In Memory of Stan Lee and on the Joy of Collecting Comics

Image: The Hollywood Reporter (July 2016)

We assume, says Freud, a strangely considerate attitude towards the dead.

Not only do we suspend all critical judgement and turn a blind eye to their shortcomings, but we write nice things about them on social media in cultural obedience with the ancient command De mortuis nil nisi bene. This display of posthumous kindness and respect contrasts sharply with the mockery and malice we usually direct towards the living.   

So it is that I have refrained from saying anything about Stan Lee, the Marvel Comics genius who died, aged 95, earlier this month. Clearly a gifted, energetic and ambitious individual - and someone who exerted a significant influence over my childhood - I nevertheless struggle to think of anything more I can say about the man.

Truth be told, I always found him a little annoying and hated all that Excelsior! bullshit. What's more, looking back, I don't even think I really cared about his costumed heroes or storylines. What I really enjoyed, I think, was collecting comics rather than reading them.

That is to say, I loved them as cultural artefacts; glossy, colourful objects that had come all the way from America and which put homegrown comics (including the piss-poor British editions of Marvel comics) in the shade. 

The excitement lay in the anticipation of the books arriving monthly in the local newsagents and then going on a Saturday morning to buy (or steal) them. And the pleasure lay in piling 'em up on the floor and watching the collection grow, as I competed with my friend Andy to see who could get the most or earliest issues of those titles we privileged.       

Strange Flesh: Notes On Sodomy

Sleeve artwork for Mortal Way of Life (1988) 

by German thrash metal band Sodom

I. The Sin of Sodom is Polysemic

Sodomy is one of those lovely old-fashioned words that is commonly misunderstood. Many people, for example, think it refers exclusively to anal sex - particularly between two men - and perhaps recall that Oscar Wilde was accused (not unfairly) of posing as a sodomite by Queensberry.

Historically, however, sodomy possessed a much broader meaning and referred to all non-procreative sexual activity, including, for example, oral sex and bestiality. It was often also tied to the practice of pagan witchcraft. Sodomy was thus not simply a form of perversity, but heresy; a rejection of God and a libidinal defiance of his moral authority.

It's hardly surprising, therefore, to discover that sodomy has a biblical origin ...


II. What Begins with the Threat of Angel Rape Ends with Fire and Brimstone 

According to the account in Genesis [18-19], God decided to exact divine retribution upon Sodom after two of his angels entered the city (in human form) and were immediately threatened with gang rape by the inhospitable locals.

Although Lot, who was charged with looking after the divine messengers, offered the townsfolk his virgin daughters as sexual substitutes, the men of Sodom were adamant they wanted to experience strange flesh whilst they had the very rare opportunity to do so.

For the Good Lord, who had long identified Sodom (along with the twin city of Gomorrah) as a hotbed of impenitent sin and sexual depravity, this was the final straw and He unleashed his destructive wrath upon it and its inhabitants in the form of fire and brimstone.

Only Lot and his family were given the opportunity to get out of town, although, unfortunately, their escape didn't quite go to plan after Lot's wife made the fatal mistake of looking back, as if secretly longing to stay and continue her old life in Sodom. For this, as everybody knows, she was turned into a pillar of salt.

(Interestingly - and as perhaps fewer people know - Lot and his daughters found solace in this time of apocalyptic upheaval and great personal loss by entering into an incestous relationship and having drunken sex in a cave ... but that's another story, for another post: click here.)
 

III. On the Necessity of a Little Sodomy

Never one to shy away from these matters, D. H. Lawrence insists that not only can bawdiness be healthy, but even sodomy can be sane and wholesome, provided there is a proper give and take between parties: "In fact, it may be that a little sodomy is necessary to human life."

It's only the fanatic insistence on purity, writes Lawrence, that always leads to madness, denying as it does the simple truth that all men and women are subject to desire and possess "blood and bowels and lively genitals".

