Sunday, April 6, 2014

Censorship, Name-Calling, More Censorship: The Daily Kos Experience

A Madison, Wisconsin rally celebrating the Supreme Court's overturning of DOMA.

[The following essay concerns the problem of censorship at the political site Daily Kos. I wrote it after being "timed out" at the site (i.e., blocked from posting) for the second time in the space of a couple months. This second "time out" in particular that was entirely unjustified on the grounds of Daily Kos guidelines: simply put, I was censored. I wrote the piece below in complaint and posted a version of it at Daily Kos after my "time out" expired. Based on the community's reaction to my complaint, I'm now convinced the situation isn't as bad as I'd believed when I wrote it. The complaint itself, after all, wasn't successfully censored, though some Kossacks tried. The takeaway? I now feel the the complaint below goes a wee bit overboard--or at least spreads the blame a bit too widely. In fact there's a contingent of people at Daily Kos who see the same problems I do. My deriding the bulk of Kossacks for what happened was being somewhat unfair. In any event, I still consider myself a member of the Kos community and will continue writing there as long as my (very slim) welcome lasts. --E.M.]

INTRODUCTION

Thesis 1: A Kossack who is in agreement with most of the political positions held by the majority of community members (the Kossack consensus) has every right to active participation in the community. Any Kossack can disagree, even strongly, with Kossack consensus on this or that particular issue without being hounded out on the basis of that disagreement alone.

Thesis 2: A Kossack who disagrees with Kossack consensus on one or another issue should not need to hide that disagreement, but should rather come forward to argue it openly. Such open and edgy debate is good for the community in the same way a free press is good for a society. In an atmosphere of free debate, strong ideas will remain vigorous by exposure to challenge and weaker ideas will lose traction. If ideas aren't particularly strong, they need to be adjusted. This is the model on which both science and democracy stay vibrant.

Thesis 3: The fact that my diary of February 23 got me "timed out" for a month, the fact that three of my entirely civil comments were successfully "hidden", is a travesty. It proves that Daily Kos standards for both "hide" and "time out" are slipshod and trigger-happy. What happened to me was not a matter of maintaining community standards of debate, but of blatant censorship.

CENSORSHIP AT DAILY KOS

I'm something of a bad American. Whereas my country is politically conservative and socially liberal, I'm oriented otherwise. Politically on the left, in some respects I'm socially conservative. As a Catholic besides, I've often had trouble getting on with left-leaning acquaintances, who find it hard to believe someone like me can even exist. Obviously such people know nothing about the role Catholics have played in the history of the American left.

As for the religious right, I've of course never gotten along with them.

Starting to post here at Daily Kos in 2005, I knew I'd provoke skirmishes if I ever wrote about some of the cultural or social issues that concern me. One of these has been same-sex marriage.

But here I want to make a brief caveat before going on. Some Kossacks have complained that my diaries are boring and resent having to read them. To this I say: Hey, nobody's forcing you to read anything. You're in control of your own mouse, no? So if you don't want to read my diary today, be my guest. If you don't like diaries longer than five paragraphs, why not save yourself the trouble and click your way the hell out of here? I'm not trying to hold the attention of anyone who doesn't care about the problems I raise. But in order to properly raise these problems, I'll have to present my case step by step. Which will take at least a couple pages of text.

Back to the issues at hand.

Since youth, going back to the 1980s, I've been an avid supporter of gays and lesbians in their brave march out of the closet. I've also, as a Christian, never been convinced by traditional assertions that homosexuality was a sin. But with the turn of the millennium, the LGBT community changed focus. I couldn't quite join them this time.

Same-sex marriage was something I didn't believe viable. In my view it wasn't viable on basic anthropological or cultural grounds. Though homosexuality had of course always and everywhere been part of human culture, it was exceedingly rare for any culture to recognize anything like "same-sex marriages". Though it showed enormous divergence on nearly every other aspect of human communal life, the historical record on marriage was impressively in agreement: Marriage is a relationship between male and female only. This, then, seemed to me a basic human given. As someone sensitive besides to the complex ways a culture's institutions interact, I thought any change of marriage was unwise. The push for "marriage equality" was thus a misguided one. Besides, my Church, the Catholic Church, wouldn't recognize such marriages. Secular states may rule otherwise, but secular states weren't enough to persuade me.

