On Nietzsche's Hypomania

Nietzsche Burst! Designed by by Rev. Shakes (2014) 

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If there's one thing I hate, it’s being told to cheer up or to smile, by strangers possessed by a will to happiness; fascists of optimism and positive thinking, always looking on the bright side and finding strength through joy.

Nor, come to that, do I want eternal bliss or a perpetual feeling of euphoria and I don’t trust those who fantasise about elevated moods and this, regrettably, includes Herr Nietzsche, whose writing is at its least convincing, least interesting, and least readable when he indulges his poet's taste for ecstasy and utopian fantasy.

That Nietzsche should find the prospect of a future humanity embodying a single great feeling and resting on clouds something delightful, is deeply disappointing and depressing. Like Anna Brangwen, I prefer to let many feelings come and go - even negative ones - and to keep my feet firmly on the ground. I love those things which save me from being swept up into any Absolute and spit on the idea of man's perfectibility.        

If we need to get over our humanity, then it's for the same reason and in the same manner we need to get over an illness, or a broken heart. Ultimately, it's a question of recovery and convalescence, not transcendence or salvation. It takes time and it can be a painful process. It requires patience and perhaps a prolonged period of silent reflection; it's not something to excitedly sing and shout about (like a madman).

Sometimes, in his hypomania, Nietzsche seems to misunderstand his own project and betray his own attempt at a revaluation of all values ...


See: Nietzsche, The Gay Science, trans. Walter Kaufmann, (Vintage Books, 1974), IV. 288.      

In Praise of Modern Science

ilovesciencestore.com

For those overexcited vitalists who like to pretend that everything is alive, science deadens existence. Similarly, for those conceited anthropocentrists who like to imagine that Man is at the heart of the universe, science displaces and dehumanises.

Thus, for many people - not just poets and priests, but, regrettably, a significant number of philosophers - hostility towards science is second nature and they long for a re-enchantment of the world; to see things once more with the eyes of children, primitives, or the practitioners of occultism.

But, of course, not only would it be extremely foolish to try and return to an earlier, pre-scientific age of superstition and sorcery, but one might challenge the very presumption that knowledge kills. For in fact, knowledge does no such thing; on the contrary, it stimulates a taste and a desire for ever greater understanding and, as Nietzsche writes, the will to truth is ultimately what distinguishes men from animals and higher human beings from the lower; "the former see and hear immeasurably more, and see and hear more thoughtfully" [301].

Of course the world of rational enquiry is indebted to its religious inheritance - Nietzsche happily admits that the modern sciences would never have developed if the way had not been prepared by "magicians, alchemists, astrologers, and witches whose promises and pretensions first had to create a hunger ... for hidden and forbidden powers" [300] - but it's natural science and not supernatural fantasy that makes the world ever fuller, ever more complex, ever more wondrous.

The fact that many people refuse to see this is ultimately because the severity of science - what Nietzsche describes as its inexorability in all matters great and small - makes the uninitiated feel dizzy and afraid. They can’t catch their breath in the rarefied atmosphere created by those who have left the muddy waters of myth and religion behind.

But for those of us who have become accustomed to the discipline of science and its experimental practice, there is no place we'd rather live than in this "bright, transparent, vigorous, electrified air" [293].


See: Nietzsche; The Gay Science, trans. Walter Kaufmann, (Vintage Books, 1974). The numbers in the body of the text refer to sections, not pages.

On the Architecture of the Future

In response to a growing population and a resultant shortage of housing, it seems that every available space is now being built on in London and the surrounding suburbs. But whenever I see a new development, I always recall what Nietzsche wrote on the subject of high density housing and overcrowded city streets:

"One day, and probably soon, we need some recognition of what above all is lacking in our urban areas: quiet and wide, expansive places for reflection."

We need to build not just shopping centres, apartment blocks, and corporate skyscrapers, but sites free from commerce, traffic, and endless human noise (where good manners would prohibit even the use of mobile phones); public squares, parks and even rooftop fields that would afford men and women the opportunity to step aside, to breathe, and to briefly experience the joy of the vita contemplativa (for like other herd animals, man too is a ruminant).