The only problem is that Lawrence wishes to restrict acts of sodomy to the right time. But, by definition, such acts occur at the the wrong time, in the wrong place, with the wrong partners and involve a misuse of organs; this is what makes them such unnatural acts.

Nevertheless, it's important to be reminded that however problematic many aspects of his work are for a contemporary readership, Lawrence was not someone who wished to restrict human freedom and experience. Just so long as we don't get our sex on the brain and seek to form an ideal identity upon it, he was happy to acknowledge the necessity of vice as belonging to a general economy of the whole.   

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'What's sane and what isn't', The Poems, Vol. III, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2018), pp. 1614-1615.

Too Much Water-Jelly

Norwegian author Karl Ove Knausgaard is best-known for a six-volume autobiographical novel given the Hitlerean title Min Kamp (2009-11): a series of books in which he exposes in intimate and intricate detail not only every aspect of his own life, but that of his friends and family too.

Several critics refer to him as a Scandinavian Proust. And so it's surely not coincidental that when asked for my opinion of Knausgaard's work, I immediately thought of Lawrence's criticism of the French writer, to whom he had a life-long aversion.     

For Lawrence, Proust was too much water-jelly. I don't quite know what that means, but I don't suppose it's a good thing. He was also guilty - like Knausgaard - of being "absorbedly, childishly interested in phenomenon" - not least of all in his own experience of such:

"'Did I feel a twinge in my little toe, or didn't I?' asks every character in [...] Monsieur Proust: 'Is the odour of my perspiration a blend of frankincense and orange pekoe and boot-blacking, or is it myrrh and bacon-fat and Shetland tweed?'"  

Such writing, spun out for hundreds - if not thousands - of pages, displays an almost insane degree of self-consciousness: Mssrs. Proust and Knausgaard "tear themselves to pieces, strip their smallest emotions to the finest threads" and for Lawrence this is unacceptable:

"One has to be self-conscious at seventeen: still a little self-conscious at twenty-seven; but if we are going it strong at thirty-seven, then it's a sign of arrested development, nothing else. And if it is still continuing at forty-seven, it is obvious senile precocity."

The funny thing is, whilst I agree with Lawrence that infantile and narcissitic self-absorption doesn't necessarily make for great literature, it does give rise to TV comedy gold; for what is Seinfeld other than a brilliant exercise in supersmart postmodern irony and the microphysics of everyday experience?

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'The Future of the Novel', Study of Thomas Hardy and Other Essays, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge University Press, 1985), pp. 151, 152. 

Note: Lawrence makes his water-jelly remark in a letter to Aldous Huxley written in July 1927. See The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VI, ed. James T. Boulton and Maragaret Boulton, with Gerald M. Lacy, (Cambridge University Press, 1991), letter 4065.  

This post is for Simon Solomon.

It's Only a Little Prick (Reflections on a Flu Jab)

I've never had flu - not even man flu - but I appreciate the seriousness of this condition written in the stars and so this year, against my better instincts, I was convinced to be vaccinated against four of the strains of the disease anticipated to be in circulation this season.*

Now, my arm aches. And I'm sat here anxiously anticipating further adverse reactions, of which I've been given a long list, although, annoyingly, I was only told of such after I'd been given the jab, which surely makes a mockery of the idea of informed consent.   

Whilst assured that none of the ingredients in the vaccine can cause flu, it seems they can trigger mild flu-like symptoms, although these are re-branded within the small print as mere side effects. 

Of course, if you're unlucky enough to be in the 10% of people who experience headaches, muscular pains, fever, shivering and general malaise after being vaccinated, then you might not be so reassured to know these things have only epiphenomenal status.   

And if you're one of those really unlucky people (1 in a 100) to experience less common side effects - dizziness, diarrhoea, nausea, etc. - then you might be pretty pissed off that you agreed to the jab in the first place; especially when you read that even the World Health Organization admits that the vaccine is only modestly effective in decreasing transmission rates and the seriousness of symptoms in healthy adults.