How I was finally convinced to lessen my opposition to same-sex marriage is where Daily Kos comes in. At the beginning of this year I decided to post a few pieces on the subject, at first just an invite to Kossacks to join in a discussion/debate at my blog. I pointed out that I was a member of the community, on the left, but not in agreement with the recent push for same-sex marriage.

I knew much of the reaction would be negative. Still, I didn't anticipate the spit storm that was coming. I won't recap it here. Within an hour or two of interacting with others at Daily Kos, during which I was repeatedly called "bigot", "troll", "asshole", "blog whore", etc., and though I kept myself from lobbing insults in return, I was put in "time out".

If the person being timed out has remained civil in their exchanges, time-out is little more than censorship. A given Kossack is judged, by a few others, to be saying things they don't want to hear, they then claim these things are against guidelines, and viola--the writer is shut off from commenting for five days.

Did I label anyone a moron or fuck-wit in that thread? I did not. Did I claim gays and lesbians were mired in evil or should be shunned from society? Absolutely not. Though some Christians on the right have such notions, I've never shared them. Just to give some idea--I was among Catholics who were positively cheered to first hear Pope Francis' remarks to the effect of "Who is [he] to judge?" gays or lesbians.

And so--what happened to me with that first post was a farce. Though the "time out" function might come in useful with people trying to cause problems at the site, i.e. trolls, I definitely wasn't in the troll category. I was inviting discussion and remained civil about it.

Still, the desire of most Kossacks that day to shut me up ASAP, to make me disappear from their screens, was palpable. The abject fear of discussing viewpoints that might feasibly be linked with homophobia has recently become a heavy taboo in America. In my view far too heavy. But I will have to return to this question later.

Though timed out I decided to try again. Since most in the Kos community were basically claiming I couldn't possibly have any valid arguments for my stance (supportive of gay rights in general but against gay marriage) I decided, when time-out ended, to come back and post a slew of these arguments--anthropological, legal, etc.

The following week, then, I returned and posted a lengthy (and too hastily written) piece explaining myself. For good measure I explained the reasons I had for not considering homosexuality sinful or perverse--for not thinking of gays or lesbians as lacking in any of the dignity human beings must be given. The question of whether gay love was right or wrong--I was way beyond that and had been my whole adult life. Of course gay love is not wrong. Gay marriage, however, was a different issue: it was problematic in the various respects I raised.

Again the reaction was largely "bigot bigot bigot"--anyone who had doubts on same-sex marriage was simply a "bigot". And we'll say it again: Bigot!

But this time there was a handful of people who engaged me directly on specifics (civil rights issues, ethical issues, legal, etc.) and in the course of the discussion that followed I was convinced by them that my stance was wrong in a few key areas. My stance was weak on both ethical and legal grounds.

I'm a humble person. I openly admitted on site, then and there, that I recognized the problems with my thinking: "You folks have convinced me. I was wrong about certain things." I didn't in any way try to shut out what people were saying to me. Had I done so, I wouldn't have benefited from the good points some of them made.

Next day I posted a short follow-up piece at Daily Kos explaining my turnaround, thanking those in the community who'd actually debated me (rather than simply say "bigot bigot bigot") and pointing out to anyone who would listen that the moral of the story was that it does no good to insult and censor people, but that honest, hard-hitting dialogue on disagreements often leads to common ground.

I had not, however, come around to a complete embrace of same-sex marriage. Rather I'd become a same-sex marriage agnostic. I still foresaw problems changes to marriage would likely bring. Even so, I'd no longer flatly refuse to recognize gays and lesbians who claimed to be married. It was a major change, and one I was glad to have come to with the help of a few sharp words from some of the sharp people here.

Three weeks passed and something I'd predicted would happen began happening in a big way. Conservative US state governments, whose constituents were far from being on board with marriage equality, began to push legislation that amounted to a cultural backlash. Kansas and Arizona came close to enacting laws allowing discrimination against gays and lesbians in public. The basis for promoting this legislation was protection of religious freedom.

