On Masculinity, Matriarchy, and the Mark Steyn Show

Mark Steyn presenting the Mark Steyn Show 

GB News (30 June 2022)

 

 

I. 

 

The other evening, on the always excellent Mark Steyn Show (Mon-Thurs at 8pm on GB News), the eponymous host was decrying the state of contemporary manhood in conversation with the lovely Leilani Dowding [1]. 

 

What ever happened to men? he asked. Have they all been killed off by Wuflu ginger growlers? 

 

Steyn quoted statistics showing that women now dominate - in terms of numbers at least - university places and many professions, whilst men retreat to sad, pitiful so-called man caves in the basement, to watch sports, drink beer, and masturbate to online pornography.   

 

What's needed, Steyn suggested, is a little more confidence in the face of risk amongst modern men; a definition of manliness proposed by the American political philosopher Harvey Mansfield, rooted in the Greek notion of thumos [θυμός], which I have written about here and here.  

Rather like Jordan Peterson, Steyn seems to long for men who still bristle at those things which they find strange, threatening, or inimical (i.e. Other); men with vigour and vim, who are still in touch with their primitive instincts; the kind of men, perhaps, whom Madeline Kahn wishes for in the film At Long Last Love, (1975) [2].     

Of course, as any sociologist or reader of cultural studies will tell you, this concern about a supposed crisis of masculinity, is nothing new. During the late-Victorian period, for example, masculinity was increasingly problematized and strange new models of manhood were springing up as traditional forms of male identity became untenable; their power and authority severely eroded and compromised by modernity itself. 

 

Fear surrounding queerness and monstrosity was widespread and conservative thinkers, including Friedrich Nietzsche, Max Nordau, and, later, Oswald Spengler, promoted ideas of social and cultural degeneration tied to questions of race, gender and sexuality. 

 

We also see this obsession with decadence in the art and literature of the period; in works such as Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891), for example. Homosexuals, drug addicts, vampires ... they all presented a threat to traditional manhood. As did emancipated women, or feminists.        

 

 

II.

 

Perhaps not surprisingly, we also find D. H. Lawrence expressing concern about the state of modern manhood in his work (in fact, this is one of the major themes of both his fictional and non-fictional writings). 

 

In the 1928 article entitled 'Matriarchy', for example, Lawrence argues that - whether they know it or not - "the men of today are a little afraid of the women of today; and especially the younger men" [3]. Fast forward almost a hundred years, and I think we can say they are now more than a little afraid - and this fear, sadly, gives rise to resentment and misogyny, poisoning their own masculinity. 

 

Just as Steyn points to the fact that there are now more female graduates than male, Lawrence writes:

 

"They [modern men] not only see themselves in the minority, overwhelmed by numbers, but they feel themselves swamped by the strange unloosed energy of the silk-legged hordes. Women, women, everywhere, and all of them on the war-path! The poor young male keeps up a jaunty front, but his masculine soul quakes. [...] They [modern women] settle like silky locusts on all the jobs, they occupy the offices and the playing fields like immensely active ants, they buzz round the coloured lights of pleasure in amazing bare-armed swarms, and the rather dazed male is, naturally, a bit scared." [4]   

 

Obviously, this is intended to be humorous, but underneath one senses Lawrence is expressing a real concern and a real dislike of female emancipation. However, he seems to accept the fact that this has happened; that Woman has emerged "and you can't put her back again" [5]. Nor has she any wish to return to the home and to her previous roles of wife and mother. 

 

Thus, whether modern men like it or not, we are in, says Lawrence, for some form of matriarchal society. But then Lawrence asks himself if that would really be so terrible; for if you examine those societies where women run things and do most of the work, the men seem to have gained a certain carefree form of freedom (which Lawrence likes to term insouciance).

So, let the women have the jobs and own the property; let them govern the country and have full rights over the children. The men can then devote themselves to collective activity of their own, be it art, war, or philosophy. Real men, says Lawrence, should not care about earning a wage, pushing a pram round the park, or polishing their possessions.  

 

Perhaps matriarchy isn't so bad after all. It might allow a man to find himself once more and "satisfy his deeper social instincts" [6]. For when a man no longer feels king of his own castle, then he looks for something beyond the domestic space and, indeed, beyond Woman. 

 

However, we might keep in mind that this can result in all kinds of curious formations; from all-male clubs and secret societies, to criminal gangs and even fascism. All of these homosocial phenomena are, in part at least, a reaction to female emancipation and the increased visibility of women in the public sphere.

 

 

Notes

[1] I'm referring to the show broadcast on 30 June, 2022, which can be watched in full on YouTube by clicking here. 

[2] At Long Last Love is a musical comedy directed by Peter Bogdanovich (1975). Madeline Kahn plays Kitty O'Kelly and performs a Cole Porter song from 1929 called 'Find Me a Primitive Man': click here. Mark Steyn plays a clip from this song on the June 30 show I'm discussing. 

[3] D. H. Lawrence, 'Matriarchy', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 103. 

