristles, so that by the light of the moon it seemed to have a tall, swaying, moonlit aureole arching its back as it went. That seemed curiously fearsome, as if the animal were emitting itself demon-like on the air.

      It waddled very slowly, with its spiky spoon-tail steering flat, behind the round bear-like mound of its back. It had a lumbering, beetle's, squalid motion, unpleasant. I followed it into the darkness of the timber, and there, squat like a great tick, it began scrapily to creep up a pine-trunk. [...]

      I stood near and watched, disliking the presence of the creature. [...]

      And he watched me. When he had got nearly the height of a man [...] he hesitated, and slithered down. Evidently he had decided, either that I was harmless, or else that it was risky to go up any further, when I could knock him off so easily with a pole. So he slithered podgily down again, and waddled away with the same bestial, stupid motion of that white-spiky repulsive spoon-tail. He was as big as a middle-sized pig: or more like a bear.

      I let him go. He was repugnant. He made a certain squalor in the moonlight of the Rocky Mountains. As all savagery has a touch of squalor, that makes one a little sick at the stomach."     

 

What's interesting here is how Lawrence uses the language of repulsion in order not merely to express his feelings at the time, but to justify his later action. Indeed, although he lets the porcupine go, he is already considering killing the animal: "Everyone says, porcupines should be killed; the Indians, Mexicans, Americans all the same. [...] It is a duty to kill the things." 

 

The only reason he didn't do so is because "it seemed almost more squalid to pick up a pine-bough and push him over, hit him and kill him". In other words, "the dislike of killing him was greater than the dislike of him".

 

Eventually, however, Lawrence overcomes what some would characterise as squeamishness and others see as an ethical disdain for violence and, on another clear moonlit night, he makes his first kill among the grasses and wildflowers: 

 

"There he lumbered, with his white spoon-tail spiked with bristles [...] His long, long hairs above the quills quivering with a dim grey gleam, like a bush.

      And again I disliked him."  

 

 After first seeking approval from his wife, Frieda, Lawrence goes to get his rifle from the house:

 

"Now never in my life had I shot at any living thing: I never wanted to. I always felt guns very repugnant: sinister, mean. With difficulty I had fired once or twice at a target: but resented doing even so much. Other people could shoot if they wanted to. Myself, individually, it was repugnant to me even to try.

      But something slowly hardens in a man's soul. And I knew now, it had hardened in mine. I found the gun, and with rather trembling hands, got it loaded. Then I pulled back the trigger and followed the porcupine. It was still lumbering through the grass. Coming near, I aimed."

 

Unfortunately, the trigger sticks - or, at any rate, Lawrence tells us that it sticks, perhaps for dramatic effect. So he has to release the trigger, aim and fire again. However, whilst the gun goes off with a bang this time, he misses, and the porcuine goes scuttling away:

 

"I got another shell in place, and followed. This time I fired full into the mound of his round back, below the glistening grey halo. He seemed to stumble on to his hidden nose, and struggled a few strides, ducking his head under like a hedgehog."    

 

The gun being empty and having no more shells to hand, Lawrence runs to fetch a wooden pole: "The porcupine was lying still, with subsiding halo. He stirred faintly. So I turned him and hit him hard over the nose; or where, in the dark, his nose should have been. And it was done. He was dead."

 

After again seeking reassurance from Frieda that he did the right thing, Lawrence concludes: "Things like the porcupine, one must be able to shoot them, if they get in one's way. One must be able to shoot [...] and to kill."   

 

 

II.

 

So, what then are we to make of this hardening of the soul and this volte-face on the question of killing animals, rather than simply let them be and acknowledge their right to life? I have to admit, I'm kind of disappointed ...

 

I much prefer the Lawrence who rejects the voices in his head telling him that real men feel no compunction about killing animals; the Lawrence who felt honoured by the presence of a snake drinking at his water-trough, for example [3]; or the Lawrence who mourns the death of a mountain lion killed by hunters: "What a gap in the world, the missing white-frost face of that slim yellow mountain lion!" [4] 

 

And I like the Lawrence who mocks Italian hunters in their velveteen corduroys, striding around the countryside shooting little birds - sparrows, robins, finches, etc. - in order to display their virility [5], rather than the one who mocks Buddhists for only eating rice and refusing to devour animals; or the Lawrence who talks about the need for man to establish himself upon the earth via the subjugation and/or destruction of "the lower orders of life".

As for the poor porcupine, he wasn't even eaten by the Lawrence's. Instead, they buried it, only for some other wild animal to dig up the body and consume it; "for two days later there lay the spines and bones spread out, with the long skeletons of the porcupine-hands". Soon, another porcupine - bigger and blacker-looking - appears at the tiny ranch: "That too is to be shot", writes Lawrence.  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine', in Refections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 347-63. Lines quoted are on pp. 349, 352, 353, and 354.    

