Ghost Variations: Notes on the Madness of Robert Schumann

Robert Schumann (1810-1856) 

German Romantic composer, critic, and madman

In the season two episode of Seinfeld entitled 'The Jacket' [1], George has a catchy tune from Les Misérables stuck in his head which he can't stop singing: Master of the house, doling out the charm / Ready with a handshake and an open palm ...

Jerry warns him that the ninteenth century composer Robert Schumann went mad after just a single note earwormed its way into his mind and he involuntarily heard it playing over and over again. Obviously, George doesn't find this story very reassuring - Oh that I really needed to hear! - but is it true?

The short answer is yes: Schumann did go insane and have to be institutionalised; and he did hear a persistent A-note at the end of his life as well as other increasingly disturbing auditory hallucinations.

Thus it was, for example, that on one cold winter's night in February 1854, the composer leapt from his bed and began feverishly attempting to set down a melody that he believed at first was being dictated by the very angels of heaven. By morning, however, he was convinced that what he actually heard were the hideous cries of demonic beasts.

Whatever the true source of his inspiration [2], the melody became the basis of the six piano variations - known today as the Geistervariationen - that were the last thing he wrote before his final crack-up. They thus occupy a unique (and somewhat disturbing) place in his body of work - as, indeed, in the history of classical music. 

On 27 February, Schumann attempted suicide by throwing himself from a bridge into the Rhine. Rescued by a passing boat and taken home, he requested that he be admitted to an asylum for the insane. Here he remained until his death, aged 46, in the summer of 1856. During his confinement, although his friend Brahms had permission to visit, Schumann wasn't allowed to see his wife, Clara, until two days before his death.

The cause of his death - just like the cause of his madness [3] - is something that has been endlessly discussed ever since; was he schizophrenic or syphilitic? Did he have a bipolar disorder or were his neurological problems the result of a brain tumour of some kind? Was it pneumonia or mercury poisoning - mercury being a common treatment for syphilis at the time - which finally did him in?   

I suppose we'll never really know. But what we might do - and should do - is resist the urge of some commentators to regurgitate the romantic vomit and tired narratives regarding the genius and madness of artists ...

The view that creativity is rooted in or fatefully tied to madness is such bullshit. Artists may well think differently from most other people - that is to say, they may be neurologically divergent and able to experience the world from a wide array of queer perspectives (to delight in paradox, inconsistency, and even chaos), - but it's banal (and mistaken) to reduce this (or their heightened sensitivity) to mental illness.       

Ultimately, I return to Michel Foucault's conclusion in Madness and Civilization: the onset of madness marks the point at which creative work ends; a moment of abolition that dissolves the truth of the work of art [4].  

Notes

[1] Seinfeld, 'The Jacket' [S2/E3], dir. Tom Cherones, written by Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld, (first broadcast 6 February 1991). Click here to watch a clip from the episode on YouTube.

[2] Sadly, Schumann's mind had deteriorated to such a degree by this point, that he was unable to recognise that - far from being the work of angels, ghosts, or demons - the melody was in fact one of his own, written several months earlier.

[3] I'm taking Schumann's mental health issues - evident from a young age - as a given here, but, interestingly, there are critics such as John Worthen who vigorously challenge this idea. For Worthen the composer's tragic deterioration was rooted in a physical condition (syphilis) and was not a form of madness per se. See: Schumann: Life and Death of a Musician (Yale University Press, 2007).

[4] Michel Foucault, Madness and Civilization trans. Richard Howard, (Vintage Books, 1988), p. 287.

Sweet Death (In Memory of Steve Priest)

Sweet in 1973: Steve, Mick, Andy and Brian
Photo: Jorgen Angel

Back in my pre-punk, glam-rocking, teeny-bopping days the band by whom I was most bedazzled were The Sweet (also known simply as Sweet).

They had hits before 1973 - Wig Wam Bam (1972) - and they had hits after 1973 - Teenage Rampage (1974) - but the three big hit singles I bought and played over and over and over again until I knew every word and every note, were all released in that golden year of British pop 1973: Block Buster, Hell Raiser, and Ballroom Blitz.

Even now, almost 50 years later, I still think they're brilliant tunes and that the band perfectly capture the non-essential essence of glam; an outrageously camp image and performance coupled with a stomping drum beat and heavy guitar riffs. Of course it was contrived, but, as Sebastian Horsley would say, it was an authentic contrivance; i.e., Sweet were fakes, but they were real fakes (like him).

Thus, I was sorry to hear the news that bassist Steve Priest died last month, aged 72, leaving guitarist Andy Scott as the last surviving member of the original group (singer Brian Connolly having died in 1997 and drummer Mick Tucker in 2002).

So, that's another childhood hero gone ... Soon, of course, they'll all be dead (and so will we).

To watch Sweet perform 'Block Buster' on Top of the Pops (25 Jan 1973): click here.

To watch them perform 'Hell Raiser' (Disco 26 June 1973), click here.

And, finally, to watch them perform 'The Ballroom Blitz', click here.

Notes on the Sex Appeal of Belly Dancing (With Reference to the Case of Johara)

Ekaterina Andreeva (aka Johara)
Seems like a nice girl ...

I have to admit that, unlike Flaubert, I'm not a great fan of Eastern dance - or, as it is commonly known, belly dancing [1]. It's too obscenely sensual for my tastes I'm afraid and always makes me think of that old expression about jelly and jam.

Having said that, I quite like the costumes that some of the young women wear [2] and have no objection to them wiggling, wriggling and jiggling across a dance floor in order to earn a living if that's what they want to do. It clearly requires skill and discipline and performers deserve to be recognised as professional artistes continuing a long tradition of shimmy and shake.       

Although this style of dancing is found across the Arab world, Egypt has a special claim to be the home of belly dancing and the modern form (and modern outfits) originated in the nightclubs of Cairo. Many of the performers, however, are non-native; despite concerns that foreign-born dancers lack authenticity and didn't fully appreciate the folk traditions associated with the dance.

Unfortunately, as a more conservative form of Islam has taken hold across the Middle East in the contemporary period, dancers - as well as other female performers, including singers and actresses - have increasingly been villified by the authorities on the grounds that their immodest displays of flesh are haram.

In Egypt, for example, there are strict laws in place governing what dancers can and cannot wear; can and cannot do. Whether they wear a traditional bedlah or a more modern dress design with mesh-filled cutouts, is up to them. But they must cover their lower bodies, breasts and stomachs and retain their modesty (including modesty of movement and gesture) at all times.

Many dancers in Cairo ignore these rules, however, and they are rarely enforced. Having said that, there are multiple instances of foreign dancers being arrested - which brings us to the case of Russian-born Ekaterina Andreeva, known by the stage name Johara, meaning Jewel, who has been sentenced to a year behind bars in an Egyptian jail after she was filmed giving a performance which, the authorities claim, incited debauchery.