As a Christian I was against the legislation. Religious beliefs could not justify citizens going to such discriminatory lengths. Still, there was in fact a need for some protection of religious freedom. Many American Christians and those of other faiths have very good and long-established reasons for refusing to admit a same-sex couple can be married. I strongly believe it is wrong to use the strong arm of the state to force these Americans to recognize such marriages if their religious traditions do not. Of course I'm aware many Kossacks disagree with me on this point. But so what? As I've pointed out, not everyone in a community has to agree on everything. One can keep discussion going while agreeing to disagree.

I thus started to think through what might work as a kind of minimal legal protection for religious Americans who, as events foretold, would soon start getting dragged into court or losing their jobs. I came up with a compromise proposal that I posted at Daily Kos expecting, again, that there'd likely be some name-calling, but still that a discussion would ensue, which is what, after all, I found valuable.

This time I was even more scrupulously careful than previously not to in any way insult other Kossacks. I would stick strictly to the issues. But the reaction was the same as before. Again all my motives were immediately suspect and skewed. As I started discussing specifics, trying to make clear that I was putting forth just a rough blueprint for a possible compromise, the steady stream of anti-Christian insults began. And I noticed, by little warning markers, that some of my comments were again being "hidden"--which in this case was clearly just a euphemism for censored.

As the badmouthing and insults were reaching a certain pitch, my comment function was suddenly blocked and remained so for forty minutes. No explanation. I hadn't been timed out but still, for some mysterious reason, couldn't comment. When it came back on, I tried to explain my thinking on the role of Judeo-Christian culture in the historical development of our concept of inalienable rights (a comment which was soon "hidden"!) and had finished typing another comment in the discussion, and was trying to post it, when I was informed by note that I'd again been timed out--this time not for five days but a month.

Needless to say I was quite pissed off. In the course of that dialogue other Kossacks could call me nearly any name in the book, could "hide" my comments on zero grounds at all--and the administrator was okay with it when I was the one kicked out for a month. Where had I been outside the guidelines? Nowhere.

I immediately wrote the administrator pointing out that this was just blatant censorship, that I'd nowhere broken community guidelines. Which remarks of mine were out of bounds? Would he please show me? He wouldn't. I requested to be reinstated. I was certainly not advocating for hate or discrimination against LGBT people, but was hoping rather to discuss a possible way to mediate the brewing storm that was coming. I got no response. I was in time-out and the administrator apparently didn't want to pursue questions of how I'd gotten there. And why should he/she? I was a Christian, after all, writing on a sensitive topic. And on any sensitive topic, Christians should just shut up, no? Didn't I see the sign: Verboten?

I don't take kindly to people who think that, just because I'm Christian, they can dismiss what I have to say or censor me for any reason at all. I've experienced this now and then over the years (in an almost ludicrously imbalanced "dialogue" with the poet Gabriel Gudding for instance). It's likely many Americans have picked up this illiberal bent because of the shallow and shabby work of the New Atheists. For followers of Sam Harris and Richard Dawkins, everyone's right to free speech must be respected unless you are a monotheist, in which case the most progressive thing is to erase what you say. Whatever the origin of the new tendency, however, that it exists is obvious. The speed and ease with which people now jump to censor Christians (moderate or even left-leaning Christians) has led me to keep a record of dialogues as they progress. Later, after the deletions happen, the dialogue can be reconstructed as it actually occurred--it can be saved from the oblivion "delete" enthusiasts prefer. People who censor should at the very least be on public record for having done so.

But more on this question of censorship below. First I'd like to address some of the cussedly ridiculous things thrown at me by Kossacks in that last thread. And not because I want to engage in any kind of "calling out" here. No, it's rather because I find the fast and irresponsible pigeonholing that goes on at Daily Kos to be counterproductive. At the end of the day knee-jerk name-calling only makes this community look lame. And it's rife.

One member, Lost and Found, who'd read my previous diaries and should know better, let himself characterize me like this:
This guy is a Hater Christian. The urgent message that he feels compelled to bring to the wider community is not one of love and compassion but one of bigotry, self-righteousness, and ignorance. He's an anti-intellectual zealot of the Sarah Palin variety.

