Evening All: Reflections on the Case of PC Semple

Every now and then a story comes on the news that leaves me spluttering in the breakfast bowl; not so much in moral outrage, as amused disbelief. 

One such story is that of PC Gordon Semple, 59, who, tragically, was murdered by an Italian Lothario, Stefano Brizzi, with whom he'd arranged a sexual liaison via Grindr, the world's most popular gay dating app.

Details of the crime are sordid and shocking enough: the hapless bobby, who was simply looking for some sado-masochistic fun with a like-minded fellow, was strangled and dismembered. Over the course of the next few days, Brizzi attempted to dissolve the remains in an acid-filled bathtub - but not before cannibalising some of the tastier body parts (toothmarks were found by a forensic dentist on one of the policeman's ribs and puddles of human fat were discovered inside the poorly cleaned oven).      

As appalling and abhorrent as these details are, they aren't what made me choke on my cornflakes; this, rather, was caused by a victim impact statement read to the court by PC Semple's older brother, Ronald,  during Brizzi's trial at the Old Bailey.* In the statement, he said Gordon was a caring and gentle person, much loved by his family and friends, who were left devastated by news of his murder, blah, blah, blah.

So far, so platitudinous: but then he adds - preposterously - that his sibling deserved to be remembered by the community he served for over thirty years as a real-life Dixon of Dock Green ...!   

I have to say - with no disrespect to the deceased, his colleagues, his grieving family and friends, or members of the queer community - that's a bit rich ...

For not only does it reflect rather unfairly on the character played by Jack Warner who, as far as I recall, never once attended a drug-fuelled orgy, used his truncheon as a dildo, or indulged in his taste for hot, dirty, sleazy sex whilst still on duty, but it also falsely sanitizes and sanctifies the life of PC Semple, who, clearly, was a monster of depravity devoted to a life of kink and to finding love on the beat.       
     

Note: Brizzi was convicted of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment (instructed he'll serve a minimum of 24 years). 

The (Displaced) Task of the Translator 3: On the Limits of Zeitgeistiness - A Post by Simon Solomon

Simon Solomon (aka Dr Simon Thomas)

As the late English poet and essayist Geoffrey Hill insisted, in railing against the problem of our post-Romantic (and/or post-modern) suggestibility, every voice worthy of the name will be organised, at least in part, by a sensibility that combines cultural receptivity and counter-cultural resistance, not to mention a creative misreading of similarly strong precursors. Though the exemplary genius of Hegel's world-historical individuals resided in the propensity of such figures to both suffer and amplify the spirit of their time, the transmissions of the artist - and Kenneth Goldsmith's own thesis depicts translation as indisputably artistic - are not merely barometers, pulse-fingering fashion statements, or 'expressive' of a socio-cultural milieu to which they might even be psychoanalytically reduced. If such zeitgeistiness has its claim, it surely also has its limits. Ultimately, while steeped in their age’s particular species of sadness, the most original artists are Janus-faced, both prophetic and nostalgic, and hence ultimately timeless. While it may be true that the machinic flows of technocapital will one day turn us all into its dehumanised vehicles, there is a (perhaps perverse) love in raging against the machine.

As it transpires, Goldsmith seems not to be wholly in earnest about the disappearance of the subject, when one considers the lingering humanism of his discussion of the musician’s practice of sampling and mixing, emphasising as it does the value of 'mindful recontextualization' in a way that makes him seem to want to have his displaced cake and eat it. I find Goldsmith’s depiction of such techniques of conscious transformation especially congenial in relation to my own emerging translation practice around poetic 'convocations', in which I assimilate fragments from other poetries, films and songs into 'baroque' versions of beloved originals. We can and do beg, borrow or steal from other sources in our work as hipsters, creators or long-suffering makers - and, in an accelerating climate of global exchange, licences and permissions cannot in any case always easily be sought - but should never forget Pound’s modernist credo to 'make it new'. The justification for literary theft is the hunger for innovation ...