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid., p. 104.

[6] Ibid., p. 106.

In Memory of the One and Only Adolf Brand

Portrait of Adolf Brand (1874 - 1945) 

based on an engraving by Arnold Siegfried 

Der Eigene, Vol. 7 (1924)

 

 

Adolf Brand was a German writer, anarcho-egoist, and a pioneering queer campaigner. He is perhaps best known today for publishing the first openly homosexual periodical in the world - Der Eigene - which ran from 1896 until the early 1930s, when the Nazis eventually put a stop to it [1]. 

The title - usually translated into English as The Unique - betrays the influence of the philosopher Max Stirner upon Brand's thinking and refers to Stirner's concept of radical individuality [2]. The small number of subscribers to the magazine were treated to essays of a scholarly nature on various cultural and political themes, as well as nude photographs of young men. The threat of censorship was, of course, a constant concern.

 

Brand contributed a significant number of his own poems and articles alongside those from a range of contributors, that included many German and Jewish intellectuals of the time. Der Eigene wished to see modern homosexual culture develop as a model inspired by ancient Greek pederasty and the heroic warrior ideal of Sparta. 

 

For Brand and his fellow members of a group formed in 1903 known as the Gemeinschaft der Eigenen, the love of an older man for a youth was seen as a perfectly natural expression of male sexuality. They vehemently rejected medical theories of homosexuality put forward by those who promoted the idea of an intermediate sex, for example, or saw gay men as essentially feminine in nature.  

 

Eventually, the GdE evolved into a kind outdoors society, involving camping, trekking, and nudism (or Nacktkultur as it was known) - all good clean (manly) fun. Perhaps rather less attractive was their misogny, elitism, and ideas of beauty rooted in race. 

 

Some might also question their militant strategy of outing well-known men as homosexuals. If this caused some of these men and their families great suffering - and even pushed a few towards suicide - Brand and company insisted that was a price worth paying; the way into the future, they said, followed a path over corpses [Weg über Leichen]. 

 

It's perhaps not surprising to discover that Brand was imprisoned multiple times for his activities. But whilst even in court he refused to apologise for his promotion of homosexuality, in his later life he gave up his activism, married a nice girl, and settled down (only to be killed by an Allied bomb in February 1945).        

 

 

Notes

 

[1] When Hitler and the Nazi Party came to power in 1933, Brand's house was searched and all the materials needed to produce the magazine were either seized or destroyed.  

 

[2] Der Eigene clearly refers to Max Stirner's classic anarchist text Der Einzige und sein Eigentum (1844). 

      Stirner, for readers unfamiliar with the name, was a 19th-century German philosopher associated with a highly individualistic form of anarchism known as egoism (his key text above is usually translated into English as The Ego and Its Own). 

      For Stirner, no state, party, or social institution, should have any power or authority over the individual, who must be free to live out their own lives in their own way, in a loose non-systematic association with other egoists. His thinking has influenced many within the anarcho-communist and libertarian circles.    

At the Well with Martin Heidegger, D. H. Lawrence and Onyofi the Chimp

Photo: Digne Meller-Marcovicz

 

Water is H₂O; hydrogen two parts, oxygen one,

but there is also a third thing, that makes it water. 

And nobody knows what that is. [1] 

 

 

I.

 

There's a famous photo that circulates within philosophical circles of Heidegger carrying a bucket of water drawn from the star-topped well outside of his small, three-room cabin in the Black Forest Mountains of southern Germany. 

 

Heidegger loved this location and he worked on some of his key texts whilst staying at die Hutte. It was, for him, an authentic dwelling place with which he claimed an intellectual and emotional intimacy [2].

 

It's a nice photo. And it suggests that, for Heidegger, a well is more than simply a hole in the ground that allows you to access water; there's something magical about a well and - along with natural springs - they have an important place within the cultural and religious imagination.   

 

So, the question is: Does water drawn by hand from a well possess qualities that water from a tap does not? 

 

D. H. Lawrence certainly thought so. He regarded indoor plumbing as something which fatally intervened between himself and the naked forces of life: "Every time we turn on a tap to have water [...] we deny ourselves and annul our being." [3] 

For Lawrence, when we draw water directly from its underground source, or kindle a fire with some sticks and dry grass, we partake of the Mysteries. Like Heidegger, he believed that we lose far more with all our labour-saving appliances than we gain [4].

 

It sounds, of course, like nonsense to those whose thinking about the natural elements is (knowingly or unknowingly) shaped by scientific understanding; to those for whom water, for example, is merely H₂O. 

 

But it's surely worth remembering just how miraculous clean, fresh water is and it surely wouldn't hurt if we explored the ontological status of water and started to think it as a thing, rather than simply as a resource (or standing reserve) to be exploited and consumed [5]. 

 

 

II. 

 

Here's another question: Can non-human creatures - such as apes - also partake of the mysteries of the sacred well?

 

Lawrence would probably be okay with this idea, but Heidegger might start mumbling about the animal being poor in world and lacking hands, etc. 