Not only was she said to be working without a licence, but, worse, she was clearly dancing without underwear! The ruling follows a video clip of her performance - on a boat sailing along the Nile - going viral and gaining her a large global following on social media: click here.         

Obviously, she's expected to appeal the sentence. And obviously I hope Miss Andreeva's conviction will be quashed. Though, equally obvious, is the fact that her performance is sexually provocative - what would be the point of belly dancing if it were not erotically charged? 

Not that there's anything wrong with that ... Indeed, I'm tempted to remind readers of Lawrence's view that sex and beauty are essentially one and the same thing, like flame and fire: "If you hate sex you hate beauty. If you love living beauty, you have a reverence for sex." [3] 

The greatest disaster that can befall any civilisation is a morbid fear of the body, its forces, its flows, its mysterious openings, and its desires. For this causes the instinctive-intuitive life within us to slowly atrophy. What we call sex appeal is really just the communicating of a sense of beauty and it will always invoke an answer of some kind:    

"It may only kindle a sense of warmth and optimism. Then you say: I like that girl, she's a real good sort. It may kindle a glow, that makes the world look kindlier, and life feel better. Then you say: She's an attractive woman, by Jove, I like her. Or she may rouse a flame that lights up her own face first, before it lights up the universe. Then you say: She's a lovely woman. She looks lovely to me. Let's say no more."

I'll let readers decide for themselves what level of heat Miss Andreeva produces and whether the fire of sex that she rouses is pure and fine, or something of which we should be ashamed ... 

Notes

[1] The term, belly dance, is a translation of the French danse du ventre, coined by an art critic in response to a controversial painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme entitled La danse de l'almée (1863). The picture is a classic example of pervy Orientalism, depicting a woman dancing, accompanied by musicians, before an audience of soldiers sitting with their legs spread in a fantasy setting. Eventually, this term came to be used for all dances of Middle Eastern origin in which a woman displayed her charms. It first entered into English in 1889.

[2] The costume most commonly associated with belly dance is the bedlah, which typically includes a fitted top or bra, a hip belt, and a full-length skirt or harem pants. The bra and belt are often decorated with beads, sequins, crystals, or coins. The modern bedlah style which originated in the early twentieth-century, is an amusing example of (Arabic) life imitating (Western) art, in as much as it took inspiration from Hollywood. I suspect my own forndness for the harem-look is due to childhood memories of Barbara Eden in I dream of Jeannie. 

[3] D. H. Lawrence, 'Sex Appeal', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), lines quoted are on pp. 145 and 147. 

It's important to note that Lawrence doesn't always approve of women exploiting their sex appeal: "There is, of course, the other side of sex appeal - it can be the destruction of the one appealed to. When a woman starts using her sex appeal for her own advantage, it is usually a bad moment for some poor devil." [148] Such thinking - clearly sexist in character - is unfortunate; as is his branding of these women as prostitutes and vamps.     

See also 'Pornography and Obscenity' in the above collection of essays and articles, where Lawrence develops his notion of sex appeal and admits "No matter how hard we may pretend otherwise, most of us rather like a moderate rousing of our sex. It warms us, stimulates us like sunshine on a grey day." [239] Those who deny this and are genuinely repelled by even the simplest and most natural stirring of sexual feeling, are, he says, perverts and puritans "who have fallen into hatred of their fellow men" [239]. That nicely sums up the theocratic morons who have brought the case against Miss Andreeva. 
 
To watch Johara doing her thing in another video on YouTube, click here.

This post is dedicated to my favourite Arab girl about town, Nahla Al-Ageli, creator and writer of the wonderful online journal Nahla Ink.

A Touch of Evil à la D. H. Lawrence

Detail from the poster for Touch of Evil (Universal Pictures, 1958),
starring Charlton Heston as Hadrian, Janet Leigh as Matilda,
and Orson Welles as Ted Rockley

I.

Almost forty years before the classic American film noir written and directed by Orson Welles, D. H. Lawrence gave us his own touch of evil in a Fox-like short story that the editor of the Cambridge text insists on calling 'Hadrian', even though everyone knows it as 'You Touched Me'. 

Whether the tale has the same cultural and aesthetic value as the movie, is debatable. But it certainly warrants its inclusion in England, My England (1922) as representative of Lawrence's fiction during the period 1913-21 and it even has something of the same schlock quality about it as a Hollywood thriller ...

II.

'You Touched Me' is the story of a young boy, Hadrian, who is adopted by Ted Rockley, the father of four daughters concerned by the fact that he has no male heir. Unfortunately, the boy never quite fits in to the household and rejects the education and lifestyle on offer, eventually heading off to Canada to make his own way.

When the War breaks out, however, he signs up to fight and returns to Europe. Then, after the armistice was signed, Hadrian uses a prolonged period of leave to return to England, now a young man in his own right and no longer just the poor little boy from the orphanage.

The two unmarried daughters, Matilda and Emmie, who have remained at the house to care for their gravely ill father, are suspicious of him and believe he has only returned in order to seek out an inheritance. But, as we shall see, money isn't the only thing that excites Hadrian's interest and, ultimately, he wants far more than that ... 

III.

Having given a brief summary of the plot, let us now look a bit more closely at this rather disturbing tale of a spiteful old man, two rather snobbish old maids, and a young, carefree psychopath ...

"Matilda was a tall, thin, graceful fair girl, with a rather large nose," [93] writes Lawrence with the same lack of tact as displayed by Kramer when introduced to George's new girlfriend Audrey [i]. She - Matilda - "loved painting and music, and read a good many novels", whilst her sister Emmie, who was shorter, fatter, and less accomplished, took care of the house.

Both had hoped to marry bank clerks, or nonconformist clergymen - even teachers - but none had presented themselves; it isn't easy for girls who have higher expectations living in an ugly industrial town full of miners and mere workmen. Still, in their "quiet, melancholy way, the two girls were happy" [93], living at the Pottery House looking after their widowed (alcoholic) father.

Matilda had been sixteen and Emmie two years younger, when their father returned home one day with a six-year-old boy adopted from an institution, called Hadrian:

"Hadrian was  just an ordinary boy [...] with ordinary brownish hair and ordinary bluish eyes and of ordinary rather cockney speech. The Rockley girls  [...] had resented his being sprung on them. He, with his watchful, charity-insitution instinct, knew this at once." [93]

It is perhaps from his first encounter with his new sisters (or cousins, as they insist he call them) that Hadrian determines to one day have his revenge; he looked at them with a "subtle, jeering look on his face" and when he addressed them "there seemed a mockery in his tone" [93].

He's not quite Damien, but it's fairly clear that boy ain't right and the character of Hadrian reinforces the prejudice concerning orphans (that they are, for example, more likely to have criminal tendencies and be more prone to mental health issues) [ii]. Even Cousin Matilda and Cousin Emmie - both basically kind-hearted - mistake his quiet nature and emotional reticence for slyness.        