Finally, some readers might worry more about the apparent submission of Goldsmith's vision of displaced authorship to a political quietism - the way in which, as he himself concedes, 'the displaced text's entwinement with the latest technology […] aligns it with nefarious capitalist tendencies'. Though his whole point is that what he charmingly calls the 'meatspace audience' is missing the point (since life is less and less 'live' - compulsively played out instead behind or by means of a contemporary surplus of devices, apps and screens), one might wonder if he is not so much throwing the translator’s baby out with the bathwater as electrocuting it in a tsunami of technobubbles.

The ominous promise of a new battened-down all-American protectionism across the pond notwithstanding, if globalised capital is essentially a machine that engenders economic, social and cultural flows, the most interesting individuals, and their art, tend to occur where history slows and condenses. Though Goldsmith's poetics of displacement - a vision that highlights the planet-circling journey undertaken by contemporary translation, and the media by which it is carried - is indebted to our culture of hyper-mobility, there is also (thankfully) a dark art of entrenchment. And it’s not going anywhere …

See: Kenneth Goldsmith, Against Translation: Displacement is the New Translation, (Jean Boîte Editions, 2016).

Note: Simon Solomon (aka Dr Simon Thomas) is a poet, translator, critic and tutor. He is a professional member of the Irish Writers Centre, Dublin and currently serves as managing editor with the academic journal Psychoanalysis, Culture and Society. He blogs at simonsolomon.ink and a full (non-abridged) version of his essay will shortly be made available here.  

Simon appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm. I am very grateful for his submission of a lengthy text that he kindly allowed me to edit into three separate posts for the sake of convenience. Part 1: Magical Realism without the Magic can be read by clicking here. Part 2: Microdramas of Displacement, can be read by clicking here.

The (Displaced) Task of the Translator 2: Microdramas of Displacement - A Post by Simon Solomon

Dede Koswara, aka the Human Tree Man

Image Source: thechive.com

While we may be culturally instructed by Kenneth Goldsmith's undoubted flair for mediating the technological imaginary (albeit in a way that is perhaps already somewhat well-rehearsed, and which is, for me, more originally evoked by the writings of Jean Baudrillard), I feel more moved as a poet by his microdramas of displacement from real life. In his collection of anecdotal horrors and subcutaneous wonders - including, for example, the poignant story of a buried bullet beneath a boy’s face, its impact site permanently cauterised by the heat of the missile, that 'remains comfortably embedded' for the rest of his natural existence - there is a strange rapture of estrangement or post-modern beauty.

What Goldsmith ultimately discloses by telling us the story of a tree that grew around a metal grate erected to protect it until it became, in his luminously lyrical language, 'the guardian of the grate, swallowing it whole, nestling it deep within its core', is a beguiling phenomenology of incorporation: notes towards how we learn to take in and 'live with' foreign matter that have obvious affinities with literary (re)composition. I wondered what Goldsmith might make of less successful manifestations of human embodiment - such as the Indonesian carpenter, Dede Koswara, whose monstrous condition, a fantastically rare skin disorder called Lewandowsky-Lutz dysplasia (aka ‘Tree Man Syndrome’), caused bark-like cutaneous horns to sprout from his hands and feet and led to him being shunned by his community as an accursed object.

While doubtless more than a sliver of Schadenfreude attaches to such cases, in picking up his own bâton and running with it, Goldsmith extends his project into an inter-disciplinary revisionist thesis, in which acid rain is rebranded as 'displaced weather', petroleum as 'displaced prehistory', the melting ice caps as 'displaced Ice Age' and the Great Pacific garbage patch (aka the Pacific trash vortex) as 'displaced geography'. If this is a schtick of sorts, it is a thrilling one - though thrilling, perhaps, in the manner of a totalitarian music. By contrast, the niceties and decencies of the translator’s traditional craft - its meticulous attunements to the minutiae of syntax, the localities of diction and the pathos of distance - are derisively likened by Goldsmith to the cult of ‘slow food’. To pursue such an obsolescent quest now, on Goldsmith's thesis, is to be a wilful reactionary (though possibly a reactionary who enjoys better digestion), indulging a 'bourgeois luxury', 'faux-nostalgia' and 'a boutique pursuit from a lost world'. The good faith of the translator, that suspiciously friendly idealist forever trying to meet people halfway, is ultimately rotten to the core.

