Identity is the Crisis Can't You See

Cover of the English translation by David Schreiber 

(Arktos, London, 2013) 

Markus Willinger's Die identitäre Generation is not so much a book as a pamphlet, to paraphrase Larry David discussing Jason Alexander's equally flimsy (but doubtless more profound and challenging) text, Acting Without Acting. 

Either way - book or pamphlet - it's probably one of the most badly written works ever published; certainly the worst I've had the misfortune to read in a long, long time. If this is the best that a graduate student of history and politics from the University of Stuttgart and darling of the alternative Right can muster, then (a) the German education system is in trouble and (b) the identitarian movement is even more ideologically vacuous than one might have imagined.  

Willinger disingenuously claims his work is not a manifesto, but this is precisely what it is; a succinct and clear declaration of his views on what's wrong in Europe today, who's to blame - the soixante-huitards - and what future changes should be made. What the work doesn't do - despite what it says on the back-cover blurb - is move seamlessly between radical politics and existential philosophy. Nor does it set out its arguments (such as they are) in a poetic fashion.

Rather, it remains stuck in a reactionary rut and relies upon the ugly, prosaic and völkisch-organic language of fascism, or what Victor Klemperer characterized as the lingua tertii imperii. A standardized and stereotypical language which lacks all nuance and loveliness, all subtlety or sophistication; a language that forever speaks with one tone: loud, monotonous, and threatening - like the barking of an Alsatian dog.         

It's certainly not the German used by Goethe, Heine, or Rilke. It makes a noise, yes, and it continues to pass the word along along, but it creates no sense of communion as George Steiner would say. Willinger gives us dead metaphors and ready-made slogans in place of ideas; his writing lacks vitality, style, and, above all, humour. It does, however, successfully mix common vulgarity and prejudice with high flights of romantic twaddle and fatal amounts of saccharine pathos.

The pamphlet-manifesto is divided into forty-one chapters and a brief Preface in which Willinger writes of a (prepare to yawn) crisis of the European spirit, which he blames on the post-War generation and their corrupt theories that have "determined the social discourse ... and dominated all the dialogues"[80] for the last fifty years or so.

Speaking on behalf of his own generation, born shortly before the Millennium, Willinger demands a return to fixed identities, real values, and traditional family life; a return which will, apparently, mean an end to boredom and loneliness - as well as to the twin evils of multiculturalism and feminism. For the "perpetual, deep resentment" [25] that Willinger openly admits to feeling and which shapes his thinking, expresses itself not only in the form of  racism, but also misogyny and homophobia.

And thus, it's not only the artists and intellectuals associated with May 1968 (the month and year of my own birth) who are to blame for making poor Markus feel so bad about himself and his life, it's also the immigrants (particularly the Muslims), the abortionists, the queers, the perverts and the scowling feminists ... Oh, and it's also the Americans and the big corporations who have "inflicted countless and terrible wounds on our planet" [74] with their irresponsible greed (like every good Nazi, Willing is a romantic anti-capitalist at heart who adores Nature and values every tree and every mountain as sacred).

Not that he wants to "damn and demonize" [46] anybody of course. He just wants the above to learn how to be a little bit more like him; that is to say, someone ready to die for the one great thing that provides a final refuge ...LOVE! In this world of pain and sorrow, writes Willinger, the highest goal and greatest happiness is to find true love.

But of course, as much as Willinger may talk of love and want to receive such, like all men of ressentiment he doesn't know how to give love. And so he quickly recoils back into hate and the language of violence, fantasizing about life not in the bedroom, but the barracks: "If there is any masculinity, honour, and camaraderie today, the credit is due, above all, to the hard training that men received in the army." [85]

Not surprisingly, therefore, Willinger wants a return to compulsory military service, so that all young men might be taught how to obey orders, how to fight, and how to make the ultimate sacrifice.

Perhaps they'll also be taught how to recognise real beauty: for although Willinger concedes that "there is no accounting for taste and every attempt at defining a definitive aesthetic standard is inherently impossible" [93], he knows good art when he sees it - "the sort that stands in unity with the natural world, the sort that radiates pride and glory, that represents something real and in which we can find meaning" [94].