Hadrian hates the school he is sent to at thirteen: not only does he often bunk off, but he sells his books and uniform to his fellow pupils and went "raking off heaven knows where with the money" [94]. At fifteen, he announces that he intends to leave England and move to Canada:

"He said good-bye to the Rockleys without a word of thanks, and parted, it seemed without a pang. Matilda and Emmie wept often to think of how he left them: even on their father's face a queer look came." [94]

Of course, truancy and ingratitude do not a psychopath make, but they're not great signs either. Let's just say he is on the spectrum for antisocial personality disorder. And it's telling that when he writes after the War informing of them of his plan to visit, Matilda and Emmie are both terribly fluttered: "To tell the truth, they were a little afraid of Hadrian." [94]
 
When he arrives, he does so a day earlier than expected, in order to catch them off guard. He is now a self-possessed young man of twenty-one; small in stature, but "vigorous enough in his smallness" [95]. Matilda blushes deep with mortification when he finds her doing the washing-up, with her sleeves rolled back and her hair tied up (oddly and coquettishly) in an old pink-and-white checked duster.

Cousin Emmie is far more resentful of the fact that he has arrived prematurely and caught them at a disadvantage. Both girls are convinced he's come to get what he can out of their father - hoping for a legacy of some sort: "And they were not at all sure he would not get it" [96]; either because they know how clever and manipulative Hadrian can be, or because they realise what a misogynistic shit their father really is.    

Hadrian makes himself at home. Matilda, unconsciously, begins to find herself attracted to him: her dark-blue eyes take on a strange, full look (pupil dilation being a classic sign of sexual arousal or desire) and she starts to pay careful attention to her appearance: "Now she looked elegant, like a heroine in a magazine illustration, and almost as unreal." [97]

She also begins to sit up in her room late at night: "Her heart was anxious and breaking, her mind seemed entranced" [99] and, although she convinces herself this is due to filial concern for her dying father, readers of Lawrence - and Freud - are expected to know better and to know also all about symptomatic actions and misperformances [Fehlleistungen]; i.e., those things we say or do accidently, but at the same time driven by unconscious desires.   

Thus, for example, we might mistakenly stray into the wrong bedroom and begin caressing the face of the person sleeping there in the belief they are someone else: at any rate, that's what happens to Matilda. As, clearly, this is the crucial scene upon which the story turns, I shall reproduce it at some length:

"She thought of her father, only her father. At last she felt she must go to him.
      It was near midnight. She went along the passage and to his room. There was a faint light from the moon outside. She listened at his door. Then she softly opened and entered. The room was faintly dark. She heard a movement on the bed.
      'Are you asleep?' she said softly, advancing to the side of the bed.
      'Are you asleep?' she repeated gently, as she stood at the side of the bed. And she reached her hand in the darkness to touch his forehead. Delicately, her fingers met the nose and the eyebrows, she laid her fine, delicate hand on his brow. It seemed fresh and smooth - very fresh and smooth. A sort of surprise stirred her, in her entranced state. But it could not waken her. Gently, she leaned over the bed and stirred her fingers over the low-growing hair on his brow.
      'Can’t you sleep tonight?' she said.
      There was a quick stirring in the bed. 'Yes, I can,' a voice answered. It was Hadrian's voice. She started away. Instantly, she was wakened from her late-at-night trance. She remembered that her father was downstairs, that Hadrian had his room. She stood in the darkness as if stung.
      'It is you, Hadrian?' she said. 'I thought it was my father.' She was so startled, so shocked, that she could not move. The young man gave an uncomfortable laugh, and turned in his bed.
      At last she got out of the room. When she was back in her own room, in the light, and her door was closed, she stood holding up her hand that had touched him, as if it were hurt. She was almost too shocked, she could not endure.
      'Well,' said her calm and weary mind, 'it was only a mistake, why take any notice of it.'
      But she could not reason her feelings so easily. She suffered, feeling herself in a false position. Her right hand, which she had laid so gently on his face, on his fresh skin, ached now, as if it were really injured. She could not forgive Hadrian for the mistake: it made her dislike him deeply.
      Hadrian too slept badly. He had been awakened by the opening of the door, and had not realised what the question meant. But the soft, straying tenderness of her hand on his face startled something out of his soul. He was a charity boy, aloof and more or less at bay. The fragile exquisiteness of her caress startled him most, revealed unknown things to him.
      In the morning she could feel the consciousness in his eyes, when she came downstairs. She tried to bear herself as if nothing at all had happened, and she succeeded. She had the calm self-control, self-indifference, of one who has suffered and borne her suffering. She looked at him from her darkish, almost drugged blue eyes, she met the spark of consciousness in his eyes, and quenched it. And with her long, fine hand she put the sugar in his coffee.
      But she could not control him as she thought she could. He had a keen memory stinging his mind, a new set of sensations working in his consciousness. Something new was alert in him. At the back of his reticent, guarded mind he kept his secret alive and vivid. She was at his mercy, for he was unscrupulous, his standard was not her standard.
      He looked at her curiously. She was not beautiful, her nose was too large, her chin was too small, her neck was too thin. But her skin was clear and fine, she had a high-bred sensitiveness. This queer, brave, high-bred quality she shared with her father. The charity boy could see it in her tapering fingers, which were white and ringed. The same glamour that he knew in the elderly man he now saw in the woman. And he wanted to possess himself of it, he wanted to make himself master of it. As he went about through the old pottery-yard, his secretive mind schemed and worked. To be master of that strange soft delicacy such as he had felt in her hand upon his face - this was what he set himself towards. He was secretly plotting." [99-100]

Basically, they have both been awoken by and to the mystery of desire via an act of tenderness; they are now doomed to wed. It's not so surprising then when Hadrian tells the old man he calls Uncle that he'd like to marry Matilda; despite the age difference, despite her large hooter, and despite the quasi-incestuous aspect of a sexual relationship between them.   

And so Rockley, who secretly loves the boy very much, orders his daughter to marry Hadrian. And, if she refuses, he threatens to disinherit her and her sister Emmie, leaving everything to the sly young man with the underground quality of a rat. It is, of course, a monstrous situation Matilda has been placed in. She hadn't much cared for Hadrian before this, but neither had she thought of him as a thing of evil: "He now became hideous to her mind" [103] - like a strange little monster.   

To be fair, Hadrian isn't simply after the money:

"He did want the money - badly. [...] But he knew, in his subtle, calculating way, that it was not for money he wanted Matilda. He wanted both the money and Matilda. But he told himself the two desires were separate, not one. He could not do with Matilda, without the money. But he did not want her for the money." [104]

More shocking is the attitude and role of Ted Rockley in this affair, which borders on malevolent: "He seemed to have a strange desire, quite unreasonable, for revenge upon the women who had surrounded him for so long, and served him so carefully." [104]

He also appears to draw perverse - almost pornographic - pleasure from the thought of Hadrian, his adopted son and proxy, fucking his daughter: at the very end of the tale, after Matilda has reluctantly married Hadrian at the local registry office, they return to see him on his death-bed and he commands her to first kiss him - something she has not done since childhood - and then kiss her new husband in front of him: "'That's right! That's right!' murmured the dying man." [107]

This has to be one of the most indecent endings to any of Lawrence's short stories; though perfect for the cinema of his time which specialised in close-up kisses and in making the audience moan with voyeuristic pleasure like Ted Rockley ...