 

However, rather amazingly, researchers have just discovered that Ugandan rainforest chimpanzees are digging wells of their very own in order to access and/or filter drinking water and that the practice is spreading. This behaviour is relatively rare in the animal kingdom and it's the first time it's been observed in rainforest chimps. 

 

It's believed that an immigrant female chimpanzee, called Onyofi, introduced the new skill into the community, after she arrived in 2015. Her well-digging activity immediately attracted attention and soon other young chimps and adult females were copying her (not so the adult males, although they happily drink the fresh water once all the hard work's been done) [6].     

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'The third thing', in The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 447. 

 

[2] See Adam Sharr, Heidegger's Hut, (The MIT Press, 2006).  

[3] D. H. Lawrence, 'Dana's Two Years Before the Mast', in Studies in Classic American Literature, ed. Ezra Greenspan, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 117. 

[4] This does not mean that we must do away with all technology and indoor plumbing. As Heidegger writes: 

      "We can use technical devices, and yet with proper use also keep ourselves so free of them, that we may let go of them any time. We can use technical devices as they ought to be used, and also let them alone as something which does not affect our inner and real core. We can affirm the unavoidable use of technical devices and, also deny them the right to dominate us, and so to warp, confuse, and lay waste our nature." 

      See Martin Heidegger, Discourse on Thinking, trans. John M. Anderson and E. Hans Freund, (Harper Torchbooks,1966), p. 54.

 

[5] This idea is developed at length by Kalpita Bhar Paul in his essay 'A Heideggerian Perspective on Thinking about Water: Revisiting the Transition from Hydrology to Hydrosocial Nexus', Environmental Philosophy (2019). This work is available to read online (or to download as a free pdf) on academia.edu: click here.

[6] See Hella Péter, Klaus Zuberbühler, and Catherine Hobaiter, 'Well-digging in a community of forest-living wild East African chimpanzees', in Primates (2022). It can be accessed on SpringerLink by clicking here. Or, for a digested read, see Olivia Miller's article 'Rainforest chimpanzees dig wells for cleaner water' (28 June 2022) on the University of Kent website: click here.  

 

 

A Brief Note on Beatniks

 

Nedward and Agnes Flanders

Ned's freaky beatnik parents in The Simpsons [1]

 

 

Did anyone ever actually describe themselves as a beatnik? 

 

Or was the term purely a media invention [2]: a way of reducing members of the Beat Generation to a cool but cartoonish stereotype? Black turtleneck sweater ☑ Black beret ☑ Dark glasses ☑ Sandals ☑ Striped top ☑ Jazz album, bongo drums, or a book of poetry under the arm ☑

 

Amusingly, Allen Ginsberg wrote to The New York Times in 1959, deploring the use of the word beatnik [3]. And his pal Jack Kerouac wasn't pleased either to see their philosophy become just another fad. Both authors feared that a generation of illuminated hipsters, would be replaced by brainwashed fashionistas interested only in looking the part. 

 

Indeed, so exasperated was Kerouac by the popularity of the term that he declared to a reporter in 1969 (shortly before his death in October of that year): I'm not a beatnik. I'm a Catholic [4].

 

Personally, however, I'm more interested in the way the stereotype of the beatnik became part of popular culture, changing the latter and being changed by it, rather than Kerouac's spiritual convictions, or his quest for religious salvation.

 

And if, eventually, the term beatnik was used by all kinds of people in all kinds of ways and some of those people were frauds and some of those ways were false, well, it doesn't really matter and one gets tired of puritans demanding authenticity. 

 

I mean, is there anything squarer than wanting to keep things real? [5]                          

 

 

Notes

 

[1] See The Simpsons episode entitled 'Hurricane Neddy' [S8/E8] (1996), written by Steve Young and directed by Bob Anderson, in which it was revealed that religiously uptight Ned Flanders is the son of anti-disciplinarian, freaky beatnik parents (Nedward and Agnes). Click here for a short (but hilarious) clip on YouTube.    

 

[2] The term beatnik is usually credited to Herb Caen, writing in his column in the San Francisco Chronicle, in April 1958.

 

[3] See The Letters of Allen Ginsberg, ed. Bill Morgan, (Da Capo Press, 2008), p. 221. Commenting upon and quoting from this letter, James Campbell writes:

      "The Beats dislikes the appropriation of 'beat', and its melding into 'beatnik'. 'The foul word is used several times', wrote Ginsberg in a letter to the New York Times Book Review [...] in response to an uncomplimentary article about Kerouac:

 

'But the 'beatnik' of mad critics is a piece of their own ignoble poetry. And if 'beatniks', and not illuminated Beat poets, overrun the country they will have been created not by Kerouac but by industries of mass communication which continue to brainwash Man ...'"

      In other words, Beat was a state of being or an identity; beatnik was just posing and dressing up. See 'The Birth of the Beatnik', in This is the Beat Generation, by James Campbell, (University of California Press, 1999), chapter 10, pp. 245-271. Lines quoted are from pp. 245-46.