As an atheist all I have to say is thank God not all Christians are like that.
Yes: As an atheist he thanks God. That's about as sensible as everything else he writes.

I'm with Sarah Palin? Anyone who clicks my moniker at Daily Kos (the easiest thing in the world to do) will see that my most recommended piece of writing ever is, yes, a post satirizing Sarah Palin. For me Palin embodies the worst of our culture. I've been wincing at her every word since her idiotic speech at the 2008 GOP Convention. And have written a good dozen pieces here and there lampooning her.

I'm a hater Christian? See my essay "Christian Homophobia for Beginners", which I've referred to several times in these Kos discussions. I think many of the folks who've attacked me here would be very surprised by what they find in that essay. In any case, doesn't basic accountability demand one check a little on a person's background before flinging grand generalizing insults at them?

Anti-intellectual? This is maybe the funniest of them. Anyone who knew me or looked into my story would see how absurd it is. Just for starters, the same week this moronic Kossack comment was thrown at me, I was working on a review of an academic study of minimalism in Samuel Beckett. Kind of thing Sarah Palin does in her spare time, right? When she's not busy memorizing passages of Hegel.

The point: People here are quick to sketch a whole portfolio of someone's life and thought as ENEMY once they notice the person doesn't agree 100% with standard Kossack doctrine. It makes me laugh as much as it makes me sick. It is shallow and pathetic.

I understand that for some of you it's much easier to take anyone who doesn't agree with you and pigeonhole them in the enemy camp. That way you don't have to really think about what the person is saying, which makes life easier. Not bothering to think about what is actually being said, you don't run the risk of yourself thinking or saying something different from the Kossacks around you. And so you can continue to play comfortably in the little politically correct sandbox you prefer without risk of debating actually difficult questions. You can avoid the rough edges of issues that don't fit snugly in the little boxes you'd like to keep them in.

Very intellectual of you, Lost and Found.

What bothered me in that last thread even more than this childish pigeonholing however was the behavior of one Christian Kossack who weighed in. But perhaps weigh in is the wrong word for what commonmass did. To weigh in one must have some weight: one must address the issues being raised.

A Christian Kossack in the Anglo-Catholic tradition, commonmass could have tried to discuss issues with me, to find common ground and explain why he thought my proposed compromise was wrong. That's what a Christian would likely do, especially a Christian on the left. In any case, he wouldn't show the kind of knee-jerk judgmentalism typical of our far right.

In any debate the initial attempts to frame the debate by one side or the other are often quite telling. Gestures and tone show much about why a person feels he's debating in the first place. What do commonmass' gestures and tone show? Is he there to discuss issues with a fellow Christian? Does he seek to show a fellow Christian a different way of seeing things?

Judge for yourself.

In the middle of my discussion with other Kossacks a photograph of two smiling men appeared suddenly in the thread with the title "Discriminate against this." It was commonmass' first post. I could see he was Christian by the tag lines under the photo.

"Discriminate against this"? The choice of words was odd because, in fact, my short essay made clear that I was concerned to prevent discrimination against both LGBT people (I was against the Arizona legislation) and religious people (my proposal was a kind of cover for them to continue respecting their traditional understanding of marriage). So commonmass was basically saying to me, from the get-go: "You are a discriminator." But why the photo? Was I supposed to be impressed that the guys pictured were handsome?

One other Kossack gave commonmass what he was looking for and wrote: "Nice-looking couple." I could see commonmass thought I was against him and his partner, which I wasn't, so I wrote:
Wish you guys well. I'm assuming you entirely disagree with my idea for finding compromise. Would be interested in what you have to say.
Now here you'd have thought, since commonmass had identified himself as a gay Christian, that he'd have found some opening to dialogue in my words. He had before him another Christian expressing good wishes for he and his partner. I wasn't, on any account, suggesting they were up to something sinful by being together. That is not how I think. So how would one expect commonmass to respond here? He replied:
[The man in the photo with me] is DEAD. If you engaged here more regularly, you'd know that.