Notes

D. H. Lawrence, 'Hadrian' ['You Touched Me'], England, My England and Other Stories, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 92-107. All page references in the post are to this edition. To read the story online (courtesy of Project Gutenberg), click here.

[i] Seinfeld, 'The Nose Job', [S3/E9], with Susan Diol as Audrey: click here to view clip on YouTube.

[ii] Unfortunately, I'm not familiar with the research in this area, but imagine it to be extensive. I do know, however, that the evil orphan trope is fairly common within literature (Heathcliffe being an obvious example) and that it's often viewed as a development of a theme popular within folk and fairy tales, namely, that of the changeling child.   

Don't Let D. H. Lawrence Rub You Up the Wrong Way

D. H. Lawrence beach towel by Asok Mukhopadhyay

fineartamerica.com

If there is one modern author guaranteed to rub a lot of readers up the wrong way, it's Mr. D. H. Lawrence; the man who puts the friction in fiction. But, amusingly, he also takes every opportunity to do the same with his own characters as well, as illustrated in the following three scenes, drawn from  across the body of his work ...


I. Cyril and George in The White Peacock

In this, Lawrence's first novel, there's a famous pond swimming scene involving Cyril Beardsall and his friend George Saxton. The latter, who is already half-undressed by the water's edge, invites Cyril to fetch a towel and to join him. Eager to comply, Cyril does as he was instructed and then quickly strips off.

They plunge into the icy water and enjoy the "vigorous poetry of action" [222], Cyril pursuing George and eventually catching hold of him. Having being caught, George surrenders and floats on his back besides his friend, looking up and laughing, "and his white breasts and belly emerged like cool buds of a firm fleshed water flower" [see note 222:19 on p. 386].   

When they exit the pond, the two young men admire one another's nakedness and indulge in a bit of frottage:

"We stood and looked at each other as we rubbed ourselves dry. He was well proportioned, and naturally of handsome physique, heavily limbed. [...]
      As I watched him, he stood in white relief against the mass of green. He polished his arm, holding it out straight and solid; he rubbed his hair into curls, while I watched the deep muscles of his shoulders, and the bands stand out in his neck as he held it firm. [...]
      He saw I had forgotten to continue my rubbing, and laughing he took hold of me and began to rub me briskly, as if I were a child, or rather, a woman he loved and did not fear. I left myself quite limply in his hands, and, to get a better grip of me, he put his arm round me and pressed me aainst him, and the sweetness of the touch of our naked bodies one against the other was superb. It satisfied in some measure the vague, indecipherable yearning of my soul; and it was the same with him. When he had rubbed me all warm, he let me go, and we looked at each other with eyes of still laughter, and our love was perfect for a moment, more perfect than any love I have known since, either for man or woman." [222-23]


II. Jack and Mabel in The Horse-Dealer's Daughter

Our second scene is taken from one of Lawrence's best-known short stories and also involves a natural pond, two wet bodies, lots of rubbing, and the fetishistic presence of a towel ...

Mabel Pervin is a disturbed (and disturbing) 27-year-old woman with the face of a bulldog and a profound desire to join her dead mother. One afternoon, as dusk was beginning to fall and having attended her mother's grave, Mabel walks to a nearby pond. Unbeknown to her, however, she is being watched by a young doctor, named Jack Fergusson:

"There she stood on the bank for a moment. She never raised her head. Then she waded slowly into the water.
      He stood motionless as the small black figure walked slowly and deliberately towards the centre of the pond, gradually moving deeper into the motionless water, and still moving forward as the water got up to her breast. Then he could see her no more in the dusk of the dead afternoon." [145]

Instinctively, Jack runs to help; that is, to fish her out, not to gently hold Mabel under and thereby assist with the suicide. Rather bravely, considering he couldn't swim and already had a bad cold, he ventures slowly into the pond: "The cold water rose over his thighs, over his loins, upon his abdomen. The lower part of his body was all sunk in the hideous cold element." [145]

After one horrible moment when Jack loses his balance and goes under the water himself, he is able to grasp hold of Mabel's clothing and pull her out of the clutches of the pond. She is close to death, but he manages to resuscitate her. Then, wiping her face, he wraps her in his overoat and carries her home, laying her down on the hearthrug in front of the fire. She was breathing and semi-conscious, but not yet fully in the world.

Fetching some blankets from upstairs, Jack warms them before the fire: "Then he removed her saturated, earthy-smelling clothing, rubbed her dry with a towel, and wrapped her naked in the blankets." [146] It's at this point that the tale takes a typically queer Lawrentian turn. For Mabel takes his actions as a sign that he loves her:

"She shuffled forward on her knees, and put her arms round him, round his legs, as he stood there, pressing her breasts against his knees and thighs, clutching him with strange, convulsive certainty, pressing his thighs against her, drawing him to her face, her throat, as she looked up at him with flaring, humble eyes of transfiguration, triumphant in first possession.
      'You love me,' she murmured, in strange transport, yearning and triumphant and confident. 'You love me. I know you love me, I know.'
      And she was passionately kissing his knees, through the wet clothing, passionately and indiscriminately kissing his knees, his legs, as if unaware of everything." [148]

Readers who are interested in knowing how this tale concludes can click here. The point is: be careful whom you choose to save and rub dry as such acts of intimacy can sometimes be misinterpreted (however innocent your intentions and even if you're a doctor upholding the Hippocratic Oath). 


III. Joe and Yvette in The Virgin and the Gipsy

Finally, we come to our third scene: a terrible flood at the vicarage that drowns the repulsive figure of Granny, but merely soaks to the skin the virginal Yvette and her saviour, the gipsy Joe Boswell ...

"The first wave was washing her feet from under her [...] She was barely conscious: as if the flood was in her soul. [...] Yvette felt herself gone in an agonising mill-race of icy water, whirled, with only the fearful grip of the gipsy's hand on her wrist." [69-70]

Somehow, miraculously, they get from the garden to the house; the water still heaving around their legs. Yvette manages to climb the stairs; "like a wet, shuddering cat" [70] and only when on the relative safety of the landing does she become aware once more of the sodden gipsy coughing his guts out.

They seek additional safety from the rising waters in one of the bedrooms. Worried that she'll die of the cold he orders her to take her clothes off and get into the bed. Yvette is clearly unconvinced of the necessity of this and says she prefers to stay sitting on one of the chairs. But the gipsy is insistent: "'No!' he cried. 'No! Take your things off and I rub you with this towel.'" [72]

(As readers will have gathered by now, in the Lawrentian universe there's always plenty of dry towels at hand.)