If you're elderly or very young, have a chronic illness or are immuno-compromised, then it's probably worth having a flu jab. Otherwise, it seems pretty pointless: unless you like needles and have a thing for your local pharmacist ...   

*Note: the flu vaccine is reformulated each year for a few specific strains, but it certainly doesn't protect against all the strains presently active in the world, or any new strains that may as yet remain unidentified.

Frying Tonight! (Notes on Fish and Chips)

When you say fish to an Englishman, invariably they'll think of cod. 

For whilst it's true that there are plenty of other fish in the sea that are just as tasty when battered and served up with chips - such as haddock or plaice - it's cod, with its mild-tasting chunky white flesh, that is the king of fish and it's in cod we trust as a reliable source of nutritional goodness (protein-rich, it also provides heart-healthy omega-3 fatty acids and vitamin B-12).
 

Of course, the Spanish and Portuguese also love their cod - or bacalhau, as the latter call it. But I prefer my fish fresh rather than dried and salted, ta very much. Having said that, it's interesting to note that the English tradition of eating fish deep-fried in oil, probably originated amongst Jewish immigrants from the Iberian Peninsula with a penchant for preparing pescado frito.   

As for fish and chip shops, they began opening in London and Oldham in the 1860s and at their peak during the interwar years, there were over 35,000 established across the UK - which means there were a lot of people eating a lot of cod.*

Indeed, fish 'n' chips - sprinkled with salt and vinegar, accompanied by picked onions or mushy peas, and wrapped in newspaper - was an integral aspect not only of working-class cuisine, but working-class culture at this time; as noted by George Orwell in The Road to Wigan Pier (1937).      

I don't know if the pre-burger, pre-pizza era was any happier, but it was surely healthier - and slimmer. 

*Although there are now only 10,500 fish and chip shops in the UK, they still significantly outnumber other fast food outlets: McDonald's, for example, has 1,200 restaurants and KFC just 840. What's more, according to the National Federation of Fish Friers, 22% of Brits still visit their local fish 'n' chippy at least once a week and annual spend in the UK on fish and chips is in the region of £1.2 billion. Personally, however, I don't much care for the meal and would much rather have grilled swordfish, served with rice and a lime and chilli dressing.       

Decorating the World with David Bromley

Anglo-Aussie artist David Bromley, who is best known for his images of youngsters that nostalgically recreate a memory (or fantasy) of a Boy's Own childhood and decorative female nudes painted in black outline with clever colour combinations that also make one long for the past, is certainly not without his critics.   

And no doubt some of the criticism is fair. But, in so far as this criticism relates to his production techniques and the manner in which he has successfully branded himself and his work ensuring mass commercial appeal, much of it seems laughably passé; this is, after all, not only a post-Warhol world, but an age in which Banksy, Hirst and Koons all operate as artist-celebrities.   

To suggest, as Peter Drew suggests, that by proliferating images on an industrial scale Bromley dilutes the meaning and substance of his work, is to return to hoary old notions of originality and artistic aura (the latter being a magical quality said to arise from a work's uniqueness and which cannot possibly be reproduced). 

I mean, I love Benjamin as much as the next man, but c'mon ... 1936 is a long time ago and the myth of presence - which this idea of aura clearly perpetuates - is something that Derrida has, one might have hoped, put to bed once and for all.     

And Drew's assertion that all great art is a form of self-expression, is also one that deserves to be met with scorn. The last thing I want to see revealed on a canvas is subjective slime; I really don't give a shit about the artist's feelings, or care about the condition of their immortal soul.

Ultimately, even if Bromley is simply in it for the money, then, that's his business and his choice. But I like his tots and tits - not to mention his use of flowers, birds and butterflies - and he has, after all, six kids to support.    