I don't compromise with bigots.
Which I immediately felt bad about of course. But really, I hadn't known, I'd never seen either of them before. So instead of simply presenting the sad fact of his partner's death, about which I certainly commiserated, commonmass took the palm branch of my good wishes and threw it back in my face with words meaning something like: "YOU are not a regular here. What you think or say is not really of interest to KOS INSIDERS."

If you think my assessment of his tone is wrong, try to explain this snap response otherwise. I replied politely: "Very sorry to hear. I didn't know, and yes, I haven't been regularly posting here in recent years" Then I started thinking about how to address his second statement. I wrote:
As for my being a "bigot", well, it's a widely debated question on this site. I'm not. You say I am.

There we differ.
Commonmass' reply was simply: "I KNOW you are."

Which is knowing pretty much, since he'd never met me before and likely never read anything I'd written aside from that day's post. Was my little essay really inherently bigoted? Did Christians really have zero rights to stick to their two-thousand-year-old understanding of marriage? Commonmass the Christian was telling me it was so. Actually, he knew it was so. He was a Kossack after all--and part of the Kossack Inner Circle besides.

The thread only got worse from there. One Kossack tried to show I was wrong by using the old "same-sex marriage is the same thing as racial equality" argument, which I don't accept. Since my post had pointed out that one of the problems with forcing Christians to acknowledge gay marriages was that marriage in many churches was a sacrament, RamblinDave tried to lecture me as follows: "[R]acism WAS a sacrament in some churches: they believed Noah's son saw him naked and his punishment was to be father to all slaves."

This is simply flat wrong of course. Racial segregation was never given sacramental status in American churches. Dave's comment merely showed he didn't know much about Christianity. I replied: "No. The racism of such churches, regardless of their evocation of Noah, was not a sacrament. Check definition of sacrament." It was simply a matter of knowing the meaning of the term.

But here commonmass jumped in again--with a comment more or less in defense of Dave's error!
OK. I'll play. How many Sacraments do you hold? Two? Seven?

I'm an Anglo-Catholic, and hold to seven Sacraments. Though my church, officially, only to two. Many Lutherans hold three: the third being the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

Have you been to confession lately?
What for fuck's sake was this? A decent Christian with commonmass' convictions may have written something like: "EricMaderLin's point about sacraments is correct. Nonetheless Dave's point about the Old Testament being used by right-wing Christians to buttress bigoted social attitudes is also correct. But this use is not a matter of any actual sacrament." Instead of this kind of comment, his gesture was almost surely an attempt to question my own fidelity to the sacraments. Commonmass knows well that some Catholics are lax in making confession; he's here trying to score "good Christian" points, brownie points really, against me in front of other Kossacks. It's pretty sordid behavior for a political discussion. More what you'd expect at an afternoon tea in the whitebread suburbs.

Whether I confess regularly or not is none of commonmass' damn business and he knows it. Such things are between myself, my conscience and my confessor. More to the point, and what really irks me, his attempt to go off on this tangent was totally irrelevant to the topic under discussion. And look how he forwards his comment: "OK. I'll play." I don't post at Daily Kos to play the Sacrament Game, commonmass. I was trying to discuss a serious issue of balancing Christian liberty with gay and lesbian rights in our very divided country. As a gay Christian yourself, I'd have thought you might have something worthwhile to say to me. My first remark to you was an honest request for your thoughts. I'm a humble person and do my best to take in what others say. Not interested in seeking any common ground with me, however, you used every instant of that thread trying to marginalize me, insult me, and characterize anything I might say as wrong in all respects. You yourself recognize how divisive this issue is in the Church and how it continues to stoke animosity between people who are, after all, united in the body of Christ. And I'm someone in the middle here, leaning closer to your side than most--someone, if anyone, you should be able to conduct civil discussion with. I've written at length explaining my strong belief that gays and lesbians have been unjustly oppressed. I've put into question relevant biblical verses, especially those in Romans 1. These verses are in our Scriptures, commonmass, the sacred texts you and I both reverence. Yet I've done my best to offer reasons why these particular verses should no longer be taken as authoritative. Consider: I'm an amateur Bible scholar and literary critic, the biblical canon is the most precious and revelatory collection of texts I know, yet I'm willing to put these verses into question for you and other gays and lesbians. And what do I get from you in return? Not an ounce of common decency.