Among a raft of concerns here, one might wonder what place authentic nostalgia - or just real history - could play in such Goldsmith's vision of our creative dispossession, since translation is inescapably also a tradition, not merely a metamorphic instrumentality. Perhaps, indeed, the translator, at their finest, is a kind of time-travelling cultural attaché, drawn back like the former English Laureate Ted Hughes to the shape-shifting mythology of the ancient world, retracing and reimagining their embedded civilisations to keep the culture’s collective unconscious awake.

In a way that stirs my desire to unsettle the strategic dualities of his thought, Goldsmith views displacement as a binary trader, harnessing what can be displaced and jettisoning what cannot, while eschewing what he calls the 'messy questions of morality, ethics and nuance' in favour of 'the craft of the kludge'. Leaving aside the manifold ways in which both literature and life are endlessly (if not necessarily) entangled in such varieties of disorder, I would be interested to learn more about those poetogenic entities the author thinks by implication might defy displacement - about what, in other words, might not get lost in translation ...


See: Kenneth Goldsmith, Against Translation: Displacement is the New Translation, (Jean Boîte Editions, 2016).

Note: Simon Solomon (aka Dr Simon Thomas) is a poet, translator, critic and tutor. He is a professional member of the Irish Writers Centre, Dublin and currently serves as managing editor with the academic journal Psychoanalysis, Culture and Society. He blogs at simonsolomon.ink and a full (non-abridged) version of his essay will shortly be made available here.  

Simon appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm. I am very grateful for his submission of a lengthy text that he kindly allowed me to edit into three separate posts for the sake of convenience. Part 1: Magical Realism without the Magic can be read by clicking here. Part 3: On the Limits of Zeitgeistiness (Or How to Have Your Displaced Cake and Eat It), can be read by clicking here.

The (Displaced) Task of the Translator 1: Magical Realism without the Magic - A Post by Simon Solomon

Kenneth Goldsmith 

Image Source: queensmob.com

Against Translation: Displacement is the New Translation.

So claims the title of an ambitious new essay by the New York poet, curator and cultural provocateur, Kenneth Goldsmith. Though its bipolar declaration reads at first glance as curiously equivocal, the author's ostensible desire to oppose a practice he also wishes to renew points rather to a wor(l)d that is no longer what it was. The traditional concept of translation, in a nutshell, is to be badly - which is to say unfaithfully - retranslated. In this usurper's charter, Goldsmith’s withering opening salvo is clearly designed both to antagonise the old guard and clear new interpretive ground:

'Translation is the ultimate humanist gesture. Polite and reasonable, it is an overly cautious bridge builder. Always asking for permission, it begs understanding and friendship. It is optimistic yet provisional, pinning all hopes on a harmonious outcome. In the end, it always fails, for the discourse it sets forth is inevitably off-register; translation is an approximation of discourse – and, in approximating, it produces a new discourse.'

Quaintly conscientious, yet quietly hobbled by its lack of ambition, the classical practice of translation invariably founders on its own tendency to generate novelty. Since such productions go with the territory, however, what the translator should accept - and indeed celebrate - is their activity's irrepressible affinity with the politics of displacement: its complicity, in effect, with wilful miscarriages of (poetic) justice.

Now translators are being everywhere reborn as the renegade children of technology, the utopian spirit of the digital networks is to be channelled and dispersed. In this virtual dispensation, we are all refugees. The new task of the translator, Goldsmith implies, is to embrace their occupation as emblematic of man’s indifference (if not inhumanity) to man, as their dislodged products, borderless and lawless, unapologetically expropriate themselves beyond bodies, identities and the moribund personality cult of the author.