      Amusingly, I remember a similar discussion around the term punk in the 1970s, with Johnny Rotten rejecting the term as just another lazy label and form of media shorthand: click here to see what he says in a 1976 TV interview (go to 3.04). Punk was an attitude and not a fixed way of looking and thinking and real punks - who, like Rotten, often refused the term - were scornful and contemptuous of so-called plastic (or part-time) punks hanging around Kings Road trying to look trendy and pogoing in their bedrooms in front of the mirror (but only when their mothers had gone out). 

      For a fascinating discussion of the etymology and history of the word punk, see the essay by J. P. Robinson on medium.com: click here. 

 

[4] This interview with Kerouac by Jack McClintock from 1969 was republished in the Tampa Bay Times (20 March 2013) and can be read online by clicking here. 

 

[5] Amazingly, there are still some cats who get het up about the manner in which Beat became absorbed into the culture industry and commodified as a lifestyle or look. Denise Enck, for example, founder and editor of the arts and literature site Empty Mirror, published an article in July 2013 entitled 'The Beat Generation vs. "Beatniks"', in which she accuses the latter of being shallow and writes: 

      "The Beats were looking for real meaning, authenticity and a deeply personal self-expression in their lives and work, not conformity in a black turtleneck and a cheesy beret. [...]  The truth of it is that certain details associated with the Beat Generation writers were picked up, twisted, and amplified, almost beyond recognition and wildly embellished by the media and the marketing departments, into the 'beatnik' stereotype".

      To read the article in full, click here. Readers interested in this topic might also like to see a piece by Matthew Wills on JSTOR Daily entitled 'How the Beat Generation Became "Beatniks"' (5 May 2019): click here. This is a reading of the longer essay by Stephen Petrus, 'Rumblings of Discontent: American Popular Culture and its Response to the Beat Generation, 1957-1960', in Studies in Popular Culture, Vol. 20, No. 1 (October 1997), pp. 1-17, which, conveniently, can also be found on JSTOR: click here. 

 

 

Musical bonus: 'Beat-Nik' by Jimmy Van Eaton (Rita Records, 1960): click here Daddy-O!

Jeff Koons: Apollo (The Golden Boy of American Art Meets the Golden God of the Greeks)

Jeff Koons: Apollo Kithara (2019-22) [1]  

Jeff Koons on Instagram

I. 

 

Apollo is the golden boy of ancient Greek mythology: the god of sunlight, music, poetry, and healing; the perfect embodiment of the Hellenic ideal of καλοκαγαθίᾱ [kalokagathia], that is to say, of reason, beauty, and virtue. 

 

Almost too good to be true, it's no wonder Nietzsche seemed to hate him and to privilege the more mysterious (and more troubling) son of Zeus, Dionysus; the god of wine and dance, irrationality and chaos, representing the emotional-instinctive forces. 

 

Only, of course, that's not quite true and the Apollonian/Dionsyian distinction is not so black and white, even in The Birth of Tragedy (1872), where Nietzsche develops (but does not invent) these philosophical and literary concepts [2]. 

 

Placing the two gods in dialectical opposition, Nietzsche advances the argument that tragic art is the result of a fusion (or synthesis) of the Apollonian and Dionysian impulses. But he does not wish for one to be valued more than the other (although in his later writings he will proudly declare himself as a disciple of the latter).

 

For Nietzsche, the tragic hero or thinker is one who struggles (ultimately in vain) to impose order and meaning upon a chaotic world of fate. Without the Apollonian, the Dionysian lacks form and structure, and without the Dionysian, the Apollonian lacks the necessary vitality and passion. And thus, for Nietzsche, the attempt to make art and philosophy an optimistic affair of moral reason, i.e., exclusively Apollonian in nature, was profoundly mistaken [3].

 

 

II.

 

But I digress: this post was simply intended to notify readers to the fact that Jeff Koons has a new exhibition on the Greek island of Hydra, honouring Apollo, including the animatronic sculpture shown above, in which the god not only holds a kithara (the seven-stringed version of a lyre), but has to contend with a massive snake flicking its forked-tongue out [4].

 

For those - like me - who like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing we like; whereas, on the other hand, for those - like Byung-Chul Han - who hate everything Koons does and represents, then this piece of Apollonian kitsch will just be another reason to damn him. But I think that's a shame. 

 

The fact that Koons has returned to antiquity is no real surprise; all artists, writers, and philosophers look back to the Greeks and Romans at some point. The trick is to find a way to recontextualise ideas and put a contemporary spin on the myths and images from the ancient world, thereby liberating us in a certain sense from the disadvantages identified by Nietzsche in both antiquarian and monumental models of history [5].

 

In a recent interview Koons spoke of trying to play metaphysically with time and in his new show I think we can see what he means by this. Koons gives us a vision of Apollo that is an amusing mix of pagan and postmodern, then, now, never was and might be tomorrow.