Then the gipsy decides to strip and rub himself dry also:

"Coughing, shuddering violently, he pulled up his jersey hem and wrestled with all his shuddering, cold-racked might, to get off his wet, tight jersey.
      'Help me!' he cried, his face muffled.
      She seized the edge of the jersey, obediently, and pulled with all her might. The garment cam over his head, and he stood in his braces.
      'Take your things off! Rub with this towel!' he commanded ferociously [...]
      And like a thing obsessed, he pushed himself out of his trousers, and got out of his wet, clinging shirt, emerging slim and livid, shuddering in every fibre with cold and shock.
      He seized a towel, and began quickly to rub his body [...] Yvette dimly saw it was wise. She tried to get out of her dress. He pulled the horrible wet death-grippin thing off her [...]
      Yvette, naked, shuddering so much that she was sick, was trying to wipe herself dry. [...]
      With his towel he began to rub her, himself shaking all over, but holding her gripped by the shoulder, and slowly, numbedly rubbing her tender body, even trying to rub up into some dryness the pitiful hair of her small head.
      Suddenly he left off.
      'Better lie in bed,' he commanded, 'I want to rub myself.'" [72-3]
      
  By now, his towel is wet and bloody, so he borrows hers. Then, at her request - "'Warm me!' she moaned, with chattering teeth" [74] - he climbs into bed with her and holds her naked body tight against his own: "The vice-like grip of his arms round her seemed to her the only stable point in her consciousness." [74] This, eventually, calms them both down "and gradually the sickening violence of the shuddering, caused by shock, abated, in his body first, then in hers, and the warmth revived between them" [74].

Do they have sexual intercourse? Who can say: though they do both pass away into what might very well be a post-coital sleep (or what Lady Chatterley's lover, Oliver Mellors, describes as the peace that comes of fucking).

When she wakes up, he has gone, leaving behind him nothing but a filthy blood-stained towel and "a great sodden place on the carpet" [76] where his wet clothes had been lying. She's a little disappointed at first, but wise enough to realise it was for the best.  


Afterword

Frottage - for readers who don't know - is not some kind of fancy French cheese (though it is derived from a French verb, frotter).

It is, rather, a term used within the fetishistic world of paraphilia to describe the act of rubbing any part of the body against the body parts of another and may be performed either naked or clothed, wet or dry. Individuals may engage in frottage either as foreplay in anticipation of penetrative sex, or as a form of sensual pleasure in and of itself. When frottage involves direct genital stimulation, it is sometimes referred to as GG rubbing.

Readers should also note that non-consensual rubbing up against strangers (such as on a crowded tube train) is frowned upon within the frottage community and they use the term frotteurism to distinguish this illicit pleasure from their own erotic activities.   

Finally, towel fetish is a genuine fetish, though not very common. In the above scenes, towels clearly play a significant role in the action and it wouldn't be outrageous to suggest that the self-confessed priest of love had a thing for absorbent fabrics used to dry naked wet bodies.     

Notes

D. H. Lawrence, The White Peacock, ed. Andrew Robertson, (Cambridge University Press, 1983).

D. H. Lawrence, 'The Horse-Dealer's Daughter', in England, My England and Other Stories, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge University Press, 1990).

D. H. Lawrence, The Virgin and the Gipsy, in The Virgin and the Gipsy and Other Stories, ed. Michael Herbert, Bethan Jones and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 2005).

All page references given in the post refer to these editions.

She Was Only a Horse-Dealer's Daughter

Girl on horseback by Israeli artist Taly Levi 

tal-stoobik.com

Sullen-looking and bulldog-faced Mabel Pervin, 27, would have been good-looking were it not for the impassive fixity of her features - which is as backhanded a compliment as you could ever wish to hear. Still, it's not a narrator's job to flatter those of whom he speaks, nor to mislead readers, and even her brother, Fred Henry, describes her as "'The sulkiest bitch that ever trod!'" [141] 

He, along with his sister and two brothers, have been evicted from their home. Which isn't very nice. But that's what happens when you allow things to go to the dogs and nothing remains but huge debts and the threat of repossession.

But whereas the Pervin brothers have decided pretty much what they'll do and where they'll go, Mabel refuses to reveal her intentions. Indeed, when asked to disclose her plans, her face merely darkens and she retreats ever-further into silence like an immutable object. This, understandably, exasperates Fred Henry.

Prior to the reversal of fortunes following the death of their father, the Pervin household had been full of servants and the stables full of horses. Mabel had run things efficiently for ten years and no matter how brutal and coarse the circumstances, she always had the financial means to do so and this had given her confidence:   

"The men might be foul-mouthed, the women in the kitchen might have bad reputations, her brothers might have illegitimate children. But so long as there was money, the girl felt herself established, and brutally proud, reserved." [142]

She had no female friends or company after her sister left: but Mabel didn't mind. All was tolerable until her father died. Only then did the shit hit the fan and she had suffered badly during the prolonged period of poverty, attempting in vain to keep the home together for her useless, lazy brothers.

"Now, for Mabel, the end had come. Still she would not cast about her. She would follow her own way just the same. She would always hold the keys of her own situation. Mindless and persistent, she endured from day to day. Why should she think? Why should she answer anybody? [...] She thought of nobody, not even herself. Mindless and persistent, she seemed in a sort of ecstasy to be coming nearer to her fulfilment, her own glorification, approaching her dead mother [...]" [143] and making a festive return to the actual (i.e., the inanimate world of matter).     

In preparaton for this, she goes to the churchyard in order to attend to her mother's grave:

"Carefully she clipped the grass from the grave, and arranged the pink-white, small chrysanthemums in the tin cross. When this was done, she took an empty jar from a neighbouring grave, brought water, and carefully, most scrupulously sponged the marble headstone and the coping-stone.
      It gave her sincere satisfaction to do this. She felt in immediate contact with the world of her mother. She took minute pain, went through the work in a state bordering on pure happiness, as if in performing this task she came into a subtle, intimate connection with her mother. For the life she followed here in the world was far less real than the world of death she inherited from her mother." [143]

I think that's a rather lovely passage; one with a great truth to it. For some people, death is more real than the epiphenomenal dream of life and they really only come into their own (or blossom into being, as Lawence might say) posthumously. To try to dissuade such persons from suicide as a practice of joy, is not only futile, but cruel. Everything should be done to make their passage into death as smooth and as stylish as possible.