Indeed, as a form of 'magical realism without the magic', displacement 'answers to no one' mainly because 'there's no one on the other end to take the call'. In a pivotal passage that points up Goldsmith’s indebtedness to the flâneur philosopher Walter Benjamin, he contends:

'Displacement is modernism for the twenty-first century, a child of montage, psychogeography, and the objet trouvé. Unlike much modernism, displacement doesn’t move toward disjunction; it trucks in wholes. Schooled in Photoshop and reared in cut-and-paste, the world is now our desktop. Drop-and-drag architecture: pick up something and plunk it somewhere; it soon becomes natural. Displacement is Duchamp for architecture. Frank Gehry is a master of architectural displacement; Bilbao - a fantasy displaced off a CAD screen - soon becomes a beloved Basque landmark.'

The dialogical conscience of translation has been superseded by a 'boundless annexing machine' that 'sucks indiscriminately' as a shameless infant on the flickering nipples of cosmopolitan culture - culture, it is clear, that has long since failed to serve as a mother. In a decontextualised economy of viral reproduction, it may take a (global) village to raise a child, though not necessarily a human one.

But this economy, for Goldsmith, is also an ecology, illimitably extending the transcendental dispossession of language while the relentlessly replicative online ecosystem recycles its resources 'in bizarre Frankensteinian artifacts', ranging from multi-sourced PDF pseudo-book assemblages to Hollywood blockbusters with Telugu subtitles. If this is all monstrously poetic, its analogues are indissociably political. What might darkly be called the datafication of the human is the contemporary modus of transnational technocapitalism, driven by the indifferent engines of its displacement apparatus that 'spits its subjects across the globe, redundantly segmenting and replicating them […] thereby minimizing chances for loss while increasing chances for totality'.

If the effect of this global dispersal is to orphan translation by ripping up its roots, re-routing its genealogies, puncturing its pedantries and saturating its markets - driving, in effect, its whole humane history over the cliff of technology - the happy outcome for Goldsmith is a 'playful anarchy' in which homophonic transformations (think van Rooten's delicious nonsense rendering of 'Humpty Dumpty / sat on a wall' as 'Un petit d'un petit / S'étonne aux Halles') become the irreverent gambits of a ludic poetics distinguished by its abandonment of all writerly ownership or privilege.

For those of us who might defiantly trumpet the tendency of the talented toward a strategic singularity, the ambition here would seem to go further than merely purging late-Romantic souls of their residual preciousness. Rather, the rules of the language game of translation are being dazzlingly rewritten - liberated (or deconsecrated) in a blizzard of technics.

See: Kenneth Goldsmith, Against Translation: Displacement is the New Translation, (Jean Boîte Editions, 2016).

Note: Simon Solomon (aka Dr Simon Thomas) is a poet, translator, critic and tutor. He is a professional member of the Irish Writers Centre, Dublin and currently serves as managing editor with the academic journal Psychoanalysis, Culture and Society. He blogs at simonsolomon.ink and a full (non-abridged) version of his essay will shortly be made available here.

Simon appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm. I am very grateful for his submission of a lengthy text that he kindly allowed me to edit into three separate posts for the sake of convenience. Part 2: Microdramas of Displacement can be read by clicking here. Part 3: On the Limits of Zeitgeistiness (Or How to Have Your Displaced Cake and Eat It), can be read by clicking here.

Reflections from a Sickbed

Having been obliged to take to my bed with the flu, thoughts turn quite naturally once more to questions of sickness and death - and, in particular, a growing concern with what will happen posthumously to my wretched corpse, that most accursed of all objects. 

Obviously, it will need to be disposed of. But this isn't a simple or straightforward matter; for there are numerous methods of getting rid of the inconvenient (rapidly decomposing) body and here's where the headaches begin for someone like me who, when faced with the blackmail of choice, instinctively chooses not to choose.

However, let us briefly consider some of the main options ...  

(1) Cremation

Cremation certainly has points in its favour and I like the idea of being reduced by flame back to basic chemical compounds. There's also something attractively anti-Christian about cremation; the thought of rising like a pagan phoenix from the ashes rather than resurrecting like an end time zombie ready to face Judgement Day appeals more to me as a Lawrentian. 