Not modern art, obviously, which is formless and fragmented. And stomach turning.   

Finally, bringing his manifesto to a close, Willinger calls for brave, passionate action. And weapons. He promises that a final verdict will shortly be passed upon people like me who are responsible for the downfall of mankind and the ruin of the world; nihilists who knowingly destroy everything holy and fight against everything natural; queers for whom the concept of identity is a crisis in and of itself.

To be honest, one rather hopes it'll be a death sentence, if only so one never has to read any more of his appalling books ...  

Barefoot in Bloomsbury (The Case of Virginia Bodoin)

Agnes Ayres: the American actress best known for 

her role in The Sheik (1921) alongside Valentino 

I have to confess that I rather like the sound of Virginia Bodoin, a character in one of D. H. Lawrence’s short stories.

And what I like most about this woman of thirty is not just that she is a bit odd and elvish with a very slight squint in one of her brown eyes, or that her hair was a natural tangle of curls – though for me these traits are attractive enough in themselves – but more, it’s that she carelessly undermines her own attempts at appearing prim and proper due to a quality which Lawrence describes as sluttishness.

And this quality is nowhere more apparent than in her feet: true, they were elegant; it wasn’t that. Rather it was the fact that she simply couldn’t resist kicking her shoes off at every opportunity, be it indoors or outdoors, even if this meant going barefoot, or displaying a hole in her expensive stockings.

There was, writes Lawrence, “a touch of gamine in her very feet, a certain sluttishness that wouldn’t let them stay properly in nice proper shoes”. This was the fetishistic secret of her charm and helped make her popular with men, two of whom, Henry and Adrian, fall madly in love with her. She was so stylish and had such a lovely, rather low but whimsical voice that enchanted the male soul. And yet she was ever so slightly queer and just a tiny bit sluttish.

How disappointing, therefore, that Lawrence sees fit to marry this intelligent, independent, thoroughly modern woman off to the Turkish Delight; an Armenian not only twice her age, but a fat patriarchal figure who, although happy to trade in the West and adapt himself to the commercial world therein, retains a traditional and tribal mentality.

Arnault loves Virginia, but he essentially thinks her a lost child who needs protecting; to be caressed and cared for – and fattened up! He also recognises her as someone who can help smooth his way into English society and provide him with a swanky London apartment. Thus, for multifarious reasons, he didn’t want merely to fuck Virginia: he wanted also to marry her and to “make himself master of her”.

Again, it seems to me a real shame that Lawrence should suggest that the only way for a girl to escape from a wilful mother - and from becoming a wilful woman in turn - is to give way to destiny and submit to male power and authority; to become, as Mrs Bodoin contemptuously puts it, the harem type ready to take up the veil once more and no longer be burdened with freedom.

One is almost tempted to regard this as a Lawrentian form of slut shaming ...  

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'Mother and Daughter', in The Virgin and the Gipsy and Other Stories, ed. by Michael Herbert, Bethan Jones and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 2005). Lines quoted on pp. 105 and 118.

Luis Quiles and the Transparency of Evil

Louis Quiles: self portrait and Twitter profile picture

twitter.com/perterpunk 

The work of Spanish artist Luis Quiles brilliantly reveals what Baudrillard describes as evil.

That is to say, that which belongs to the order not of morality, but of invisibility; that which is usually concealed and circulates in secret; that which, despite the best efforts of our society to deny its existence, eventually shines through (thus Baudrillard's notion of the transpiring of evil).

We like to think that our idealism has triumphed in a world unified by technology and illuminated by the light of reason; that the good, the true, and the beautiful are now the supreme values and we should therefore all be wearing a permanently happy face.

Un/fortunately, however, evil remains within our society and, indeed, it continues to provide the indispensable energy needed to drive it forward. 18th-century Anglo-Dutch philosopher and political economist, Bernard Mandeville, was right when he asserted, scandalously at the time, that society operates and advances on the basis of its vices, not its virtues or positive qualities.