I don't know if the young doctor Jack Fergusson understood this, but he did find Mabel's physical intensity and remoteness fascinating: "Some mystical element was touched in him." [144] For Jack, her boat is less canine and more portentous: "It was portentous, her face. It seemed to mesmerise him. There was a heavy power in her eyes which laid hold of his whole being [...]" [144] 

Later that afternoon, as dusk was beginning to fall, Jack sees Mabel walking to the pond nearby her house:

"There she stood on the bank for a moment. She never raised her head. Then she waded slowly into the water.
      He stood motionless as the small black figure walked slowly and deliberately towards the centre of the pond, gradually moving deeper into the motionless water, and still moving forward as the water got up to her breast. Then he could see her no more in the dusk of the dead afternoon." [145]

Instinctively, Jack runs to help; that is, to fish her out, not to gently hold Mabel under and thereby assist with the suicide. Rather bravely, considering he couldn't swim and already had a bad cold, he ventures slowly into the pond: "The cold water rose over his thighs, over his loins, upon his abdomen. The lower part of his body was all sunk in the hideous cold element." [145]

In four simple but beautifully written passages, Lawrence describes the rescue of Mabel Pervin:

"He crouched a little, spreading his hands under the water and moving them round, trying to feel for her. The dead cold pond swayed upon his chest. He moved again, a little deeper, and again, with his hands underneath, he felt all around under the water. And he touched her clothing. But it evaded his fingers. He made a desperate effort to grasp it.
      And so doing he lost his balance and went under, horribly, suffocating in the foul earthy water, struggling madly for a few moments. At last, after what seemed an eternity, he got his footing, rose again into the air and looked around. He gasped, and knew he was in the world. Then he looked at the water. She had risen near him. He grasped her clothing, and drawing her nearer, turned to take his way to land again.
      He went very slowly, carefully, absorbed in the slow progress. He rose higher, climbing out of the pond. The water was now only about his legs; he was thankful, full of relief to be out of the clutches of the pond. He lifted her and staggered on to the bank, out of the horror of wet, grey clay.
      He laid her down on the bank. She was quite unconscious and running with water. He made the water come from her mouth, he worked to restore her. He did not have to work very long before he could feel the breathing begin again in her, she was breathing naturally. He worked a little longer. He could feel her live beneath his hands, she was coming back. He wiped her face, wrapped her in his overcoat, looked round into the dim, dark-grey world, then lifted her and staggered down the bank and across the fields." [146]

Jack carries Mabel home and lays her down on the hearthrug, in front of the fire burning in the grate. She was breathing and semi-conscious, but not yet fully in the world. Fetching some blankets from upstairs, Jack warms them before the fire: "Then he removed her saturated, earthy-smelling clothing, rubbed her dry with a towel, and wrapped her naked in the blankets." [146]

Regaining her senses, Mabel asks the young doctor what she did - and if it signifies she has gone out of her mind. He tells her what happened and reassures her it was but a moment of folly and not a sign of incipient insanity. All the time he is a little afraid of her and the strange power she seems to possess (over him).

It's here that the tale takes a typically queer Lawrentian turn. For when Mabel realises that she is naked beneath the blankets and that he undressed her, she takes this as a sign that he loves her:    

"She shuffled forward on her knees, and put her arms round him, round his legs, as he stood there, pressing her breasts against his knees and thighs, clutching him with strange, convulsive certainty, pressing his thighs against her, drawing him to her face, her throat, as she looked up at him with flaring, humble eyes of transfiguration, triumphant in first possession.
      'You love me,' she murmured, in strange transport, yearning and triumphant and confident. 'You love me. I know you love me, I know.'
      And she was passionately kissing his knees, through the wet clothing, passionately and indiscriminately kissing his knees, his legs, as if unaware of everything." [148]

The problem is, Jack isn't sure about this at all:

"He looked down at the tangled wet hair, the wild, bare, animal shoulders. He was amazed, bewildered, and afraid. He had never thought of loving her. He had never wanted to love her. When he rescued her and restored her, he was a doctor, and she was a patient. He had had no single personal thought of her. Nay, this introduction of the personal element was very distasteful to him, a violation of his professional honour. It was horrible to have her there embracing his knees. It was horrible. He revolted from it, violently. And yet - and yet - he had not the power to break away." [148]

In other words, it's all a bit awkward. One begins to think maybe Mabel is a little crazy and one wonders whether some part of him secretly wishes he'd left her to drown ... 

"She looked at him again, with the same supplication of powerful love, and that same transcendent, frightening light of triumph. In view of the delicate flame which seemed to come from her face like a light, he was powerless. And yet he had never intended to love her. He had never intended. And something stubborn in him could not give way." [148-49]

Of course, we all know as readers where this is going and what will happen: that Jack will give way and yield to her love, whatever his intentions and whether this fills him with a certain dread or not.

Almost, one is tempted to imagine that rather than having saved her, she has succeeded in pulling him beneath the water - as Diana Crich succeeded in killing young Dr. Brindell, her arms held choking tight round his neck - and this entire scene is the fantasy of a drowning man: "Her hands were drawing him, drawing him down to her. He was afraid, even a little horrified." [149]

However, as textually there is little reason to think this, let us assume, rather, that Mabel is simply some kind of witch, whose bare arms, small breasts, and soft white feet exert a powerful erotic spell that renders poor Jack as helpless (and as enchanted) as a moth before a candle: "A flame seemed to burn the hand that grasped her soft shoulder [...][149]

Eventually, with an inward groan, he accepts his fate: and her eyes fill with tears of joy (and triumph):

"He could not bear to look at her any more. He dropped on his knees and caught her head with his arm and pressed her face against his throat. She was very still. His heart, which seemed to have broken, was burning with a kind of agony in his breast. And he felt her slow, hot tears wetting his throat." [149]

Paralysed by his own desire, Jack is made to confess his love for her in a soft, low, vibrating voice that didn't seem to belong to him: the terrible intonation of his desire frightening her "almost more than her horror lest he should not want her" [152].  

That, in a nutshell, is the tale of the horse-dealer's daughter and of the young doctor who wanted to save her life. Although he had never intended to love her: "He had crossed over the gulf to her, and all that he had left behind [of his old self and old life] had shrivelled and become void." [150]

So, in a sense, Jack did die after all ...

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'The Horse-Dealer's Daughter', England, My England and Other Stories, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 137-152. All page references given refer to this edition. The story can also be read online by clicking here, courtesy of Project Gutenberg.  

Note: the other drowning scene to which I refer, involving Diana Crich and a young doctor attempting to save her, is in chapter XIV (Water-Party) of D. H. Lawrence's Women in Love. 

Musical bonus: Ute Lemper, 'Little Water Song', from the album Punishing Kiss, (Decca Records, 2000), written by Nick Cave and Bruno Pisek. Click here. 

This post is dedicated to meine zwei liebsten deutschen frauen. 

Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

Jamie Reid: Lies

As our recent study of three great liars - Nietzsche, Twain, and Wilde - demonstrated, lying is an art essential to the functioning of society and, indeed, necessary for the preservation of human life in a violently chaotic and inhuman world.

But just as liars come in various guises, so too does lying come in different shades; although most people tend to think here as elsewhere in terms of black and white. Whilst both types of lie are intended to mislead or deceive, there are, of course, important differences between them. 