Having said that, there's enough Jewishness in my nature to feel profoundly uncomfortable with the thought of furnaces and tall, free-standing chimneys, etc. And then there's the problem of the left over ashes; either to be scattered to the four winds (sounds quite nice), or - horror! - housed inside some ghastly urn and stuck on top of the bookcase before eventually being knocked over by the cat. 

On balance then, I don't think I want to go up in smoke and be ground down to dust, thank you very much.

(2) Inhumation

Having rejected cremation, burial is left as the only major alternative and, all in all, I'm more than happy with the thought of being placed (or even thrown) into a hole in the ground and thence to push up daisies. But I don't want anything done that will retard the inevitable decomposition; no embalming, for example - and preferably no closed coffin or casket. I want naked exposure to the soil and to allow the worms and whatnot do their holy work as quickly as possible. And if wearing a mushroom death suit helps this along, then sign me up for one.

As for where I'm buried, I really don't care; though not at sea, obviously. I don't want any kind of service or religious ritual observed and would prefer an unmarked grave. However, if there is a stone, it should simply read curb your enthusiasm, which pretty much summarizes my philosophy. 

(3) Immurement / Preservation

Any form of posthumous immurement or attempt at artificial preservation is, for me at least, completely out of the question; the thought of being permanently enclosed in a tomb or mausoleum, mummified in bandages like an Egyptian pharaoh, deep frozen like James Bedford in a cryogenic chamber, stuffed like the English utilitarian Jeremy Bentham and put on display in a glass case, or letting that freaky German anatomist, Gunther von Hagens, pump my corpse full of curable polymers so that I might enjoy plastic immortality, fills me with a strange mixture of disgust and despair. 

I would, quite literally, rather be fed to the vultures (as in a Tibetan sky burial) ...                      

Corpus Delicti (With Reference to the Case of D. H. Lawrence)

Death is always an inconvenience. Not so much for the deceased; for trust me, corpses don't care. But for those who are left with the problem of disposal; be these grieving relatives, or fastidious killers hoping to cover up all traces of their victim and their crime.  

Fortunately, there are several long-accepted methods of disposal; including the top two, burial and burning. But even these ancient methods present problems. In the case of cremation, for example, there's the question of what to do with the ashes; stick 'em in a ghastly urn and put granny on the mantelpiece, or scatter them to the four winds and risk the unpleasant humiliation of having them blow back in one's face. 

The English novelist D. H. Lawrence was famously first buried in Vence, where he died in 1930, and then, five years later, exhumed and cremated on Frieda's orders by her Italian lover and third husband to be, Angelo Ravagli. 

As to what happened to Lawrence's ashes, this has become subject to confusion and controversy. Ravagli was supposed to transport them to the ranch in New Mexico, where a suitable shrine had been built. Frieda had even provided a lovely little vase. But it seems likely that Ravagli simply threw them away (possibly into the harbour at Marseilles) and then filled the urn with a handful of dust upon his return to America. 

Frieda never knew. As far as she was concerned, she'd brought Lawrence back to the place they'd been happiest and sealed his fate by mixing his ashes into a concrete block in order to prevent anyone from stealing them and, symbolically, to prevent him from wandering in death without her. 

Lawrence's biographer, John Worthen, suggests that Ravagli did Lawrence a favour by rescuing him from his wife's posthumous plans: 

"Lawrence may finally have managed to evade her ... and to finish his career solitary, free, unhoused, with no lid sealing him down or block containing him: scattered, perhaps into the estranging sea he had so often contemplated."

John Worthen, D. H. Lawrence: The Life of an Outsider, (Allen Lane / Penguin Books, 2005), p. 418. 

Of Clowns and Catwomen

                                                                                                                

As everybody knows, there's an unwritten rule in the world of clowns that one must never copy the face make-up of another, thereby enabling each performer to retain their own unique identity.

In order to help ensure that this unwritten rule is followed and not accidentally infringed, some clowns voluntarily have their likeness painted onto a ceramic egg and registered with Clowns International. New clowns are able to consult the registry and avoid the potential embarrassment of looking like somebody else; one is tempted to say that face on egg thus prevents egg on face.

