D. H. Lawrence: In Sickness and in Health

D. H. Lawrence: self-portrait (June 1929) 

It was Nietzsche, of course, who first put forward the idea that artists and philosophers are physicians of culture for whom phenomena are symptoms that reveal a certain state of forces. Without explicitly saying so, I think that D. H. Lawrence also recognised that the critical (in the literary sense) and the clinical (in the medical sense) are destined to enter into what Deleuze describes as a new relationship of mutual learning.

In other words, as a writer, Lawrence is essentially interested in the relation literature has to life, with the latter conceived as an ethical principle that is both impersonal and singular.

Arguably, because he had such a frail physical constitution and was so often ill, Lawrence was always vitally concerned with the possibility of a greater health; something over and above the bourgeois model of wellbeing tied to keeping fit and staying safe; something which must be attained or activated within the self via a struggle with sickness. And perhaps because - like Gethin Day or the man who died - he so often came close to death, he was always fascinated by life as a phenomenon of pure immanence that is lived beyond good and evil and which has had done with judgement.

Like Nietzsche, Lawrence is of the belief that there are some ideas one cannot possibly think except on the condition of being a decadent and harbouring deep resentment against life (even whilst concealing oneself behind the highest idealism). On the other hand, there are also feelings one cannot possibly experience or express unless one is a strong and healthy individual who affirms life (even if committing deeds that the herd regard as immoral).  

In sum:

(i) Bad life, as Lawrence understands it, is an exhausted and degenerating mode of existence that judges life from the perspective of its own sickness; the good life, by contrast, is a rich and ascending form of existence that is able to transform itself and open up strange new possibilities or becomings.

(ii) In so far as every great work of literature provides a model of living, then they must be evaluated not only critically, but clinically. Thus it is that the question that links literature and life (in both its ontological and ethical aspects) is the question of health.

On Black Mould and the Tragic Case of Dana Anhalt

Photos: Caters News

Mould is a fungus that grows in the form of multicellular filaments called hyphae. There are thousands of diverse species, but they all require moisture for growth and they all derive their energy heterotrophically from the organic matter on which they live. Typically, mould secretes enzymes that transform complex biopolymers such as starch, cellulose and lignin into simpler substances which can be absorbed by the hyphae. Mould thus has a significant role in decomposition, enabling nutrients to be recycled throughout ecosystems - which is a good thing.

Mould also plays an important part in the production of various foods, antibiotics and other medicinal drugs - and again, this is a good thing. Indeed, one might view mould positively from the perspective of Ben Woodward's slime dynamics and understand it to be a darkly vital substance. Unfortunately, however, mould is also a major source of food waste and of illness and many strategies for food preservation - such as salting, pickling, and freeze-drying - are essentially attempts to prevent or retard mould growth.

Although moulds grow all around us and their spores are a common component of dust, their presence is visible to the naked eye only when they form large colonies consisting of an interconnected network of hyphae called a mycelium. In artificial environments, such as homes and offices, humidity and temperature are often stable enough to foster the rapid and extensive growth of mould colonies and this can lead to a variety of health issues, including allergic reactions and respiratory problems.

Indeed, some moulds, including the notorious black mould or Stachybotrys chartarum, produce mycotoxins, prolonged exposure to which can have extremely serious - potentially fatal - consequences. As a general rule, you really don't want to ingest or inhale toxic compounds produced by black mould, or facilitate the growth of pathogenic moulds within the body.   

Which brings us to the terrible and tragic case of Dana Anhalt which has recently received extensive media attention; a 37-year old writer and psychology student from New York, Ms Anhalt has been bedridden for years suffering from multiple health problems, due (it was eventually discovered) to the presence of toxic black mould in her household (and not, as was once believed, chronic Lyme disease).

Having spent most of her life being slowly poisoned and crippled with excruciating pain, Dana has now been instructed by doctors to immediately abandon her home and all of her possessions and move into a new, sterile environment - a bit like the Bubble Boy, Donald Sanger (Seinfeld 4-07).

But this, of course, requires money ... And so I invite readers of this blog interested in knowing more about Dana's case and possibly donating to her family's attempt to raise funds in order to help pay for her new life and the expensive medical care still required, to click here. Alternatively, one can go to Dana's own fundraising project: Art is Life.   

Hopefully, this courageous woman will one day discover the greater health which Zarathustra speaks of and enjoy the intoxication of convalesence. In the meantime, she might care to remember that it is only intense pain and sickness, unfolding within us over an extended period, that serves as the ultimate emancipator of the spirit and compels us to descend into our depths; not necessarily improving us as human beings, but making us more profound as thinkers.  

Happy to be Hopeless this Christmas

In his 1886 preface to the second edition of The Gay Science, Nietzsche speaks of the gratitude of the convalescent and by which he refers to the rejoicing of one who has resisted a terrible ordeal or period of sickness without complaint, without submission, and, crucially, without hope. 

I have to say, I find this idea - an old Norse idea - very attractive this Christmas; the refusal not only to give in or give up, but to accept the consolation of any teaching that promises a better time to come. It's easy - or at any rate, easier - to endure great hardship or pain if you believe that tomorrow will bring relief or even some form of reward (if not in this life, then in the next). 

It takes a more cheerful form of bravery and a more philosophical bent, to abandon all hope and put aside all trust in those ideals and sentimental illusions in which we may have formerly found our virtue and our humanity. 

For Nietzsche, we are born into what he terms the greater health when we realise that it is often sickness, suffering and, indeed, wretched failure, which best liberate the spirit; that is to say, it is pain and loss that make us not exactly better souls, but almost certainly more profound thinkers. 

Of course, it's true that such a pessimistic teaching means that one is no longer able to trust in life and life's goodness - that life itself becomes problematic (becomes a question of evil). Yet one should not assume that this makes gloomy or unable to love; on the contrary, love remains possible, but one must love differently "with a more delicate taste for joy". 

At the bottom of Pandora's box lies the unopened gift of hope - it can stay there!

Note: this post is dedicated with affection to Princess Kiran who thinks differently on this issue ...

On Convalescence

Oy, I don't feel so good! Coughing, aching, lemsipping, etc. Still, whilst I might not have Zarathustra's animals to look after me, I do have the pigeons on the balcony for company and the Little Greek to make some chicken soup. So I can't complain. 

Also, I have a period of convalescence to look forward to during which colours, sounds, etc. all seem to become clearer and more vibrant and one feels momentarily perkier than usual. Doubtless this is simply a physiological effect of returning strength, but Heidegger prefers to see it in slightly different terms, relating it as he does to questions of nostalgia and being:

"The convalescent is the man who collects himself to return home - that is, to turn inwards, into his own destiny. The convalescent is on the road to himself, so that he can say of himself who he is."

Obviously, this is anathema to me; a rootless cosmopolitan who knows no home, scorns notions of interiority and prefers anonymity and masquerade to self-confession and the revelation of true identity. In fact, I'd rather stay sick and self-alienated than convalesce in a Heideggerian manner.