You say you're a Christian, commonmass, but if I had to characterize your comments to me as a whole that day, I'd have to say: mean-spirited, vain, cliquish, prying, name-dropping, snotty. I mean really--Who could ever imagine a gay man behaving like this?

In university in the 1980s, I like many heterosexuals supported Gay Pride. It was a necessary step to counteract what was then mainstream society's criminal indifference to gay rights. But since the turn of the millennium the situation in America is markedly different. And myself and many other Americans have come to feel a little clarification may now be in order. As follows: Supporting Gay Pride does not mean we are in favor of Gay Arrogance.

To return to the role Christianity should play in all of this, I'd like to ask you a simple question, commonmass: Which is more important to you, your unity with fellow Christians in the body of Christ, or your unity with other gays and lesbians in the body of Gay Politics? Sexual orientation runs deep, yes indeed, but I believe Christ runs deeper. If you think He does not, then you and I really do have very little in common. Which is anyway pretty much what you used your every keystroke that day trying to show. It's shallow, pathetic, snotty.

In fact your arrogant dismissiveness, commonmass, was the most dispiriting part of my last month at Daily Kos--more depressing than any of the dumb insults or lame censorship. Because I expected a least a bit of civility from a fellow Christian, and had gotten civility from other Christians here. Wee Mama, Kascade Kat, others.

But enough typing wasted on you. More important here is the question of comments in that thread that were groundlessly deleted: i.e., censored. I mean, that's what I'm claiming here, isn't it?--that Kossacks used blatant censorship to erase what I'd written and get me timed out. And so: Repeatedly insulted myself (and not trying to "hide" the insults, which is against my principles) was I insulting people in turn? That is the main grounds for "hiding" after all--directly insulting others in the community.

Judge for yourselves.

After being timed out, I could only be sure of two of the places where my words had been deleted, and I hadn't saved backups fast enough to catch them. But as I remembered my remarks, I typed them out again in my notes as soon as the thread was over. Here's the first:
As for those of you who have been civil so far, I appreciate it. As for those who haven't, you're not doing anyone any good. If you think you can make religious objections to same-sex marriage go away simply by using the power of the state to bulldoze them, I'm sorry, but I think you are mistaken. There will be backlash, and such backlash won't be helpful for anyone.

I've tried to formulate some grounds of compromise on which to work through this cultural/religious impasse, but I see I'm wasting my time trying to discuss such things here. Compromise doesn't go over with people who believe they're 100% right.

And one more thing: As a Christian, I'm starting to tire of the steady stream of insults. A good half of you are historically too shallow to recognize the bases on which your culture stands. I'm not talking about marriage either, but about our basic concepts of individual rights, individual dignity. Your civil liberties, which you claim to be so concerned about, arose in the first place from your culture's Judeo-Christian roots. Even if you're not religious yourself, you should have a bit more respect for this history. Instead you ignore the ground of the culture whose values you think you can defend. You even scoff at it.

It remains to be seen whether I'll get timed out again (i.e., censored) for my oh-so-rude remarks here. If I do, I'll likely just quit the community altogether. Censorship of civil discourse is NEVER progressive.
Apparently this comment was somehow judged "inappropriate" or "insulting"--outside of what guidelines will accept. But where is the insult here? Is it that I dared say people at the site were being "historically shallow"? Does making that kind of remark actually offend community standards? If so, WTF? Or rather: What kind of fucking milquetoast debate standards do you people have here anyway?

As for the second deleted comment I can reconstruct, I made it in response to a Kossack who wrote as follows:
I hope the fact that I engaged with you isn't taken as an acceptance of your viewpoint. I'm just hoping something will sink in, and as a straight man I have an advantage in not being personally injured by your words.
I replied something to the effect of:
Yes, I understand that it's difficult for you to be seen even talking with me. For many Kossacks the aura of evil around me seems to make it hard for them to join in reasonable discussion. I appreciate your relative civility.
Why was this particular comment "hidden"? It's my irony, no? I'm implying that some Kossacks are so worried about keeping their political correctness intact that they refuse to engage discussion with people who disagree with them. Such an irony is apparently "against guidelines" in this touchy crowd. Is it maybe "inappropriate" irony, Kossacks? How would Jon Stewart fare in your community? Personally I suspect he'd fare pretty much like Ted Rall did. But the exile would be faster.