 

Inspired by a sculpture from the Hellenistic period that Koons viewed in the British Museum, Apollo Kithara has precisely the smooth, digital look that Byung-Chul Han objects to, though one might have thought he would at least acknowledge the amount of time and care that Koons puts into each of his works. 

         

At any rate, that's what I admire: Koons may, like Keats [6], appear to be a blank idiot when wearing Apollo's famous laurel wreath, but he isn't. 

 

As for all his talk of universal humanity and shared meanings - his insistence that we and the peoples of the past feel the same things and have similar thoughts and values - well, that's the sort of regrettable idealism that many artists like to believe and why, ultimately, as Herbert Grönemeyer, once said: Trust art, but never trust an artist ...

 

Jeff Koons 

Apollo Windspinner (2020-22)     

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Koons's Apollo Kithara is an animatronic sculpture featured within the exhibition Jeff Koons: Apollo, at the Slaughterhouse, Hydra, Greece, in association with the DESTE Foundation  (21 June - 31 Oct 2022). For more details, click here. 

 

[2] In his Preface to the 1886 edition of The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche makes it clear that he finds the book questionable to say the least; a Romantic work born of an overheated sensibility; "badly written, clumsy and embarrassing, its images frenzied and confused [...] lacking in any desire for logical purity, and even suspicious of the propriety of proof, a book for initates [...] an arrogant and fanatical book that [...] has a strange knack of seeking out its fellow-revellers and enticing them on to new and secret paths and dancing-places." 

      In other words, too much Dionysian frenzy and not enough Apollonian calm. It is, by some margin, my least favourite of Nietzsche's books, although, it is perhaps his best known and most widely read text outside of philosophical circles, with the exception of Zarathustra. 

      See 'Attempt at a Self-Criticism', Preface to The Birth of Tragedy, trans. Shaun Whiteside, (Penguin Books, 1993), pp. 5-6. 

 

[3] Interestingly, someone who advocates for the Apollonian is the American feminist writer Camille Paglia. Whilst she broadly accepts Nietzsche's definition of the Apollonian and Dionysian, she attributes all human progress to the former (associated with masculinity, reason, celibacy and/or homosexuality) in revolt against the Chthonic forces of nature (including womanhood and procreation): "Everything great in western civilization comes from the struggle against our origins."

      See Camille Paglia, Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson, (Vintage Books, 1991). The line quoted is on p. 40.  

 

[4] Those familiar with Greek mythology will recall that Apollo killed a huge serpent, called Python, who, it is said, not only persecuted Apollo's mother during her pregnancy, but wished to prevent Apollo from establishing his own temple and oracle at Delphi.   

 

[5] See Nietzsche's essay 'On the Use and Abuse of History for Life' (1874), in Untimely Meditations. 

 

[6] I'm referring to the poem by Keats entitled 'Hymn to Apollo' (not to be confused with his 'Ode to Apollo', though both works were probably written in 1815). Click here to read on allpoetry.com

 

 

This post is for MLG Maria Thanassa.  

 

Stone Me, What a Life! (A Brief Post in Memory of Tony Hancock)

The Lad Himself

Anthony [Aloysius St John] Hancock 

(1924 - 1968)

 

 

On this day in 1968, the English comic actor Tony Hancock committed suicide, aged 44. The perfect way to die [1] and the perfect age to exit this life [2]. So as well as his comedic skills, I admire him for his courage and his timing.

 

Hancock was found dead at his rented flat in Sydney, Australia, besides an empty vodka bottle and a handful of barbiturates. Apparently, he left several suicide notes, in one of which he wrote: Things just seemed to go too wrong too many times.

 

Which is a concise, clear and honest statement; qualities that I think are important in such a document, though I don't mind more philosophically cryptic last words, such as those famously spoken by Socrates to Crito: We owe a cock to Aesclepius [3].

 

What I don't like are outpourings of guilt, regret, bitterness, or recrimination; nor even a desperate last minute attempt at humour. If that's all you have to offer, then best to go in silence. For as Nanette Newman's young Existentialist character Josey might say: Why waste words when you can quietly waste yourself? [4]

 

 

Notes

 

[1] There are several posts on Torpedo the Ark in which I write in praise of suicide as the simplest of pleasures and set out reasons for so doing: click here, for example, or here and here. 

 

[2] Many people I admire died at 44, including D. H. Lawrence, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Spinoza. It has always seemed to me a good age to take one's leave of this life, although, sadly, I missed my opportunity to do so some years ago. 

     

[3] For my thoughts on the death of Socrates and his famous last words, see the post of 30 October 2015: click here. 

[4] I'm referring here to a character played by Newman in Tony Hancock's first feature film, The Rebel (dir. Robert Day, 1961), who asks the crucial question: Why kill time when you can kill yourself? Click here to watch the scene on YouTube,   

 

 

Musical bonus: Babyshambles, 'Stone Me' - click here. 

      This 2007 track, written by Pete Doherty and Mick Whitnall, was inspired by one of Hancock's favourite phrases; as was the title of the debut album by Doherty's other band, The Libertines - Up the Bracket (Rough Trade, 2002). 