Quiles, I think, recognizes this - recognizes, that is to say, that corruption has a vital function within the world - even if, as a liberal humanist, he finds it difficult to countenance greed, violence, exploitation, and hatred. Thus the terrible tension and ambiguity within his images. They clearly satirize the pornographic character of contemporary culture and consumer capitalism, yet nevertheless they are complicit with it.

A friend of mine compared the images to those of English graffiti-artist Banksy. But, at their best, the comic-book style pictures by this young, Barcelona-based artist are almost as unbearable to look at - their content as profoundly troubling - as the so-called Black Paintings produced by Goya during the final period of his life. They're that good; they're that appalling.


Note: the above picture, as well as many other works, can be found on Luis Quiles's Facebook page by clicking here.
 

Deborah de Robertis: The Naked Truth

Deborah de Robertis (self-portrait, 2014)

Deborah de Robertis is someone I'm very fond of. For not only does she have a lovely face, but she provocatively blurs the lines between art, performance, criticism and flagrant self-promotion. Of course, she’s not unique in this by any means, but she does it with rather more style and chutzpah than most.

In May 2014, for example, wearing a beautiful gold sequin dress, she entered the Musée d’Orsay and posed in front of Courbet’s obscene masterpiece, L’Origine du monde, displaying her own sex and silently challenging passersby to gaze into what the artist does not dare to reveal in his painting; the concealed eye or black hole of the vagina that lies beyond the fleshy lips of the labia; the sticky abyss which stares into those who foolishly stare into it; the zero point where philosophers and insects lose their way.

De Robertis thus seductively turns the tables upon those who would not only objectify the female body, but render it passive via its representation. She seems to say: ‘You want to see a cunt? Here’s a cunt!’ knowing full well that the museum authorities will rush to cover it up just as the news media will censor their own images in their coverage of the story (whilst nevertheless hypocritically reproducing Courbet’s 1866 oil painting of Joanna Hiffernan’s nether regions).

Then, in January of this year, de Robertis repeated her stunt; though this time she stripped naked in front of Manet’s celebrated (but equally controversial) Olympia and ended up in a police cell for two days (held for indecent exposure), as well as the in the international press once more. Stretched out on the museum floor, she adopted the same confident and unabashed pose as the reclining nude in the 1865 portrait.

Unlike the latter, however, she had a miniature camera strapped to her head in order to record those who came to voyeuristically gaze at her. In interviews afterwards, de Robertis explained that her aim was to bring Olympia to life and reverse the usual relationship between model and viewing public; to extract what Baudrillard famously described as the revenge of the object.

For these twin operations of vulva activism (or what the brave women of Femen term sextremism), I salute her. Torpedophiles who are interested in seeing footage of the events should click here (Origin of the World) and here (Olympia).

Lady Chatterley's Daughter

Cover of Lady Chatterley's Daughter, ed. Lawrence Lariar, 

(Popular Library, 1960)

At the end of Lady Chatterley's Lover, Connie is carrying a child of unknown sex. But, of course, within the pornographic imagination, it has to be a girl; a daughter who will inherit her mother's desire for unlicensed pleasure and sexual freedom; a Lawrentian nymphet who would make Nabokov smile.

For the pornographic imagination unfolds within a universe in which, as Susan Sontag points out, everything is conceived as an opportunity to fuck and everyone is allowed (and encouraged) to screw everyone else. This is what makes it a total universe; one with "the power to ingest and metamorphose and translate all concerns that are fed into it, reducing everything into the one negotiable currency of the erotic imperative".

The dream, ultimately, is of a pornotopia in which there are no fixed distinctions between the sexes and no inhibitions can be allowed to endure. Gender, for example, is fluid; something to be performed and perverted. And taboos surrounding things such as incest are simply another means to intensify pleasure and multiply the possibilities of sexual exchange.

Whether the incestuous fantasy of the hot milf and her even hotter daughter was one of Lawrence's, I don't know. Probably not: for Lawrence relates incest to idealism and he is keen to reject and overcome the latter. For Lawrence, incest is just another example of what he terms sex-in-the-head. He writes:

"Finding himself in a sort of emotional cul-de-sac, man proceeds to deduce from his given emotional and passional premises conclusions which are not emotional or passional at all, but just logical, abstract, ideal."