Places that, as Nietzsche puts it, allow us to take a stroll round ourselves. And so the question is: where are the architects of the future who have the know-how and the vision to create such an environment; a home fit for men and cows.


See: Nietzsche, The Gay Science, trans. Walter Kaufmann, (Vintage Books, 1974), IV. 280. Note that I have slightly modified Kaufmann’s translation.

Sanctus Januarius: A Nietzschean New Year Message

Portrait of St. Januarius, by Caravaggio (1607)

Granting himself the right to do so in accordance with popular custom, Nietzsche famously opens Book IV of The Gay Science, written in January 1882, with a new year's resolution:

"I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who makes things beautiful. Amor fati: let that be my love henceforth! I do not want to wage war against what is ugly. I do not want to accuse; I do not even want to accuse those who accuse. Looking away shall be my only negation ... I wish to be only a Yes-sayer." [276] 

This section, one that I often return to, might be regarded as an essential thought for me; fundamental to the philosophy of Torpedo the Ark which is all about having done with judgement and the assigning of blame, or subscribing to what Nietzsche elsewhere terms a hangman's metaphysic.

But, although a short and seemingly straightforward passage, one has to be careful not to misunderstand what Nietzsche is saying here: 

Firstly, he is absolutely not saying that life is beautiful and attempting to fob us off with a feel good philosophy built upon false idealism. For Nietzsche, life is monstrous and inhuman and what is necessary in things (that is to say, fateful), is what most people would describe as morally repugnant or evil. 

Secondly - and even more crucially - Nietzsche not only wants to see what is necessary in things as beautiful (even when, in fact, it's often repulsive or malevolent in nature), he wishes to affirm this aspect as belonging to what he terms an economy of the whole in which all things are entwined. 

Thirdly, to love fate is not merely to resign oneself to the facts; but, rather, to interpret the latter and struggle to find new perspectives and create new ways of living.

Saying Yes, in a Nietzschean manner, doesn't therefore mean one must become a nodding donkey; one's No is contained in this affirmation and one learns how to actively negate the negative simply by turning one's face with aristocratic disdain upon those things (including those people and those gods) who demand worship, obedience, and submission. 

Happy New Year to all readers.


See: Nietzsche, The Gay Science, trans. Walter Kaufmann, (Vintage Books, 1974), IV. 276. 

Heterosis

Luma Grothe: the lovely face of fashion 

and Irma Grese: the ugly face of fascism

Nazis are obsessed with blood: both spilling the blood of others deemed racial inferiors and preserving the purity of their own blood, which is thought to possess superior qualities and derive from a divine origin. For the Nazis, therefore, the most dreadful thing in the world is the prospect of interracial sexual relations between people of Nordic stock and those who are of non-Aryan descent. They described this as a form of Rassenschande - an infringement upon the laws of Nature which Nazi policies of racial hygiene were designed to vigorously uphold and enforce.

German girls were warned that should they commit blood treason and choose to fuck with racial inferiors, not only would they be forever lost to their own people, but any unfortunate child that resulted from the illicit union would be a lamentable creature, fit only for extermination. Such irresponsible actions also had a far wider consequence: Hitler identified miscegenation as the sole cause of cultural destruction; "for men do not perish as a result of lost wars, but by the loss of that force of resistance which is contained only in pure blood."

Despite the pseudo-biology used to provide a scientific basis for these beliefs, they are, of course, little more than pernicious fantasies. The fact is many mixed race individuals exhibit not only extraordinary beauty - as in the case of Luma Grothe, pictured above - but what is known as hybrid vigour. In other words, certain traits are enhanced as a result of the dissimilarity in the gametes by whose union the organism was formed.

Now, this is not to say that all such unions produce supermodels. But, by and large, it’s inbreeding that’s genetically problematic rather than outcrossing. For it’s the latter practice that increases diversity and promises heterotic wonders, such as Miss Grothe, born under sunny South American skies to a German mother and a father of Japanese and African descent.

Ultimately, if given the choice between the above and Irma Grese - the blonde, blue-eyed Beast of Belsen - I know whom I’d choose to share a world with ...