      Doherty also wrote a song called 'Lady Don't Fall Backwards' after the book at the centre of the Hancock's Half Hour episode 'The Missing Page' (S6/E2, 1960), which can be found on his solo album Grace/Wastelands (EMI, 2009). 

      He also references Hancock by name in the lyrics to 'You're My Waterloo', a song on the third studio album by The Libertines, Anthems for Doomed Youth (Virgin EMI, 2015): click here.

 

Summer Solstice with D. H. Lawrence (1910 - 1928)

Max Pechstein: Summer in Nidden (1919-20)

 

 

D. H. Lawrence liked to think about human life in relation to the wheeling of the year, i.e., the coming and going of the seasons and the movement of the sun through solstice and equinox. So it seems fitting that we might examine what he was up to and what he had to say on the longest day of the year as he experienced it during his (relatively short) lifetime ... 

 

 

21 June 1910 

 

In a letter to the somewhat troubled 27-year-old schoolteacher Helen Corke to whom he was attracted at the time, Lawrence voices his impatience and irritation with their (sexless) relationship: "I would yield to you if you could lead me deeper into the tanglewood of life" [1], he says. 

 

But she can't. Or won't. And so Lawrence feels peeved and unable to express his passion, which, like anger, comes with bright eyes like an angel from God carrying a fiery sword: "I ask you for nothing unnatural or forced. But a little thunder may bring rain, and sweet days, out of a sultry torpor." [2]

 

Indeed. But Helen just wasn't that kind of girl.   

 

 

21 June 1913

 

In a letter to his literary editor, Edward Garnett, written from the latter's own home in Kent (The Cearne), Lawrence expresses his joy at the reviews and letters of congratulations he has received for his newly published third novel, Sons and Lovers. He is excited too that Ezra Pound has asked him for some short stories.

It's nice to find Lawrence upbeat for once, although, of course, he's never quite happy: "I love the Cearne and the warm people, but the English dimness in the air gives me the blues." [3]

 

Sometimes, you really do want to tell him to shut up and go net some more raspberries. 

 

 

21 June 1920  

 

Writing from Taormina, Sicily, to Marie Hubrecht - a Dutch painter whose drawing of DHL can be found in the National Portrait Gallery - Lawrence speaks of several mutual acquaintances and, of course, the weather: 

 

"We have had beautiful days here. Once it rained quite heavily, and made the almond trees and vines bright green. Generally it is sunny, with a cool wind." [4] 

He also mentions the condition of the local fruit: "The grapes are growing big. The first figs are ripe, and abundance of apricots and cherries and yellow peaches." [5] Luckily for a man always watching the pennies, all these items were (comparitively) cheap to buy.

 

It seems that Miss Hubrecht is planning a trip to Norway. Not somewhere Lawrence ever visited, as far as I remember, but, as readers of Women in Love will know, he subscribes to the idea that there are two modes of aesthetic abstraction and disintegration: the African, which is all about the burning heat of the sun and mindless sensuality; and the Arctic, which is all about the annihilating mystery of snow and ice and destructive intellectualism.  

 

Usually, Lawrence writes in favour of dark-skinned, brown-eyed peoples (whom, at times, he comes close to fetishising). But, in his letter to Miss Hubrecht, he confesses a desire to go to the far north and meet the natives:

 

"Blond, blond people, with the fair hair coming keen from the tanned skin, like ice splinters, and the physique sudden and sharp like foam, and eyes blue like water, and like sky, they have a great fascination for me." [6] 

 

Not that he would wish to know them intimately; "frail streaming contact is what I like best: not to know people closely" [7]. The priest of love is, it seems, a voyeur of life, admiring from a distance. Thus, as he also admits in this letter, he loves to watch the Sicilian peasant girls come-and-go "with great bundles of bright corn on their heads" [8].

 

 

21 June 1922

 

Whilst in Australia, Lawrence wrote several letters on what was the shortest day Down Under. 

 

In one, to his American publisher Thomas Seltzer, he announces his plan to sail in several weeks time from Sydney to San Francisco, where he is hoping to arrive without any fuss: "I don't want any strangers to know, or any foolish reporters." [9]

 

And in another, sent to his literary agent Robert Mountsier, he confesses that whilst he doesn't wish to stay in Australia, he's not entirely comfortable with the idea of going to America: "For some reason the U.S.A. is the only country in the world that I shrink from and feel shy of: Lord knows why." [10]

 

Actually, I think Lawrence was perfectly aware of what caused his sense of anxiety about going to the States - for who understood the spirit of America better than he? In the first version of his opening essay to Studies in Classic American Literature, he wrote:

 

"There is an unthinkable gulf between us and America, and across the space we see, not our own folk signalling to us, but strangers, incomprehensible beings, simulacra perhaps of ourselves, but other, creatures of an other-world." [11]

 

 

21 June 1924

 

Writing to one of his (many) homosexual friends, Willard Johnson - often known by the nickname 'Spud', but addressed here with affection as Dear Spoodle - Lawrence complains about the "complicated triangly business of inviting and not inviting" [12] friends to his ranch in Taos, New Mexico: "I'm tired of all that old stuff. I really am. This sort of personal wingle-wangle has been worked to death." [13] 

However, having said that, he does also say: "if you come to the ranch and would like to stay a while and we feel it would be nice - why, let it be so. But let's let things evolve naturally of themselves, without plans or schemes [...]" [14]. 