One suspects, however, that Bromley is actually a more interesting figure than this and I rather admire his attempt to take art outside of the usual gallery network and into a more public arena, weaving his images into the fabric of everyday life and contemporary culture. 


See: Peter Drew, 'Too Many Bromley's', post on peterdrewarts.blogspot.com (25 May 2010): click here.

bromleyandco.com

Lawrentian Reflections on the Birth of Baby Mia

Baby Mia (born 12 Nov 2018)

Following my Nietzschean Reflections on the Birth of Baby Mia, I was informed by a concerned correspondent that, in denying human status to newborn babies, I'm not only tacitly supporting abortion, but opening the door to infanticide. 

I don't agree with this: nor quite follow the logic of the argument. After all, a flower also lacks moral agency, but I don't wish to nip it in the bud. It has its own unique being, even if it lacks what theologians call a soul. In fact, for me - as for Wilde - the beauty of a flower resides precisely in its impersonality and amorality.

Similarly, the great fascination and delight of a newborn baby lies in the fact that although it has emerged bloody and womb-soaked in the world, it doesn't yet belong to the world and hasn't been codified as human (allzumenschliche). It is, rather, just a little bundle of innocence and becoming; a monster of chaos without form.          

Thus, when holding baby Mia, I feel the stirring of strange feelings that come, as Lawrence says, from out of the dark and which one scarcely knows how to acknowledge. Almost it's a kind of terror - certainly it goes beyond mere avuncular affection.

Her inhuman cries seem to echo within oneself, reminding one that life fundamentally involves sorrow and suffering and blind rage. For although babies can make us smile, they're tragic figures who don't even have control of their own bowels or bladders.

To watch these tiny living objects lying naked and so utterly helpless and vulnerable "in a world of hard surfaces and varying altitudes", makes one anxious for their safety. No wonder their mothers not only want to enfold them in love, but wrap them in cotton wool so as to protect their soft round heads and fragile tiny limbs.

But babies are pretty resilient things: and, truth be told, they are at more risk from maternal love than they are from the world at large. For maternal love has become a perverted form of benevolent bullying, worked almost entirely from the will.

And as she proceeds to spin "a hateful sticky web of permanent forbearance, gentleness, [and] hushedness" around her naturally passionate babe-in-arms, the ideal mother invariably undermines the future wellbeing - both physically and mentally - of the child. 

If you want to save the children, then save them from their mothers and leave them to be young creatures, not persons.

Notes

D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow, ed. Mark Kinkead-Weekes, (Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 197.

D. H. Lawrence, Fantasia of the Unconscious, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 92-3. 

D. H. Lawrence, 'Education of the People', Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge University Press, 1988), Section VI. 

Nietzschean Reflections on the Birth of Baby Mia

Baby Mia (born 12 Nov 2018)

My niece has given birth to her third child: a baby girl, called Mia, weighing in at a healthy 6lb 11oz. So far, so sweet.

But mayn't it be the case that her charm lies not in her chubby little cheeks, tiny limbs, or tufts of hair, but in her prehuman status? For like all newborns, Mia is essentially not-quite, or not-yet-human. Which isn't to say she's inhuman, so much as humanus in potentia. 

Thus, to be a little sentimental about her being in the world isn't to fall back into a hopeless humanism resting upon notions of moral agency and innate rights. Babies delight, rather, because they are little monsters of energy, striving towards ever-greater complexity.

In other words, they are tiny bundles of will to power - and nothing else besides!          

Note: for a follow up post to this one, click here.

D. H. Lawrence on Humanism, Human Exceptionalism and Common Ancestry

A model of Lucy at the Houston Museum of Natural Science, Texas 
(Dave Einsel / Getty Images)

I. The Greatest of all Illusions is the Infinite of the Spirit

Despite saying that the very words human, humanity, and humanism make him sick, it's pretty clear that there is, in fact, a model of what might be termed libidinal humanism present within Lawrence's work ...

