Wuthering Heights

No coward soul is mine / No trembler in the world's storm-startled sphere

"We're a long way from Wuthering Heights," as Michel Houellebecq rightly points out. Nevertheless, it remains one of the few truly great works of fiction and continues to implicate its readers in what Bataille calls the crime of literature and by which he refers to the fact that writing has a complicity with evil. For what literature reveals is the possibility of a form of sovereignty that does not negate or exclude morality, but which demands a hyper-morality existing beyond biblical injunction. 

What Charlotte regrets as the immature and immoderate faults in her sister Emily's novel are in fact what lend it such savage beauty and potency. And what is so admirable about the younger sister is that she has the courage to allow the demon to speak directly in her poetry and prose; Charlotte prefers to gently but firmly place her hand over the demon's mouth so that she may at all times speak for him. 

Thus Charlotte, when editing the 1850 edition of Wuthering Heights, not only changes the paragraphing and punctuation in an attempt to regularize Emily's idiosyncratic style, she also seeks to impose an element of contrived and conventional humanity into the work at the expense of that which is uniquely and diabolically inspired.  

Thankfully, the perversity, the cruelty, the madness, and the morbidity that characterize the novel continue to shine through and Wuthering Heights remains one of those books that readers weary of the narrow limitations imposed by moral or literary convention (not to mention interfering siblings) will continue to find of much value. Emily's understanding of love - based not on worldly personal experience, but impersonal inner intensity - not only linked sex to death, but suggested that each of these contained the essential truth of the other. Her novel thus illustrates the basic premise underlying authors such as Sade and Bataille: eroticism is the affirmation of life all the way to its fatal conclusion.

It is this disconcerting truth that lies at the heart of Wuthering Heights and which gives it an affinity with the great works of Greek tragedy; all of which ultimately concern the violation of the Law (be it divine, human, or natural in origin). Emily dreams of a sacred and transgressive form of violence via which lovers might regain paradise (or childhood innocence). If this was promised by Romantic literature in general, it is Wuthering Heights which most powerfully shows us the full horror of atonement and the tragic character of life (it bleeds, it suffers, it dies, it returns). This may not make it a holy book in a religious sense, but it certainly makes it a great work of art.

Should We Lose the Lads' Mags?

When the defenders of so-called lads' mags argue that there is nothing wrong or shameful about the naked female form, you know they are either willfully misunderstanding the arguments made against pornography, or that they are morons. 

Personally, I tend to think that they are cynical and slimy rather than stupid. Thus they know perfectly well that the objection of feminists like Kat Banyard is not to female flesh per se, but to the sexual objectification and exploitation of female flesh.  

And they understand - as we all understand - how the young girls who model in such magazines are obliged to adopt a familiar series of poses and display their nakedness within a recognizable erotic environment. Reclining bodies on a bed, or bodies crawling around on all fours sticking out parts for penetration are not simply unclothed. They are, rather, naked for a purpose within a context of meaning and they don't so much expose the flesh as promote its desirability and advertise its availability as a commodity.

This doesn't mean I automatically lend support to the UK Feminista and Object campaign to "lose the lads' mags" from the shelves of supermarkets, but it does mean that there remains an important debate to be had on the intimate relationship between pornography, sexism and capital. 

Arguably, porn has always been the secretly privileged discourse of bourgeois society ...

 

Necrophilia

www.hotdog.hu

The eroticised encounter with death is not something that many persons actively seek out. And those who do enjoy romancing corpses mostly do so in silence. And secrecy. And shame. Necrophilia remains one of the very few forms of love that still daren't speak its name and which hasn't been co-opted by mainstream society or made chic within the media.

The relationship between sex and death is, however, extremely intimate and long established and eroticism would be a fairly insipid state of affairs if this were not the case. For as Bataille points out, it is the latter that ensures the power of the former and only in conjunction do they constitute the tragedy of human existence. 

What do those who love long hair and sharp nails imagine excites them after all?

Orientalism

Even after Edward Said, I still can't help dreaming of the Orient: that radiant and mysterious utopia uncompromised by real geographical and historical determinants, which promises a degree of innocence and forgetfulness impossible in a Western world which one knows and is fatefully known by.

It is precisely the possibility of becoming-imperceptible via the donning of a kimono and submission to an alien sensibility which so seduces. The dream, says Barthes, is to undo our reality until everything Occidental in us totters and we can see the world with narrowed eyes. 

Prince Philip seemed to understand this when visiting China and speaking to some English students, but thought it was something to warn against. 

Phallic Tenderness

In the Classical world, the preferred size of the penis was small and delicate. The god Priapus, with his grotesquely large and ever-erect member, was regarded with mirth, not envy, and, arguably, the modern obsession with size and the desire to attain a longer, thicker, harder penis in line with the pornographic ideal is simply another sign of barbarism.

Of course, we all like to feel a penis rise against us with "silent amazing force and assertion" and to quiver as it enters into our softly-opened bodies with strange and terrible potency; penetrating with "the dark thrust of peace and a ponderous, primordial tenderness, such as made the world". But, like Connie, so too do we cherish the post-coital penis as it withdraws and returns to its flaccid and rather frail condition, with bud-like beauty and reticence.
 
See: D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, ed. Michael Squires (CUP, 1993), pp. 173, 174. 

  

Crash (Towards a New Economy of Bodies and their Pleasures)

Nadja Auermann by Helmut Newton

I understand, philosophically, the attraction for scar tissue, amputation, and prosthetic limbs and how some are aroused by the prospect of bone, flesh, and metal forming an intimate alliance in a cyborg future.