Thus, incest is a logical deduction of human reason, filtered through the pornographic imagination. If at first it rouses deep instinctive opposition, this can soon be eroded or persuaded away. But this motivizing of the passional sphere by idealism is, for Lawrence, the great danger facing us today; "the death of all spontaneous, creative life, and the substituting of the mechanical principle".

However, Lawrence also says that we have no choice but to fulfil these ideals in their extremity. In other words, the pornographic nihilism of our culture cannot be ignored, reversed, or transcended; it can only be consummated.

But note, this doesn't mean spending all day surfing internet porn; it means, rather, rediscovering something of the pristine unconscious - and for this we still need our really great artists and poets.


Notes

D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, ed. Michael Squires, (Cambridge University Press, 1983). 

D. H. Lawrence, Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), Chapter 2, 'The Incest Motive and Idealism'. 

Susan Sontag, 'The Pornographic Imagination', essay in Styles of Radical Will, (Penguin Books, 2009).
 

On Loving Enemies and Hating Friends

The poet and translator Simon Solomon

(mon meilleur ami et meilleur adversaire)

The philosopher, says Zarathustra, must not only be able to love his enemies, but also to hate his friends.

The first part of this proposition obviously echoes the Christian imperative, but Nietzsche doesn’t mean by it what Jesus meant. For he’s not thinking in terms of forgiveness and reconciliation and peace on earth. Rather, he wants the lover of wisdom to recognise the vital need for enmity.

Unlike Hegel, therefore, he’s not positing difference only so he might then dream of synthesis. Dionysus versus the Crucified is not a dialectical opposition; the pathos of distance between terms is real and needs, if anything, to be furthered - not closed or even bridged.

But across this gulf that separates, antagonists should respect and even revere one another and know that they find their best strength in the struggle between them; to desire the extermination of one’s enemies, to think of them in vicious moral terms as evil, is profoundly mistaken and a sign of ressentiment. The noble human being always finds in their adversary something to honour (and to love), not despise and fear.

As for the second part of this proposition, Nietzsche is simply alerting us to the danger of those who love us for who we are, rather than for what we might become; for those who follow us on social media and like what we do and say, rather than challenge it; those who want the best for us, rather than wish us a life of hardship, conflict and worthy enemies.

In sum, for Nietzsche, one’s best friend and one’s greatest opponent is often one and the same person. (Oh, Simon, what would I do without you?)

Pussy (A Post for International Women's Day)

The term pussy has several meanings and can be used in a variety of ways; some innocent, some insulting, some vulgar. But what most interests is why this word should have become such a popular euphemism for female genitalia, thereby establishing an erotico-symbolic relationship between cats and cunts; small, soft, furry, carnivorous creatures on the one hand – and domestic pets that like to be stroked on the other.

The etymological origin of the word is uncertain; it may simply have derived from a sound used to attract a cat: Here puss, puss, puss! But, by the 17th century, pussy was commonly being used to refer to young women as well as moggies and by the following century it specifically directed us towards their sex organs.

Unsurprisingly, many women now regard pussy as derogatory, demeaning and dehumanising, rather than an affectionate term of endearment. But there are other women who use it quite happily and in preference to any of the other slang terms for vagina. Indeed, some even wear knickers with kittens printed on.

Personally, it’s not a word I’m entirely comfortable with. Not only is it a little too coy for my tastes, but it also lends itself too readily to double entendre and I don’t much like sexual innuendo (whilst conceding that it's long been a crucial component of bawdy humour, from the Barrison Sisters to Mrs. Slocombe). Nor do I see any need to disguise or apologise for biology; there’s nothing shameful about female bodies and the word cunt seems to me much more honest.

Having said that, feminist punk collective Pussy Riot have managed to cleverly invest the word with a new dynamism and militancy, rightly realising that this provocative combination of terms creates a powerful ambiguity and tension. Iggy Azalea’s inspired rap anthem, Pussy, has also helped to revalue the term.