In the 'Epilogue' to his Movements in European History, for example, Lawrence writes of a single human blood-stream and argues that people are also very much alike at some primordial level of culture:

"All men, black, white, yellow, cover their nakedness and build themselves shelters, make fires and cook food, have laws of marriage and of family [...] and have stores of wisdom and ancient lore, rules of morality and behaviour."  

In other words, according to Lawrence, we all belong to one great race and live fundamentally similar lives. However, it's important to note that Lawrence goes on to argue that the human family tree, whilst undivided at its root, nevertheless branches out into very different directions and each branch develops in its own unique manner.

"For each branch is, as it were, differently grafted by a different spirit and idea ... My manhood is the same as the manhood of a Chinaman. But in spirit and idea we are different and shall be different forever, as apple-blossom will forever be different from irises."   

Lawrence, therefore, has an understanding of Geist in opposition to that of many idealists: for whilst the latter acknowledge ethno-cultural difference, they believe in perfect spiritual unity. Lawrence reverses this and insists on physical oneness and spiritual distinction, rejecting any kind of Universal Mind or Oversoul.


II. Menschliches, Allzumenschliches

Somewhat ironically, Lawrence's thinking on this subject is in accord with modern evolutionary science, which has assembled much interdisciplinary evidence to support the idea that all human life descends from a common ancestor. Where he breaks with the Darwinians, however, is when - more radically - they suggest that this common ancestor is ultimately non-human: this, for Lawrence is going too far:

"The gulf that divides man from the animals is so great, that we can see no connection. We can no longer believe that man has descended from monkeys.* Man has descended from man.  [...] Man and monkey look at one another across a great and silent gulf, never to be crossed. [...] We cannot really meet in touch."

This - from an author widely celebrated for his ability to intuitively and poetically touch on the very essence of inhuman and non-human forms of life - is really quite shocking; for Lawrence is defending here an idea of human exceptionalism - who'd a thunk it? 

Alas, it seems there's no place for Lucy in Lawrence's democracy of touch ...

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'Epilogue', Movements in European History, ed. Philip Crumpton, (Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 255, 256.  

*Note: Lawrence is perpetuating a common misunderstanding here; no one wants him to believe that man has descended from monkeys; what the evolutionary evidence demonstrates is that man and other apes have a common ancestor. Monkeys are a contemporary species - not an earlier, more primitive, or inferior species.   

For a related post to this one on Lawrence's libidinal humanism, click here.

A Brief Note on Love, Hate and Humanism

According to Lawrence, the mistake made by those who claim to love humanity lies in their moral insistence on the fact, rather than in their feeling of being at one with their fellow men and women. 

And although some may care a little too earnestly about the suffering of unseen strangers, Lawrence concedes that we are physically - if remotely - connected to all people everywhere and that mankind is thus ultimately one flesh:

"In some way or other, the cotton workers of Carolina, or the rice-growers of China are connected with me and, to a faint yet real degree, part of me. The vibration of life which they give off reaches me, touches me and affects me [...] For we are all more or less connected, all more or less in touch: all humanity." 

This libidinal humanism - if we may call it such - is central to Lawrence's politics of desire. And it is intended to be in stark contrast to the "nasty pronounced benevolence" which is only a disguised form of "self-assertion and bullying", that he often associates (fairly or otherwise) with Whitman.

Lord deliver us, says Lawrence, from this latter form of (ideal) humanism and from all falsification of feeling: "Insist on loving humanity, and sure as fate you'll come to hate everybody."    

I think there's something in this suggestion that every time you force your own feelings or attempt to force those of another, you are likely to produce the opposite effect to the one hoped for. And we would do well to consider this today of all days, as we remember again the time when, in the name of Love, Europe rushed into four years of mechanical slaughter and self-sacrifice. 

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'Nobody Loves Me', Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 311-20. 

For a related post to this one on Lawrence's humanism, human exceptionalism, and belief in a common ancestor, click here.