It's worth noting, however, that the registry is unofficial and Clowns International cannot enforce compliance; indeed, as far as I'm aware, you can't legally copyright a hairstyle, facial feature, or a way of applying make-up, no matter how individual or distinctive it may be. And neither - I believe - can you copyright a stage name, nickname, or any other type of alias.

I thought of this when reading recently about the punk icon, Soo Catwoman, who is desperately fighting a rearguard action to reclaim, protect and market her own extraordinary image - albeit forty years too late and after the young actress Judy Croll showed us all to brilliant effect in The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle just how easy it is to steal and to simulate a look, no matter how original the original may be. 
  
For Soo, like many punks naively committed to notions of authenticity and the Real, it's terribly important that we not mistake Croll for her and she carefully points out the differences in facial bone, hairline and breast size, as if we should care about such anatomical details - we who care only for masks and cosmetics and the free-floating aspect of a persona as something to be performed (not essentialised or trademarked).

Interestingly, Soo also expresses her moral and maternal outrage over the fact that Croll was only fourteen and raises the spectre of child abuse by the filmmakers, thereby demonstrating her poor understanding of the Swindle as a provocative work of cinema, a crucial aspect of which is its brutal exposure of the inherently exploitative nature of the music industry which blithely trades in young flesh and talent.

Despite what she seems to believe, there's nothing degraded or inappropriate about the nudity or sexuality of a minor, nor indeed its representation in art; obscenity begins when this is commodified and prostituted by men in positions of power for their own perverse pleasure or financial gain: Mummy! Mummy! They've killed Bambi!

And so, I'm sorry if Julien Temple's film and Croll's appearance in it have caused Soo and her family great distress over the years, as she claims, but she needs to understand that most viewers either don't know who the fuck she is, or, if they do, don't care that a small role she turned down was eventually given to an actress happy to play the part.  


Note: those interested in knowing more about Soo Catwoman might like to visit her official website: click here.

Another Bloody Sunset (On Eternal Recurrence and the Snobbery of Photographers)

Die Ewige Wiederkehr des Gleichen 
SA/2016

I hate people who take photography seriously; people who fuss over every aspect of their composition and have to employ all the latest technology; people who look down on those of us who enjoy simply taking snaps - including snaps of the sunset which, apparently, is not the done thing in the world of professional image making. Indeed, there's even a sneering acronym used in online chat forums: NABS - not another bloody sunset.

For me, there's something not only touching but philosophically interesting about the fact that, apart from a few superior types who like their cyclopic perception of the world to remain immaculate and claim to be unmoved by natural beauty or the wonder of events, people continue to look to the skies and attempt to capture, however naively or inadequately, the splendour of the rising or setting sun.

For I suspect that one of the things that enchants is the fact that just as no one steps twice into the same river, no sunset is ever witnessed more than once; it's an absolutely unique occurrence that only gives the illusion of an identical event happening over and over each day.

Nietzsche famously terms this the eternal recurrence of the same and, as Deleuze demonstrates in his radical interpretation of this concept, what returns is actually difference itself (paradoxical as this initially seems and contrary to what those commentators believe who write of return in terms of crushing certainty and fixed essence, rather than the very momentariness of the moment).  

The reason people will never tire of the sun and its effects and will never tire either of pictures, is because even the most clichéd of these images tell us something crucial; namely, that despite the experience of duration and continuity, there is no universal stability. 

Fatal Attraction: Notes on Hybristophilia

Jeremy Meeks: the model prisoner who stole a million hearts

Following a recent post on criminals and capital punishment [click here], I received two emails from concerned readers. The first expressed outrage and disappointment that I could write such reactionary rubbish:

"You Sir, are a disgrace and your views - even if endorsed by D. H. Lawrence - border on being no more than a crude form of neo-fascism."

The second sought to convince me that even the most dangerous of serial killers has a soul to be saved and that this can be accomplished not through harsh punishment, but through Love - and not just the redeeming love of Jesus, but the carnal affection of a good woman:

"As a trained sex therapist who has worked with many violent men, I know a lot of their anger stems from feelings of inadequacy and that these issues can best be dealt with in the bedroom, rather than the prison cell."     