[2] The North American porcupine is a large, stocky rodent, usually dark brown or black in colour with white highlights. Short-sighted and slow-moving, its most distinguishing feature, of course, is a thick coat of quills, which can number up to 30,000 in a fully-grown animal and which cover its entire body except for face, feet and underbelly. Quills are essentially modified hairs formed into sharp, hollow spines and are used defensively (although, like skunks, porcupines can also produce a distinctively unpleasant odour to warn off would-be predators). Contrary to popular legend, they cannot shoot their quills. Porcupines are solitary herbivores and largely nocturnal. They range all over North America and usually make their homes in hollow trees or dry rocky areas. They are preyed upon by wolves, bears, mountain lions, and fishers. Many farmers and ranchers continue to consider them a pest.     

[3] D. H. Lawrence, 'Snake', The Poems Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 303-05. Admittedly, Lawrence throws a log at the snake in order to scare him away, but he immediately regrets it: "I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!"  

[4] D. H. Lawrence, 'Mountain Lion', The Poems Vol. I, ibid., pp. 351-52.

[5] D. H. Lawrence. 'Man is a Hunter', in Sketches of Etruscan Places and Other Italian Essays, ed. Simonetta de Filippis, (Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 217-21.

To read an earlier (related) post on the prickly politics of Lawrence's vitalism in the above essay, click here.  

How Kindness Gives Way to Cruelty

That's gotta hurt! 

 

 

I. Man and Mutt

 

One of the most harrowing scenes in D. H. Lawrence's work appears not in his fiction, but in 'Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine' ...

In this extraordinary essay, Lawrence tells of how one day a "big, bushy, rather handsome sandy-red dog" wandered on to his New Mexican ranch, clearly in distress, having had an encounter with a porcupine: "his whole muzzle set round with white spines, like some ghastly growth; like an unnatural beard".

 

Lawrence continues:

 

"He waited while I went up to him, wagging his tail and whimpering, and ducking his head, and dancing. He daren't rub his nose with his paws anymore: it hurt too much. I patted his head and looked at his nose, and he whimpered loudly. 

      He must have had thirty quills, or more, sticking out of his nose, all the way round: the white, ugly ends of the quills protruding an inch, sometimes more, sometimes less, from his already swollen, blood-puffed muzzle. 

    [...] Then the fun began. I got him in the yard: and he drank up the whole half-gallon of the chicken's sour milk. Then I started pulling out the quills. He was a big, bushy, handsome dog, but his nerve was gone, and every time I got a quill out, he gave a yelp. Some long quills were fairly easy. But the shorter ones, near his lips, were deep in, and hard to get hold of, and hard to pull out when you did get hold of them. And with every one that came out, came a little spurt of blood and another yelp and writhe.

      The dog wanted the quills out: but his nerve was gone. Every time he saw my hand coming to his nose, he jerked his head away. I quieted him, and stealthily managed to jerk out another quill, with the blood all over my fingers. But with every one that came out, he grew more tiresome. I tried and tried and tried to get hold of another quill, and he jerked and jerked, and writhed and whimpered, and ran under the porch floor."

 

As one might imagine, it was "a curiously unpleasant, nerve-trying job", with the dog whimpering and jerking his head this way and that. And so, after struggling for a couple of hours and extracting some twenty quills, Lawrence gave up: 

 

"It was impossible to quiet the creature, and I had had enough. His nose on the top was clear: a punctured, puffy blood-darkened mess; and his lips were clear. But just on his round little chin [...] was still a bunch of white quills, eight or nine deep in.

      We let him go, and he dived under the porch, and there he lay invisible: save for the end of his bushy, foxy tail, which moved when we came near. Towards noon he emerged, ate up the chicken food, and stood with that doggish look of dejection, and fear, and friendliness, and greediness, wagging his tail.

      But I had had enough.

      'Go home!' I said. 'Go home! Go home to your master, and let him finish for you.'"

      

Unfortunately, the dog doesn't want to go - and it's at this point kindness is superseded by cruelty:

"He was not going to leave the place. 

      And I! I simply did not want him.

      And so I picked up a stone. He dropped his tail, and swerved towards the house. I knew what he was going to do. He was going to dive under the porch, and there stick, haunting the place.

      I dropped my stone, and found a good stick under the cedar tree. [...] 

      I could not bear to have that dog around any more. Going quietly to him, I suddenly gave him one hard hit with the stick, crying  'Go home!' He turned quickly, and the end of the stick caught him on his sore nose. With a fierce yelp, he went off like a wolf, downhill, like a flash, gone. And I stood in the field full of pangs of regret, at having hit him, unintentionally, on his sore nose."

        

 

II. Mann und Mutter

 

I thought of this scene the other morning when attending to my mother, for whom I care. 

 

Admittedly, she's not a big bushy dog and has never required my assistance in removing a face full of porcupine quills. But she is 94 and in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's, thus fully dependent upon my help. And she is now inarticulate, like an animal, only able to offer a continuous series of moans and groans and shout out gibberish. 