Ultimately, however it’s referred to, we should all learn to love the vagina, celebrate labia pride, and support vulva activism. For where would we be - male or female - without that which Courbet rightly recognised as the Origin of the World ...?

Thanks to Kiranjit Kaur for supplying the image for this post and for her insight on the topic. 

Ephebophilia (with Reference to the Cases of Adam Johnson and Will Brangwen)

Adam Johnson at Bradford Crown Court / Christopher Gable as 
Will Brangwen in The Rainbow (dir. Ken Russell, 1989)

The case of footballer Adam Johnson, 28, who has just been convicted of grooming and touching up a 15-year-old girl - and who is now facing what the judge warns will be a substantial prison sentence - is an interesting example of how times have changed.

For whilst his actions may have raised a few eyebrows in the not-too-distant past, I very much doubt he would have been prosecuted, let alone found guilty of a serious crime and portrayed by the media as some kind of monster of depravity.  

Obviously, as the law stands, the girl is a minor and cannot give consent to sexual activity. Johnson knew this. But does sending her inappropriate texts, kissing her in the back of his car and putting his hand down her pants, really deserve to be punished with a minimum of five years jail time? Johnson was undoubtedly devious, arrogant, and stupid. But he didn't violently assault the young woman; her claim that he forced her to perform fellatio on him was rejected by the jury. 

Interestingly, the case makes one think back to an incident in The Rainbow involving Will Brangwen, also aged 28 at the time, and a young girl he meets at a variety theatre on a Saturday night out in Nottingham away from his wife, Anna, from whom he feels increasingly estranged. Lawrence writes:

"In the Empire one evening he sat next to two girls. He was aware of the one beside him. She was rather small, common, with a fresh complexion and an upper lip that lifted from her teeth, so that, when she was not conscious, her mouth was slightly open and her lips pressed outwards in a kind of blind appeal. ...
      A gleam lit up in him: should he begin with her? Should he begin with her to live the other, the unadmitted life of his desire? Why not? He had always been so good. Save for his wife, he was a virgin. And why, when all women were different? Why, when he would only live once? He wanted the other life. His own life was barren, not enough. He wanted the other.
      Her open mouth, showing the small, irregular, white teeth, appealed to him. It was open and ready. It was so vulnerable. Why should he not go in and enjoy what was there? The slim arm that went down so still and motionless to the lap, it was pretty. She would be small, he would be able almost to hold her in his two hands. She would be small, almost like a child, and pretty. Her childishness whetted him keenly. She would he helpless between his hands."

Clearly, from this pervy-pornographic description, the nameless girl is young - perhaps she too might only be fifteen, who knows?

Brangwen strikes up conversation, making her blush even as she flashes a smile at him with her eyes. Her nervousness and vulnerability "pricked him with a pleasant sensation ... she was so young and palpitating". He is determined to press home his advantage and exert his power as an older man. After the show, Brangwen convinces the girl to abandon her friend and come with him for a coffee. Lawrence writes:

"The friend was gone into the darkness. He turned with his girl to the tea-shop. They talked all the time. He made his sentences in sheer, almost muscular pleasure of exercising himself with her. He was looking at her all the time, perceiving her, appreciating her, finding her out, gratifying himself with her. He could see distinct attractions in her; her eyebrows, with their particular curve, gave him keen aesthetic pleasure. Later on he would see her bright, pellucid eyes, like shallow water, and know those. And there remained the open, exposed mouth, red and vulnerable. That he reserved as yet. And all the while his eyes were on the girl, estimating and handling with pleasure her young softness. About the girl herself, who or what she was, he cared nothing, he was quite unaware that she was anybody. She was just the sensual object of his attention."

Again, this description makes more than a little uncomfortable; Lawrence stresses the calculating and coercive aspects of seduction. Brangwen sounds predatory. It is not inconceivable that he might attempt to rape the girl if he doesn't get his way with a combination of small-talk and sweet-talk:

"He was alert in every sense and fibre, and yet quite sure and steady, and lit up, as if transfused. He had a free sensation of walking in his own darkness, not in anybody else’s world at all. He was purely a world to himself, he had nothing to do with any general consciousness. Just his own senses were supreme. All the rest was external, insignificant, leaving him alone with this girl whom he wanted to absorb, whose properties he wanted to absorb into his own senses. He did not care about her, except that he wanted to overcome her resistance, to have her in his power, fully and exhaustively to enjoy her."