 

Which I suppose is the Lawrentian way of saying feel free to visit anytime - mi casa, su casa.

 

 

21 June 1927

 

Back in Italy, Lawrence writes a letter to his old friend Gertie Cooper. He sympathises with the fact that she's unwell - "sad to know you are still in bed" [15] - and mentions how hot it is in Florence: "I've never know the sun so strong, for the time of the year." [16] 

 

Considering the date - and considering his obsession with the sun and acknowledging the great phases of the cosmic year - it's surprising that this is the one and only mention of the sun that Lawrence makes in his solstice letters.  

He also reports that Maria Huxley was stung on the arm by a large jelly fish and how much he enjoys watching the peasants cutting the wheat: "It's a fine crop this year, tall and handsome, and a lovely purply-brown colour." [17]

But, ultimately, Lawrence wouldn't swap his own life for the life of a peasant working happily in the wheat fields and sleeping all afternoon:

"Sometimes I think it would be good to be healthy and limited like the peasants. But then it seems to me they have so little in their lives, one had better put up with one's own bad health, and have one's own experiences. At least they are more vivid than anything these peasants will know." [18]

 

 

21 June 1928 

 

And so, finally, we come to a couple of summer solstice letters written in 1928 [19] ... Lawrence is in Switzerland. Frieda has gone to Germany for a week. 

 

To Pino Orioli, the Italian bookseller who privately published Lady Chatterley's Lover on his behalf, Lawrence sings the praises of the Brewsters, who are looking after him in Frieda's absence; concedes that it is better to be warm and comfortable rather than cold and uncomfortable; and asks for the latest news about his scandalous new novel: "I'm so anxious to know what milady is doing [...]" [20]

 

To Harry Crosby, the poet, publisher and solar lunatic, Lawrence complains about being in "a dull hotel with dull people in a dull country" [21], but again acknowledges that, thanks to a beautiful view, good mountain air, and the fact that he's still in possession of the gold coins given to him by Crosby, he's "pretty well content" [22].   

 

A phrase that gives lie to the claim that Lawrence was always a raging malcontent. 

 

In fact, during his final days drinking Ovaltine, writing The Escaped Cock, and preparing his little ship of death, I like to believe that Lawrence discovered a fighter's peace - like a cat asleep on a chair and at one with the world. He earned the right to that I think.     

 

Notes

 

[1-2] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Helen Corke (21 June 1910), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. I, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1979), p. 164.  

 

[3] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Edward Garnett (21 June 1913), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. II, ed. George J. Zytaruk and James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1981), p. 27. 

 

[4-8] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Marie Hubrecht (21 June 1920), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. III, ed. James T. Boulton and Andrew Robertson, (Cambridge University Press, 1984), pp. 553-54.  

 

[9] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Thomas Seltzer (21 June 1922), The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. IV, ed. Warren Roberts, James T. Boulton and Elizabeth Mansfield, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 267.

[10] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Robert Mountsier (21 June 1922), The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, IV 268.

[11] D. H. Lawrence, 'The Spirit of Place', Studies in Classic American Literature, First Version, (1918-19), ed. Ezra Greenspan, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 168.  

[12-14] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Willard Johnson [21 June 1924], The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. V, ed. James T. Boulton and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 60. 

[15-18] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Gertrude Cooper (21 June 1927), The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VI, ed. James T. Boulton and Margaret H. Boulton with Gerald M. Lacy, (Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 87. 

[19] Note that Lawrence wrote to Frieda, Catherine Carswell, and Max Mohr on this date also.

[20] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Giuseppe Orioli [21 June 1928], The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, VI 428. 

[21-22] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Harry Crosby (21 June 1928), The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, VI 429. 

Are We Really Returning to the 1970s? (I Wish ...)

Front page of The Sun (20 June 2022)

 

 

I. 

 

Some commentators seem to imagine that Britain is returning to the 1970s, pointing to rising inflation, higher taxes, strikes, shortages, and even the threat of power cuts, as if these things alone defined the decade, when, actually, I think it might just as legitimately be argued that it was predominantly characterised by a greater level of joie de vivre: everything was so much more fun in the 1970s - the fashion, the football, the music ... etc. 

 

It was certainly a fun time to be a child growing up; the 70s was a golden age of sweets, comics, conkers and playing outside all day, whatever the weather, with friends, but without parental supervision, electronic surveillance, or any concern for health and safety. You might come home muddy or with a grazed knee, but you always came home happy. 