In fact I think a lot of you people are just a couple steps away from book burning. Really. Get the PC wing here together in one location, get them riled up by playing tapes of Rush Limbaugh, put some Bibles and other suspect books in front of them and watch them reach for their lighters.

As I've said above, I think there are definitely good people here, probably many. Probably almost a dozen. And I'm grateful for things I've learned from these folks, and for being able to share some of my satire with them back in the 2000s. My recent attempts to write here, however, have been marred by censorship and ridicule. The latter I can take. It's when people who are ridiculing me also have the right to delete my words that I feel a line is being crossed.

The fact we're engaging this debate online, rather than in print, is no reason not to hold it to liberal standards--prominent among which is the dignity of individual speech. So I'll say it again: Censorship of civil discourse is NEVER progressive.

So I was put in this ridiculous month-long "time out" because of what exactly? Because I said some people at Daily Kos had a "shallow historical perspective"? Because I implied too many people here were substituting political correctness for actual thought? WTF is that? Are most Kossacks actually adults?

The issue we were discussing was one on which the left needs to show more flexibility. I'm not the only progressive who thinks so. Many people who are staunchly pro-gay marriage, including Andrew Sullivan himself, think the LGBT community, for its own good, needs to recognize the religious rights of Americans who disagree. In one of the sharpest editorial pieces I've read on the issue, David Linker explains the problem with all those who are now repeatedly screaming "Bigot!" every time they face disagreement:
As I've made clear repeatedly in my writing, I support gay marriage and am cheered that advocates for it have made such stunning legal and cultural gains so quickly. I consider these gains to be broadly harmonious with recent legal precedents and cultural trends, as well as the deeper political implications of liberal democratic government and theological implications of Christian egalitarianism.

But I'm also troubled by the equally stunning lack of charity, magnanimity, and tolerance displayed by many gay marriage advocates.

[Some gay marriage proponents] don't just want to win the legal right to marry. They don't just want most Americans to recognize and affirm the equal dignity of their relationships. They appear to want and expect all Americans to recognize and affirm that equal dignity, under penalty of ostracism from civilized life. That is an unacceptable, illiberal demand.

As I've argued before, liberal democracy is a political theory designed to allow people who disagree about the highest human goods to live together in peace and civility despite their differences. Like it or not--and a certain militant class of gay marriage proponents clearly do not like it at all--traditionalist religious believers are our fellow citizens and neighbors, and the United States is as much their country as it is ours.

That's why the premier liberal virtue is toleration and not recognition. Toleration is perfectly compatible with--indeed, it presupposes--a lack of unanimity, or even majority consensus, about ultimate goods. It leaves the diversity of views about ultimate goods intact, forcing consensus on as few issues as possible, so that people belonging to specific regions, classes, ethnicities, and sociocultural and religious groups can build rich, meaningful lives together in freedom.
Now you may agree with Linker here or you may disagree. But I believe you would at least treat him with a certain amount of decency in discussion. My position is quite similar to Linker's. I'm not completely supportive of the marriage equality movement, as he is, but nonetheless, as I've said, I no longer feel it is right to oppose it. In my last diary here I tried to offer one possible route for making Linker's kind of liberal mutual toleration possible in a very divided country. But you Kossacks largely just put on your PC glasses, started censoring my remarks, railed against my faith, and finally got me "timed out".

In an excellent follow-up piece titled "Who are the real liberals on gay marriage?" Linker summarizes two of the major trends in the development of liberalism, a summary which might do much to explain the disconnect between yourselves and me here. Most Kossacks are obviously what Linker calls "comprehensive liberals". I am not. I'm a pluralist liberal (aka a "political liberal"). Linker:
For many advocates of gay marriage, liberalism is a holistic, comprehensive ideology with its own distinctive vision of the human good. This vision advocates the autonomy of individuals from received traditions and their liberation from constraints both external (political, social, cultural, religious) and internal (psychological), which it invariably treats as forms of oppression. . . .