White lies are an attempt to induce pleasure or, at the very least, protect from unpleasantness; they are a form of affiliative falsehood, often motivated by kindness. Black lies, on the other hand, are an attempt to manipulate and/or exploit the other in order to gain a personal advantage or benefit, regardless of the cost to the one deceived. At best they have a selfish motive; at worst, a malicious intent.

To the truth fanatic, however, who believes honesty is a matter of policy, even white lies - no matter how small or innocuous in nature - are morally wrong and cause harm in the long run (to others and to the soul of the liar himself). These truth fanatics include all the usual suspects, from St. Augustine to Kant, and they seem to regard lying not only as a sign of moral corruption, but as a perversion of the natural faculty of speech, which is to truthfully reveal the authentic thoughts of the speaker. There are, therefore, no circumstances in which it is right (or harmless) to lie.   

Rather surprisingly, even everybody's favourite neuroscientist-cum-philosopher, Sam Harris, seems to adopt this hardline stance in his work on the subject. Harris argues that we not only radically simplify our own lives but greatly improve society - by deepening bonds of trust - simply by telling the truth at all times. For Harris, even white lies deny others access to reality and many forms of private vice and public evil often begin with a willingness to suspend the truth.
  

Obviously, as a reader of Nietzsche and Oscar Wilde, I don't share this view and find it naive as well as too uncompromising for my tastes. Harris is right, however, to admit that lying, like all arts, is a difficult thing to do well and requires a sophisticated intelligence and imagination. That's precisely why most people stick to the truth most of the time; i.e., honest behaviour is often born of laziness and limited intellectual capacity.

  

Notes

See: Sam Harris, Lying, (Four Elephants Press, 2013).

Musical Bonus: Sex Pistols, 'Liar', from the album Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols, (Virgin Records, 1977): click here ... Your chance to listen to Johnny Rotten getting on his moral high horse and complain about being lied to (by Malcolm and the World). You didn't really expect Fleetwood Mac, did you?

Three Great Liars 3: Oscar Wilde

Portrait photo of Oscar Wilde 

by W. and D. Downey (1889)

I.

Ultimately, all studies of lying and great liars lead to Wilde and his observational essay published in Intentions (1891): 'The Decay of Lying' - a work many years ahead of its time ...

The essay is structured in the form of a Socratic dialogue between Vivian and Cyril and serves to promote Wilde's view that Aestheticism is superior to Realism. Vivian informs Cyril of an article he is writing which defends the former and blames the decline of modern literature upon the triumph of the latter, with the subsequent decay of lying as an art, a science, and a social pleasure.

According to Vivian, if the monstrous worship of facts is allowed to continue unabated, then all art is done for - and without art, life will have nothing to imitate. It is vital, therefore, that lying - defined as the telling of beautiful untrue things (and the proper aim of art) - be revived as soon as possible.   



II.

The dialogue opens with Cyril attempting to convince Vivian to leave his library and sit outside in order to enjoy the lovely afternoon. The latter is less than enthusiastic however and reveals himself to be the very opposite of a nature lover. For not only is nature imperfect in its design - "her curious crudities, her extraordinary monotony, her absolutely unfinished condition" - but it's also uncomfortable: "Grass is hard and dumpy and damp, and full of dreadful black insects."  

That's amusing, but the merits and disadvantages of nature are not my concern here: I'm interested, rather, in the fine lie as spoken by the true liar; i.e., a statement that requires no proof of any kind but is its own evidence. Such lies transcend the level of misrepresentation and are more than the base falsehoods and half-truths offered by politicians, lawyers, and journalists. Such lies belong to art - particularly to poetry, which, as Plato recognised, is not unconnected to lying:     

"'As one knows the poet by his fine music, so one can recognize the liar by his rich rhythmic utterance, and in neither case will the casual inspiration of the moment suffice. Here, as elsewhere, practice must precede perfection. But in modern days while the fashion of writing poetry has become far too common, and should, if possible, be discouraged, the fashion of lying has almost fallen into disrepute."

Today, continues Vivian, the young man who would have once developed into a gifted liar (and perhaps a magnificent novelist), now often falls into careless habits of accuracy or develops "a morbid and unhealthy faculty of truthtelling". Literature requires distinction, charm, beauty, and imaginative power; in other words, it rests upon the ability to tell stories; in a word, to lie.

The modern novel - realistic in form and subject matter - is all too horribly true; true to life and true to nature - but false to art and ultimately such works become not only vulgar, but boring. It was not always thus. But, today, facts are not merely dominant within history, but are "usurping the domain of Fancy, and have invaded the kingdom of Romance".

Fortunately, says Vivian, poets - with the exception of Wordsworth - have remained faithful to their high mission and are still "universally recognized as being absolutely unreliable". But, in every other domain and genre, the obsession with truth is dominant. If things are bad enough within European life and letters, they are even worse in the United States:

"The crude commercialism of America, its materialising spirit, its indifference to the poetical side of things, and its lack of imagination and of high unattainable ideals, are entirely due to that country having adopted for its national hero a man, who according to his own confession, was incapable of telling a lie, and it is not too much to say that the story of George Washington and the cherry tree has done more harm, and in a shorter space of time, than any other moral tale in the whole of literature."

Vivian, however, is far from despondent. In fact, he is extremely hopeful for the future and, in a crucial passage that ends with a profoundly Nietzschean remark (that I have italicised for emphasis), he says:

"That some change will take place before this century has drawn to its close we have no doubt whatsoever. Bored by the tedious and improving conversation of those who have neither the wit to exaggerate nor the genius to romance, tired of the intelligent person whose reminiscences are always based upon memory, whose statements are invariably limited by probability, and who is at any time liable to be corroborated by the merest Philistine who happens to be present, Society sooner or later must return to its lost leader, the cultured and fascinating liar. [...] Whatever was his name or race, he certainly was the true founder of social intercourse. For the aim of the liar is simply to charm, to delight, to give pleasure. He is the very basis of civilized society, and without him a dinner party [...] is as dull as a lecture at the Royal Society [...] Nor will he be welcomed by society alone. Art, breaking from the prisonhouse of realism, will run to greet him, and will kiss his false, beautiful lips, knowing that he alone is in possession of the great secret of all her manifestations, the secret that Truth is entirely and absolutely a matter of style [...]" 

Notes

Oscar Wilde, 'The Decay of Lying', Intentions, (1891). Click here to read online, courtesy of Project Gutenberg. This essay was a much revised version of an article that first appeared in a literary periodical in January 1889.

To read the first entry in this series of posts - on Nietzsche - click here.

To read the second entry, on Mark Twain, click here.

Three Great Liars 2: Mark Twain

Portrait photo of Mark Twain 

by José Maria Mora (1882)

Before Wilde, there was Twain ...

Or, at any rate, before Wilde's essay 'The Decay of Lying' (1891), there was Twain's short paper 'On the Decay of the Art of Lying' (1882), in which he makes a humorous appeal for the men and women of America's Gilded Age to lie in a more considered (and considerate) manner, insisting that the ability to construct and deploy falsehoods is one of mankind's greatest gifts and highest virtues. 