But even adults seemed to laugh more and enjoy all kinds of manual labour; including hard, tiring, often dirty jobs. People sweated more - and smoked more - in the 1970s, but they also whistled more than they do now. My father used to return exhausted some days from work, but I never remember him complain about being tired. Similarly, I never heard my mother say she was stressed.  

 

In a sense, the 1970s marked the end of the post-War world as we had known it; a time when the British still had a sense of themselves as a people and were happier and healthier because of it. 

 

 

II.

 

I know, of course, that some readers will say I'm being nostalgic and suffering from the psychology of declinism (i.e., the belief that things only ever get worse over time and that this distorts one's recollection of the past). And I know that they'll be able to point to all kinds of data to show that life is measurably better for most people in the UK now than it was fifty years ago (particularly for ethnic and sexual minorities).

Let me remind these readers, however, that I didn't say things were better in the 70s, only more fun. And whilst people might live longer now and own more expensive houses, drive bigger cars, and have all kinds of technology at their disposal, are they really any happier? 

 

I doubt it. 

 

In fact, British people seem so angry and resentful these days: Everybody just yells and screams at each other. Nobody is civil anymore, or smiles at a passing baby. I think if we were truly able to go back to the 1970s we might learn something important; something which we've forgotten.    

 

 

Note: Whereas I remember the 1970s mostly for fun and games, Polly Toynbee writing in The Guardian remembers the decade as one of feminist and working class solidarity. To read her take on things, click here.   

A Philosopher's Guide to Home Decorating 1: Always Use a Paintbrush Not a Roller

Deutsche Philosophen malen lieber mit Pinseln 

(SA/2022)

 

 

We all know the advantages of working with a roller rather than a brush; thanks to its porous character, the former holds far more paint and provides a thin, even coat over a larger surface area.

 

Thus it is that rollers are much favoured by those who worry about saving time and money, which is probably the majority of people drifting round Homebase like DIY zombies.   

But even if the roller is a faster and more economical method of painting walls and ceilings, as a philosopher I continue to advocate for the use of a fine set of brushes and decorating slowly with great care taken over every stroke, so as to create a more textured and individual look.   

 

Ultimately, the paintbrush is a genuine hand tool (and thing) in the way that a roller is not. 

 

That is to say, when one paints with a brush, one works in a blind fashion that is determined by the body (its pleasures and fatigues); when one uses a roller, the mind is very much directing things and the eyes remain wide open at all times. 

 

I don't know if Heidegger ever painted his mother's house, as I am now doing, but he certainly knew a thing or two about the vital importance of what he termed handwork (which, rather surprisingly perhaps, also includes thinking) [1].     

 

Just as the typewriter degrades the art of writing, so does the roller degrade the art of painting [2]. Take a brush in your hand and paint with it and you will understand that, in its essence, it is more than merely useful - it is reliable. 

What does that mean? 

 

Well, according to Heidegger, the reliability of things (as things) - be they tools or items of footwear - consists in the fact that they "embed human beings in those relations to the world that make life stable" [3].

 

A roller is reliable only in the most banal sense of the word, exhausting itself in pure functionality. It might allow you to quickly add colour to the walls of a property, but it won't allow you to paint a dwelling place (any more than email allows you to compose a love letter). 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] See my post 'You Need Hands' (1 June 2019), for remarks on Heidegger's love of the human hand: click here. 

 

[2] Readers are reminded of my three part series of posts reflecting on the typewriter published in June 2019: click here, for example, to read part one on the case of Martin Heidegger and the Schreibmaschine.   

 

[3] Byung-Chul Han, Non-things, trans. Daniel Steuer, (Polity Press, 2022), p. 69. 

 

 

On the Necessity of Killing Carpet Moths

Trichophaga tapetzella [1]

 

 

I.

 

I have always liked moths. Indeed, I once wrote a post in praise of them: click here.

 

And even when they ate holes in my favourite Vivienne Westwood jumper, I didn't complain and figured it was not only in keeping with a punk aesthetic, but ethically the right thing to allow these little winged creatures the right to feast freely; they've got to live, after all.    

 

However, a £200 piece of knitwear is one thing and a £2000 pure new wool carpet is something else, and I fear that my fondness for moths and wanting to do the right thing by them won't stop me reaching for a spray gun should they start to munch away at my Axminster ... 

 

 

II.

 

Now never in my life have I sprayed a living thing: I never wanted to. I always felt insecticides very repugnant: sinister, mean. Other people could spray if they wanted to. Myself, individually, it was repugnant to even try. 

 

But something slowly hardens in a man's soul. And I know now, it has hardened in mine. One must be able to spray carpet moths if they threaten one's home. For wherever man establishes himself  upon the earth, he has to fight for his place, against other forms of life. [2]

 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Once common, this species of moth is now quite rare in the UK. The larvae feed on naturally-occurring fibrous material such as hair, fur, or feathers and are typically found in birds' nests (or carpets). The picture is a modified version of a photo of an adult specimen located at the Mississippi Entomological Museum.

 

[2] I'm paraphrasing D. H. Lawrence writing in 'Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine', in Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 353-54.