Note: The line quoted from Hitler can be found in Vol. 1, Chapter 11, of Mein Kampf, trans. Ralph Manheim, (Hutchinson, 1969), p. 269. 

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 ... 

The Case of Evelyn McHale (The Most Beautiful Suicide in the World)

Photo of Evelyn McHale, by Robert C. Wiles. 

For poets, there is nothing more romantic than the suicide of someone young; particularly if they take their lives with an element of style and manage to leave behind them a good-looking corpse. And no one has managed to achieve this feat with more success than an attractive, twenty-three year old bookkeeper, called Evelyn McHale, in 1947.

Hers is often described as the most beautiful suicide in the world and I’m happy to share this view. What makes her case so magnificent and not merely tragic (or mundane), are the following six points:

1. She chose a magical date, May 1st, an ancient spring festival, on which to make her self-sacrifice, thereby lending her death a certain mythical aspect or celebratory pagan splendour.

2. She chose the right method for her location. When in Berlin, for example, one should swallow poison or use a gun; in London, it’s appropriate to throw oneself from a bridge into the Thames, or onto the tracks of the Underground before an approaching train. But, as Serge Gainsbourg observed, New York is all about the astonishing height of its buildings. And so, when in NYC, one simply has to jump.

3. Having chosen, rightly, to jump, Evelyn then selected one of the two truly great and truly iconic modern structures from which to leap: the Empire State Building. This 102-story skyscraper, located in Midtown Manhattan, is, with its beautiful art deco design, the perfect place from which to fall to one’s death and since its opening in 1931 only a select number of lucky souls have had the privilege (and fatal pleasure) of plunging from this iconic site.

4. She was impeccably dressed for the occasion, with gloves and a simple, but elegant, pearl necklace. Before jumping she calmly removed her coat and neatly folded it over the wall of the 86th floor observation deck. She also left behind her a make-up kit, some family snaps, and a suicide note written in a black pocketbook, in which she asked to be cremated without any kind of fuss or service of remembrance. In other words, even in death, Evelyn kept her composure - which brings us to our fifth point:

5. She didn’t land with an undignified splat on the pavement of 34th Street; but, rather, with a crash onto the roof of a waiting car. And it wasn't just any old car - it was a UN Assembly limousine, as if she wanted to make an impression on the entire world. And impression, as we see from the photo above, is the key word here. For Evelyn literally impressed herself into the roof of the Cadillac, so that it seemed to fold round her, with metallic tenderness. There is almost nothing to suggest the terrible violence of the scene - apart from the ripped stockings and the absence of shoes.

6. She conspired with fate to ensure there was a photographer nearby to instantly capture the event of her death on film; thereby ensuring her place within the cultural imagination. Indeed, fifteen years later, Andy Warhol would incorporate her image into his work, just as he did images of other beautiful women, including Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor.

As for the student photographer, Robert C. Wiles, he also struck it lucky that day; his astonishing photo of Evelyn was published in Life Magazine as a full-page 'Picture of the Week' in the May 12 issue. It was his first - and last - photo ever to be published and one likes to imagine he hung his camera up after taking this perfect shot, but I don't know if this is true or not.

I'll stop here - but I could of course talk about (and darkly caress) this topic forever. For Camus was right: there is only one truly serious philosophical question - and that is the question of suicide.

On the Whistling of Birds at Midnight

Image taken from Cathy Fisher's blog: Diary of an Account Manager

It's 'round midnight: but I can't sleep.

The robin who seems to live in my mother's back garden is singing still and, of all the sounds in the world, I love best the whistling of birds; more than whale song and more than even the most accomplished human voice. 

Thus, when there's a robin still filling the air with his silvery sound of defiance and affirmation, I'll always lend an ear to listen, whatever the hour. As Lawrence says, the song just bubbles through them, as if they were little fountain-heads of vitality and new creation.

But the question arises as to why the city-living robins have taken to nighttime singing; they are not naturally nocturnal birds, like nightingales, even if they like to sing well into the evening as the sun sets. 