Brangwen puts his arm around the girl and pulls her close. He leads her along darkened streets and into the park, where he begins to grope her. She doesn't consent to this, but neither does she protest. Rather, she stays silent and inscrutable; obediently doing what he asks of her. Brangwen is happy with her silence and passivity. He doesn't want to know her personally; "he only wanted to discover her. And through her clothing, what absolute beauty he touched ... his hands ... so subtly, so seekingly, so finely and desirously searching her out".

The girl acquiesces and seems also to be enjoying the experience: "In utter sensual delight she clenched her knees, her thighs, her loins together." She accepts his kisses and her mouth becomes bold and assured, rather than helpless and unguarded. But as Brangwen becomes ever more forceful, with a "sudden horrible movement she ruptured the state that contained them both", pushing him away and telling him to stop with a frightened cry. Lawrence eventually brings this long scene to a climax:

"She came back to him, but trembling, reservedly this time.
      Her cry had given him gratification. But he knew he had been too sudden for her. He was now careful. For a while he merely sheltered her. ... He wanted to persist, to begin again, to lead up to the point where he had let himself go on her, and then manage more carefully, successfully. ...
      He sheltered her, and soothed her, and caressed her, and kissed her, and again began to come nearer, nearer. He gathered himself together. Even if he did not take her, he would make her relax, he would fuse away her resistance. So softly, softly, with infinite caressiveness he kissed her, and the whole of his being seemed to fondle her. Till, at the verge, swooning at the breaking point, there came from her a beaten, inarticulate, moaning cry:
      'Don’t - oh, don’t!'
      His veins fused with extreme voluptuousness. For a moment he almost lost control of himself, and continued automatically. But there was a moment of inaction, of cold suspension. He was not going to take her. He drew her to him and soothed her, and caressed her. But the pure zest had gone. She struggled to herself and realised he was not going to take her. And then, at the very last moment, when his fondling had come near again, his hot living desire despising her, against his cold sensual desire, she broke violently away from him.
      'Don’t,' she cried, harsh now with hatred, and she flung her hand across and hit him violently."

Brangwen reacts to this with suave irony and gives her a cruel smile. The girl had escaped, says Lawrence - adding with a rapist's logic: "But she hated him for her escape more than for her danger."

Afterwards, Will Brangwen "caught a train and went home", back to his wife and children, just as if nothing had happened. Indifferent and happy to lie. Just like Adam Johnson.

   
See: D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow, ed. Mark Kinkead-Weekes, (Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 210-17. 

See also Howard J. Booth's essay "'At Last to Newness': D. H. Lawrence's The Rainbow and the Dream of a Better World", in the Journal of D. H. Lawrence Studies, Vol. 4, Number 1 (2015), pp. 19-44. Booth's suggestion in a footnote that Will Brangwen has a sexual fascination with childhood directly inspired this post.  

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Lady Chatterley's Lover and the Pornographic Imagination

Poster for the English language version of  
L'Amant de lady Chatterley 
(dir. Marc Allégret, 1955)

Although Lawrence often writes about pornography in pathological terms - as the grey disease of sex-hatred coupled with the yellow disease of dirt lust - he also reluctantly admits that what is obscene to one person is the laughter of genius to another. 

Lawrence thus problematizes and pluralizes the concept in a manner that anticipates Susan Sontag who, forty years later, will argue that any discussion of the subject must begin by acknowledging that there are at least three pornographies; the socio-historical, the psycho-sexual, and, lastly, a minor but interesting modality or convention within the arts.

It's the latter, particularly as it operates within the field of literature, which Sontag examines with her customary intelligence and sophistication, but it's not what I want to discuss here. For I'm not really concerned with showing what it is that makes Lady Chatterley's Lover a legitimate work of art. Rather, I'm interested in how the novel evolved within the contemporary cultural imagination, which is not only pornographic but popular and postmodern in character.