 

And whilst her nerve hasn't gone, her mind has, making it impossible for me to reason with her, when, for example, trying to wash her, or feed her, or change her dressings and - like the poor creature Lawrence writes of - she won't shut the fuck up and she won't stay still, constantly babbling and twisting this way and that, turning the provision of care into a curiously unpleasant, nerve-trying job ...

 

And there are times when, like Lawrence, I feel I have reached the end of my tether and can't bear to be around my mother; times, even, when I too feel like picking up a large stone or a good stick ...  

 

And that, whilst a terrible confession, is an important realisation: in the end, kindness will always give way to cruelty - which is why abuse is rife within care homes, hospitals, and other institutions in which vulnerable individuals are housed. The suffering of others can trigger violence as a kind of defence mechanism and, ironically, the most inhumane acts are often a sign that one is too sensitive, not that one lacks compassion. 

 

 

See: 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), pp. 350-52.   

D. H. Lawrence and the Prickly Politics of Vitalism

Woodcut design by Wharton Esherick for D. H. Lawrence's 

Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine (1925)

In a notorious but often celebrated essay, 'Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine' (1925), Lawrence provides us with some very beautiful descriptive passages of an actual event involving a dog and the shooting of a porcupine. Unfortunately, these are followed by some very ugly didactic passages that are not merely moralizing metaphysical nonsense, but tied to a pernicious political vitalism that asserts an anthropocentric, aristocratic, and racist hierarchy of life.

Life - ha! what is life? 

One might say in philosophical agreement with Nietzsche that it's really just a form of prejudice; an extremely rare and unusual way of being dead that is grossly overvalued by the living. 

Lawrence, however, offers a very different definition: life is that which "moves in circles of power and of vividness, and each circle of life only maintains its orbit upon the subjection of some lower circle." And this vital truth, as Lawrence imagines it, is not something to lament, nor seek to challenge or reform. On the contrary, the only thing to do "is to realise what is is higher, and what is lower, in the cycles of existence"  and accept this as a law of creation.

That said, it might still reasonably be asked what is meant by higher and how might we correctly assign each life-form its proper place within a natural order of rank? Again, Lawrence is extremely forthright in his answer (despite the fact that his logic is tautologous): by higher he means more vividly alive. And each life-form earns its own place within a natural order of rank by out competing and, indeed, often devouring, the lesser lives below it. He writes: 

"In the cycles of existence, this is the test. From the lowest form of existence to the highest, the test question is: Can thy neighbour finally overcome thee? If he can, then he belongs to a higher cycle of existence. This is the truth behind the survival of the fittest."

Lawrence then conveniently lists some examples of higher and lower forms drawn from his own hierarchy of vividness in terms of species and race:

"Life is more vivid in the dandelion than in the green fern, or than in a palm tree.
Life is more vivid in a snake than in a butterfly.
Life is more vivid in a wren than in an alligator.
Life is more vivid in a cat than in an ostrich.
Life is more vivid in the Mexican who drives the wagon, than in the two horses [who pull the wagon].

Life is more vivid in me, than in the Mexican who drives the wagon for me."

Obviously, the final assertion is for most readers today the most controversial and offensive; but Lawrence insists that the subjugation and exploitation of one race by another (his own) is another inescapable law of nature and existence. Or, if you prefer, an inexorable law of life based upon a fourth dimensional form of ontological energy which he terms vitality (the determining factor in the struggle for existence).

What, really, are we to make of all this?

I think it shows how a philosophy of vitalism can very easily lend itself to a highly undesirable form of politics. Of course, this needn't always be the case - one thinks of Hans Driesch's principled resistance to the Nazi attempt to co-opt his idea of entelechy - but, unfortunately, it very often seems to be the case that vitalism + pessimism + romanticism = fascism.   

The political theorist Jane Bennett, who has developed her own model of vital materialism, addresses this problematic issue with a reassuring degree of sensitive intelligence and insight. She writes:

"I do not think that there is any direct relationship between, on the one hand, a set of ontological assumptions about life ... and, on the other, a politics; no particular ethics or politics follow inevitably from a metaphysics. But the hierarchical logic of God-Man-Nature implied in a vitalism of soul easily transitions into a political image of a hierarchy of social classes or even civilizations."
 
Thus, if like Lawrence you believe that life is radically different from (and irreducible to) matter; that human life is qualitatively different than all other forms of life; that this human uniqueness indicates a divine origin or special relationship with the gods; and there's a natural order of existence with yourself at the top, then you will probably also be tempted to flirt with the kind of politics that wages war in the name of the highest idealism in order to fulfil some form of national, cultural, or racial destiny.    

My advice is - when it comes to politics - never trust a hippie, never trust a poet, and never trust a vitalist.


Notes

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), pp. 347-63.

Jane Bennett; Vibrant Matter, (Duke University Press, 2010), p. 84. And see sub-section of chapter 6 entitled 'A Natural Order of Rank' , pp. 86-89 which is particularly pertinent to this discussion.