These latter remarks got me thinking about hybristophilia; a paraphilia in which the amorous subject is attracted to individuals who have committed an illegal act or atrocity and sexually aroused by the thought of their misdeeds. Many high-profile felons receive explicit fan-mail, love letters, and indecent proposals from women who, for one reason or another, can't resist the dubious appeal of a bad boy - even at the risk to their own safety or future happiness.   

There's doubtless a number of reasons that might explain this phenomenon; some women want to share in the notoriety; some women want to nurture the inner child or find the hidden beauty within even the most bestial of souls; some women want to engage in a fantasy relationship that can never be consummated; others simply want to piss off their friends and family.

According to Sylvia Plath - who, admittedly, was a poet and not an evolutionary psychologist - every woman adores a fascist; the swaggering alpha male with a brute, brute heart. And, who knows, perhaps there's something in this; something which also helps to explain the eroticised male attraction to strong leaders and gangsters; a fatal attraction displayed, interestingly, even by sensitive artists and philosophers, whom one might have hoped would know better.

Thus Nietzsche, for example, getting all flustered over the thought of blonde beasts and his insistence that the criminal is actually a type of healthy human being made sick due to unfavourable circumstances ...  

 

On Criminals and Capital Punishment

Flick through the numerous TV channels on Freeview on any night of the week, any week of the year, and you are guaranteed to find endlessly repeated episodes of Top Gear. But you will also just as surely come across programmes that bring you up close and personal with some of the most hardened criminals and gang members serving time in some of the world's most notorious prisons. And these shows - even when fronted by someone as likeable as Louis Theroux - have a phenomenally depressing effect.

It could be, I suppose, that some producers are interested in humane reform and want to shock us out of our complacency by forcing us to think more carefully and more compassionately about the issues and the people caught up within the criminal justice system. But most shows simply seem sensational and exploitative; turning human misery into cheap and voyeuristic entertainment.    

Either way, I suspect that many viewers will - like me - come away completely dispirited and despairing about the entire penal system and the deplorable wretches confined within it. And some will find themselves asking what's the point of keeping extremely violent and irredeemable offenders banged up for life behind bars; why not just have them all exterminated without fuss or any further ado?

These viewers are not moral and intellectual monsters and the question is not, I think, completely illegitimate.

Rather, like Lawrence, they have been driven partly by despair and partly by a form of utopianism into thinking such thoughts and into examining their souls for a way forward; they know a new vision of society is needed and that the true criminal should be afforded no place within it; they know that, at a certain point - and due to the very nature of the crimes committed - these shaven-headed, tattooed imbeciles with what Carlyle memorably describes as ape-faces, imp-faces, angry dog-faces [and] heavy sullen ox-faces, have compromised their humanity and, thus, all claim to rights based on such. 

I don't even think we should regard their elimination as capital punishment. It's simply pest control; the necessary destruction of vermin who have no interest in rehabilitation, but just want to steal, rape, torture, and murder for personal gain and personal pleasure; individuals who, as Rod Liddle rightly says, couldn't care less about society or its laws.    

As Liddle also says, if being nice to criminals worked, we'd all be happy to shower them with kindness. But it doesn't. Nor does being cruel and vindictive and it's here that Liddle and I part company; for what doesn't kill these individuals only serves to make them stronger. And so we might as well be honest with ourselves and deprive them not merely of their freedom, but of their foul lives (though this means of course granting to the State - that coldest of all cold monsters - powers that we might later regret handing over).  

See: 

D. H. Lawrence, '[Return to Bestwood]', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 13-24. Lawrence places his call for the execution of those he designates as true criminals within a wider programme of state eugenics, justified by his philosophical vitalism. 

Rod Liddle, 'The Spectator has gone soft - prisons should be much nastier places', in The Spectator, 26 Nov 2016: click here to read online. I'm grateful to Liddle for the reference to Thomas Carlyle that I made use of above.