In other words, what fascinates is not the novel's reception or status amongst a handful of scholars, critics, and readers still genuinely interested in Lawrence's uniquely powerful attempt to explore extreme forms of human consciousness and erotic obsession, but the manner in which the book and its famous pair of lovers have become, for the majority of people, ludicrous; two stock characters defined by their organs, rutting in the woods for all eternity.     

Lawrence may have wanted men and women to be able to think sex fully, completely, honestly, and cleanly, but, after the orgy, most people simply can't take sex, art, or porn seriously. They smile at the idea that there might lie within these things either some great truth or mortal danger. Indeed, even in Lawrence's own time he was aware that the younger generation would, lacking what he terms real feeling, find Lady Chatterley's Lover old-fashioned, its phallic language, laughable.

And so one suspects that Lawrence anticipated what would befall him and his work and that, in a sense, he offered the figures of Connie and Mellors to fate and circumstance; knowing they'd secure immortality within the pornographic imagination, even as they were repeatedly and sometimes grotesquely transformed within it.  


Notes

D. H. Lawrence, 'Pornography and Obscenity' and 'À Propos of Lady Chatterley's Lover', in À Propos of Lady Chatterley's Lover and Other Essays, (Penguin Books, 1961). 

Susan Sontag, 'The Pornographic Imagination', in Styles of Radical Will, (Penguin Books, 2009). 

Dementia: From Bad to Verse

People who leave the obscure and try to define 

whatever it is that goes on in their heads, are pigs.

 
Living Words is a therapeutic arts organisation, created in 2007 by the writer Susanna Howard, which works with people - like my mother - who are dealing with dementia and the accompanying loss of speech skills and other neuro-cognitive functions.

The belief is that even the most delirious babbling should be regarded as valid expression and that by recording and faithfully transcribing what is said, you might produce a form of poetry in which the truth of madness, as well as the inner world of the person, is revealed. This, says Howard, is her great mission.

Of course, as she admits, the process involves editing. But, Howard insists, there is nothing added and no meddling; the meaning of the text is present in the utterance of the speaker and simply allowed to shine forth on the page with transparent authenticity.

I am, of course, extremely skeptical about all this - to say the least.

It's not that I think it impossible to establish a dialogue with those who can but stammer imperfect words and noises without fixed syntax, or the recognised logic of language. And I certainly don't wish to abandon anyone to silent oblivion, if they still desperately desire to communicate (although, having said that, I must admit to finding something beautiful in the total silence of the object).

Rather, my main concern is that there's a real danger in the Living Words project of subscribing to the romantic myth of madness; particularly in relation to the (equally romantic) myths of art and creative genius. Howard is profoundly mistaken in believing that every single word or sound that falls from a madman's lips is worthy of respect and only needs to be sculpted by an artist-in-residence in order to produce poetry and truth.

For as Foucault was at pains to point out in the conclusion to his history of insanity in the Age of Reason, whilst the madness of Nietzsche, or Van Gogh, or Artaud belongs to their work, their work does not belong to madness. That is to say, madness is precisely the absence of art and its annihilation; "the point where it becomes impossible and where it must fall silent ..."

Foucault continues:

"Madness is the absolute break with the work of art; it forms the constitutive moment of abolition ... it draws the exterior edge, the line of dissolution, the contour against the void. ... Madness is no longer the space of indecision through which it was possible to glimpse the original truth of the work of art, but the decision beyond which this truth ceases irrevocably ..."

And - let's be honest here - the Living Words team are not dealing with figures such as Nietzsche, Van Gogh, and Artaud; the poets they encounter in the various hospitals and care homes have very little of any philosophical interest or artistic merit to contribute, be they sane, senile, or somewhere in between.

Of course, not that this really matters: Toute l'écriture est de la cochonnerie.


Notes

Michel Foucault; Madness and Civilization, trans. Richard Howard, (Tavistock Publications, 1987). Lines quoted are on p. 287. 

Those interested in knowing more about the Living Words project should click here to visit their website.

Many thanks to Simon Solomon for suggesting this topic.