The experts seem undecided. They used to think it was due to the increase in noise during the day - that the birds literally couldn't hear themselves think (or in this case sing) above the roar of traffic. But now the consensus seems to be that the real problem is light pollution; that it's no longer dark enough for our feathered friends to know when night has fallen and it's time to shut the fuck up and go to sleep. 

Either way, it can't be much fun being an urban robin; trapped in a perpetual electric twilight and forced to endure a constant hubbub during the day. Their numbers, unlike other species of once common garden birds, may not (so far) be declining, but they must be constantly exhausted, poor things.

How long will it be, I wonder, before something of this fatigue creeps into their song?

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'Whistling of Birds', in Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 19-24. 

Francesca Woodman: An American Genius

Francesca Woodman: Providence, Rhode Island, 1976 (1976)

Tate / National Galleries of Scotland (AR00352)

© George and Betty Woodman

I have to confess that I only recently came across the work of American photographer Francesca Woodman, but I was immediately fascinated by her beautiful (often disturbing) black and white images which have a queer, gothic and surreal quality that is seductive in the sense that Baudrillard gives the term. That is to say, the photos partake of a game of slow exposure that is all to do with appearance and disappearance, and playing with the signs of sexuality and self-hood.

Woodman works in a manner that is not only highly stylized and disciplined, but also ritualistic and fetishistic; a combination of primitive magic and aristocratic aestheticism. She turns her own body into just another object, semi-exposed, but mostly withdrawn and concealed, existing in relation to other things (chairs, doors, mirrors, a bucket full of eels) that are equally real, equally fragile, and equally mysterious.

Born in 1958, Woodman was only twenty-two when she committed suicide in 1981, pissed, apparently, with the slowness with which her work was garnering critical attention or achieving commercial success. In a letter to a friend (written around the time of an earlier attempt to end her life), Woodman says she’d rather die young and leave behind her a delicate body of work, than see herself and her pictures fade away or be slowly erased by time.

Death, she realised, would be the making of her; for hers, like Nietzsche's, would be a posthumous existence. And this tragic realisation, coupled to her precocious talent for blurred image-making, makes me very fond of dear Francesca: an American genius.

Ben Carson: An American Idiot

Ben Carson by Gage Skidmore (2015)

Donald Trump is clearly not stupid: ignorant, perhaps, but he's mostly just a nasty piece of work; or flamboyant, as his new Russian buddy, Vladimir Putin, would say.

Ben Carson, on the other hand, who is also a candidate for the Republican Party nomination for President in the 2016 election, is not an out-and-out shit, but he does believe (and say) some very, very stupid things.

This is almost entirely due to the fact that, sadly, this retired (and much respected) neurosurgeon suffers from religious fundamentalism; a degenerative brain disorder that turns fine minds to mush.

Carson, as one commentator has put it, is an African-American who downplays the reality of slavery and continuing problems of racism in the US, and a man of medicine and higher education who denies many of the modern scientific facts and discoveries upon which our knowledge of the world is based.

Thus, for example, Carson not only thinks that evolution is a mistaken theory, but one to which Darwin was led by Satan! His argument is that something as beautifully complex as the human brain couldn't have arisen from a slime pit full of promiscuous biochemicals. In addition, Carson ridicules the idea of the Big Bang and rejects the validity of evidence provided by carbon dating.

Of course, many amongst the electorate seem to share Carson's prejudices - not to mention those who identify strongly as creationists, young-earthers, or proponents of intelligent design. But surely, even in America, there can't be many people who also subscribe to the popular medieval belief - as Carson does - that the Egyptian pyramids were not in fact ancient tombs, but elaborate grain silos, built by Joseph, son of Jacob, in preparation for a famine described in the book of Genesis.

Not only are archaeologists fairly certain that the pyramids were used for funerary purposes, but, as they also point out, they would have made pretty poor storage units for grain - as they aren't hollow!

Couple these (and many other) crackpot and controversial views to his reactionary positions on issues such as abortion, homosexuality, health care, immigration, and climate change and it becomes clear why Carson is, in the words of the song, an American idiot.