For Twain, nothing is more distressing for a man of right feeling than to witness the noble (and necessary) art of lying so impoverished (and prostituted) as it is within the modern world and he suggests that it should be taught in schools; for no art or virtue can bloom without careful and diligent cultivation.

Wise and intelligent lying is what the world needs in the face of ignorant and uneducated falsehood (and what we today term fake news). It might even be preferable, suggests Twain, not to lie at all, than to lie injudiciously or without imagination.   

Not that he advocates subscribing slavishly to the accepted truth (doxa) like a naive child, an unsophisticated fool, or a religious fanatic. Those who insist on truth at all times and in all circumstances are at best asocial and at worst inhuman. It is impossible to live with (or alongside) such habitual truth-tellers; but, fortunately, such people are extremely rare.

Indeed, according to Twain, such individuals do not, in fact, exist and have never existed:

"Of course there are people who think they never lie, but it is not so [...] Everybody lies - every day; every hour; awake; asleep; in his dreams; in his joy; in his mourning; if he keeps his tongue still, his hands, his feet, his eyes, his attitude, will convey deception - and purposely."

I don't know if that's true; but it's amusing to consider the possibility that it might be true - and the philosophical implications of its being true. That society - and, indeed, our very humanity - might be founded not upon Truth, but falsehood makes Satanists of us all (for Satan is not only the Prince of Darkness, but the Father of Lies).

And that's no bad thing; for whilst God may have truth on his side, he remains a jealous, vindictive, and bloodthirsty deity who demands sacrifice and enjoys punishing mankind; the Devil, on the other hand, is a gentleman with impeccable manners who recognises that lying more often than not is a form of courtesy.   

Of course, Twain wasn't a Satanist. In fact, he remained an irreverent Christian throughout his life; often highly critical, but, ultimately, still a believer in Almighty God.

Little surprise, therefore, that he concludes his essay striking a conventional moral tone and condemning black lies. We should always lie, he says, with a good object; "healingly, charitably, humanely, not cruelly, hurtfully, maliciously", i.e., lie gracefully in order to benefit others, not merely to gain a personal advantage.  

To which a Nietzschean (or Sadist) might ask: Where's the fun in that?


See: Mark Twain, 'On the Decay of the Art of Lying', in Collected Tales, Sketches, Speeches, and Essays, 1852-1890, ed. Louis J. Budd (Library of America, 1992). 

Note: The above essay was originally written for presentation in 1880 and first published in The Stolen White Elephant Etc. (1882). It can be read as an ebook on Project Gutenberg: click here. 

To read the first in this series on great liars - on Nietzsche - click here. 

To read the third entry, on Oscar Wilde, click here.

Three Great Liars 1: Nietzsche

Portrait photo of Nietzsche 
by Friedrich Hartmann (c.1872)

Nietzsche's essay of 1873 - Über Wahrheit und Lüge im aussermoralischen Sinne [1] - is not quite as sexy as it sounds, even when you say it in the original German. It is, in fact, quite a sober work dealing with epistemological questions to do with the nature of truth, language and the formation of concepts, rather than simply an affirmation of the right to lie. 

For Nietzsche, inasmuch as concepts are metaphors, then they do not correspond directly with reality and so can never be strictly true; they are, in fact, a form of convenient fiction, or a type of vital lie that makes human life possible by facilitating communication and enabling us to make sense of the world.    

In a famous passage - much loved by postmodern theorists - Nietzsche writes that truth should thus be considered as:

"A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms - in short, a sum of human relations which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins."

Man is the clever animal who invented knowing; which is to say, he discovered a convincing method of falsification and self-deception. And it's this - mistakenly named the truth - upon which we pride ourselves. And, mistakenly named or not, this art of lying is something we should be proud of; for it helps preserve us as a species.

For whilst the great beasts have sharp teeth and horns with which to defend themselves, we possess the power of dissimulation. It's not the will to truth that has so far saved our skin, but the fact that we know how to deceive, flatter, lie, delude, talk behind backs, put up false fronts, wear masks, play roles, live in borrowed splendour and hide behind ideas, etc. Man employs his intelligence mainly in devising these strategies of survival.

Indeed, we are so deeply immersed in illusions and dream-images, says Nietzsche, that we hardly even stop to consider the real world that exists independently of us. Our senses glide over the surface of things as things and the mind remains aloof even from the body in its materiality.

Ultimately, however, man wants more than to merely survive in his own individual dreamworld; "from boredom and necessity, man wishes to exist socially". He needs, therefore, to find common ground with others and come to some agreement as to how the world is; needs, in other words, a shared conception of the truth; i.e., a "uniformly valid and binding designation" for things.

Thus, whilst lies sustain the individual; truth allows for the development of society. And a society founded upon this will to truth will have little time for the liar who misuses these designations in order to confuse a newly agreed upon reality: "If he does this in a selfish and moreover harmful manner, society will cease to trust him and will thereby exclude him."

For social man now wants the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth - so long as it brings him pleasant advantages; that is to say, so long as the truth is also tied to the Good and the Beautiful. He doesn't want ugly, evil truths and if faced with these he'll happily fall back on orthodox illusions, such as the lies of priests, for example.      
   

So, to reiterate: to be truthful means to employ socially agreed metaphors. Or, to express this in moral terms, there is a duty to lie "according to a fixed convention [...] and in a manner binding upon everyone". Over time, however, man forgets that the game he is playing is a game and lying in a socially approved manner becomes for him a second nature.

Thus, it is from out of forgetfulness that man's sense of truth is born. To paraphrase George Costanza, it's not a lie ... if you believe it - and cease to recall its origin in falsehood.  

Man, concludes Nietzsche, is a genius of construction who builds up an entire world from conceptual material manufactured from within himself. Lying is a brilliant means of anthropomorphising reality; of making the world correspond with his own fantasies and ideals. He should be admired for this. But we shouldn't praise him as an honest animal. For it's the "drive toward the formation of metaphors" which is the fundamental human trait, not the will to truth.

And perhaps that's for the best: for the latter, if pushed to its extreme, becomes a fatal form of nihilism that makes human life dispensable, if not impossible [2].

Notes

[1] Nietzsche, 'On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense'. This essay can be found in Philosophy and Truth, ed. and trans. Daniel Breazeale, (Humanities Press International, 1993), as well as in various versions online. 

[2] It could be, of course, that Ray Brassier is right in maintaining that philosophy should do more than simply further human conceit and deceitfulness. That its duty - and, indeed, its destiny - is to become the organon of extinction and acknowledge that thinking ultimately has interests that do not coincide with those of mankind or, indeed, life. See Nihil Unbound: Enlightenment and Extinction, (Palgrave Macmillan, 2007).  

To read the second post in this series - on Mark Twain - click here.  

To read the third, on Oscar Wilde, click here.