And I would lend my support to those who - either from necessity or boredom - dream of morbid new sexualities, in which perverse pleasures and mutilated forms of beauty become possible for the first time; pleasures and forms unknown and unimaginable to the able-bodied and regular-featured who have been preserved by fate into normalized good health and a fully functioning organism.

To speak of such will require a new type of language, combining the clinical, the poetic, and the pornographic. Ballard calls it the language of invisible eroticisms and attempts to articulate the first terms in his brilliant novel Crash. 

The beautiful thing about this work is that it helps us transcend feelings of disgust, shame, or guilt and move beyond a crippling identification of ourselves with genital sexuality. It anticipates the emergence of new erogenous zones all over the body and characterizes vaginal and anal coition as forms of nostalgia. 

Is it really so immoral or unnatural to to want to find a new use for old organs? I don't think so. And it's rather a sweet thought, is it not, that we might find an air vent as inviting as the warmest organic orifice?   

There's a Whip in My Valise

The English Vice refers to the many varieties of corporal punishment practised in the bedroom, from spanking to flagellation. It's nice to see the buttocks of a loved one glow red like a sunset and it can be pleasurable to feel the sharp sting of the lash oneself. 

But as forms of sensual discipline such practices do more than simply give joy. For if carried out with genuine passion and erotic seriousness, then chastisement establishes a circuit of polarized communication which can result in a powerful flash of interchange between parties. Indeed, it might almost be regarded as a natural form of coition resulting in a violent readjustment between lovers and allowing, like a thunderstorm, for a sense of newness afterwards. 

Although idealists may not like to admit the fact, corporal punishment is a vital necessity because we do not live by kindness, kisses and cuddles alone: As long as a man has a bottom, says Lawrence, he must surely be whipped.

Life is Ugly in Flip-Flops

It's a hot summer and many young women have taken to wearing flip-flops, which is a shame, as they can make even the prettiest feet look flat, tired and unattractive.

It's not the bareness of the feet that's the problem. In fact, completely bare feet would be preferable (though, obviously, not as preferable as feet in a pair of shoes by Christian Louboutin provocatively displaying a little toe cleavage and magically elevating even quite ordinary plates into the realm of the fabulous). 

It's the politics of wearing flip-flops (not to mention the childishly onomatopoeic name itself) that so depresses; the wearers have not only surrendered to the heat and to primitivism, but they have placed comfort and convenience before style and elegance. They have become casualties of casual culture (i.e. universal dishevelment).

       

When you wear flip-flops, you not only announce a lack of pride in your own appearance, but also in a long and noble tradition of European craftsmanship. 

On the Transsexual Consummation of Foot-Fetishism

Illustration by John Bakerman on deviantart.com

Podophilia is apparently the most common form of fetish. And that's understandable: for what man doesn't - to a greater or lesser degree - desire to touch, kiss, or in some manner modify the feet of his beloved? 

(This modification might involve the simple joy of painting toe nails, or the rather more complex procedure of binding that the Chinese practised for many centuries in an attempt to cultivate the golden lotus.)

Clearly, therefore, podophilia very often has an aesthetic component. But it's not always about sex. Indeed, many a masochist wishes for nothing more than to find suprasensual satisfaction at the feet of a woman in submission, with no expectation or desire for a happy ending. We see this illustrated in Lawrence's novella The Ladybird. 

Returning home after having been badly injured at the front during the Great War, Basil greets his wife, Daphne, with a mixture of nervousness and a will to worship:

"He suddenly knelt at her feet, and kissed the toe of her slipper, and kissed the instep, and kissed the ankle in the thin black stocking. 

      ... 'I knew if I had to kneel, it was before you. I knew you were divine ... I knew I was your slave. I knew. It has all been just a long initiation. I had to learn how to worship you.'

      He kissed her feet again and again, without the slightest self-consciousness, or the slightest misgiving. Then he went back to the sofa, and sat there looking at her, saying:

      'It isn't love, it is worship. Love between me and you will be a sacrament, Daphne. That's what I had to learn. You are beyond me. A mystery to me. My God, how great it all is. How marvellous!'"

- D. H. Lawrence, The Ladybird, ed. Dieter Mehl, (CUP, 1992), p. 193.

Naturally enough, Daphne was a little frightened and somewhat horrified by this declaration. But she was also a little thrilled and flattered and "really felt she could glow white and fill the universe like the moon", inflated with the grandeur of her own pale power over the man who adored her rather than just amorously desired her. She was ready to assume the pedestal upon which he wished to place her and accept him as her devotee.

But of course, this comes at a price: Daphne gains a worshipper, but loses a husband. For eventually Basil's interest in her as a flesh-and-blood woman fades; the excitement of physical desire leaves him just as he imagines himself closer to her than ever, spiritually speaking. 

Ultimately, you can't fuck the one you idealise; to even think of doing so becomes a kind of desecration. And that's the great danger or the transsexual consummation of fetishism, depending on how you view these things.

Two Postcards from Catalonia

Blanes

How queer it is in February -

the snow-still month of my birth -

to stroll beneath the orange trees

and through the cactus groves

whilst the souls of Spanish sailors

fly overhead and far out to sea

in search of little fish.

Sitges

Black rocks
housing cats with sea-spray on their whiskers
and forming catwalks for homosexual lovers
strolling hand-in-hand.