In addition to holding out this ideal of individual autonomy, comprehensive liberalism demands that each individual's choice of how to live be recognized and positively affirmed by everyone else, no matter what it involves (as long as it doesn't infringe on anyone else's equally free lifestyle choice). Comprehensive liberals also tend to treat the refusal to grant this recognition and affirmation as an act of illiberalism that ought not be tolerated. Many go so far as to think that liberal governments should force the recalcitrant to comply with the liberal ideal, at least in any area of life that can plausibly be described as public.

. . .

Comprehensive liberals are not content to establish a modus vivendi between different groups of people that disagree. Rather, their goal is to convince or pressure society at large to conform to and affirm their own group's position on things.
Linker describes his own pluralist liberalism, which apparently would get scant breathing space at Daily Kos:
My own understanding of liberalism--which supports gay marriage while also tolerating religious traditionalists who reject it--grows out of a very different intellectual tradition. It derives, at its deepest level, from the classical virtue of liberality, which meant generosity and openness. This notion of liberalism underlies the idea of the "liberal arts" as a curriculum that at its best instills a sense of humility by opening a student to the full range of human experience, thinking, and feeling. It assumes that differences in life experience, psychological makeup, social class, intelligence, the capacity for introspection, and temperament will tend to produce a "natural" condition of pluralism in human social life.

Responding to this pluralistic reality--and reacting most proximately to the violence and war it produced in the theologically divided societies of 16th- and 17th-century Europe--the greatest early modern liberals (John Locke, Montesquieu, Adam Smith, David Hume, James Madison, Thomas Jefferson) devised a form of politics that could enable a society comprising individuals deeply divided about the good to live together in relative peace and freedom despite their differences.

The U.S. Constitution was the first and is still one of the greatest practical achievements of pluralistic liberalism, establishing a series of minimal rules to enable numerous clashing factions divided by a range of interests and ideals to govern themselves freely and fairly. The Constitution itself takes no position on the highest human good; on how to pursue happiness or what it consists of; or on whether there's a God and what he might want from us. . . .

The agnosticism was intentional. Complete metaphysical neutrality might be impossible, but minimalism is both possible and desirable, since it opens up space for toleration of social, cultural, and religious diversity.

Toleration is the premier virtue of pluralistic liberalism--and a modern analogue to ancient liberality. Unlike comprehensive liberalism's zero-sum demand for recognition and affirmation, toleration upholds the ideal of "live and let live," allowing (within certain broad limits) diverse, clashing, morally conflicting ways of life to thrive, provided that they tolerate other ways of life to do the same.
It is in the spirit of this kind of pluralism that I wrote my diary on LGBT rights vs. religious liberty. The fact I got timed-out for it shows just how far from any kind of pluralist thinking this community is.

Worse than the time out itself was that I couldn't even finish that last discussion thread, and the comments I did make were subject to being deleted on the flimsiest grounds--no grounds whatever really. My sentences were erased, and finally I was shut up mid-sentence. In my own guidelines, it is what is out of bounds.

And since I've other disagreements with the community (quite frankly, its unwillingness to criticize today's Democratic party, especially the president) I'm wondering if my decision in January to come back and start writing here again was a wise one.

If I write more at Daily Kos in the future, I won't be writing on the marriage debate, believe me. But unless I hear something significant regarding the obvious censorship I've had to put up with, I may not be posting here again at all. I know many of you will just say: "Yeah, get the troll outa here! Anyone have any cake recipes?" But I'm thinking there may be some others who agree with me on the knee-jerk political correctness. And how the community, basically, is censorship-friendly. If you're out there, you might have something to say.

I won't be engaging much discussion on this diary. No matter how polite I am, people will just invent reasons to get me timed out again. Heck, they don't even need to invent reasons. Just press "censor" and the deed is done.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Letter on Rereading Guy Debord's Society of the Spectacle

Guy Debord
Thesis 1: In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation.

. . .

Thesis 17: The first phase of the domination of the economy over social life brought into the definition of all human realization the obvious degradation of being into having. The present phase of total occupation of social life by the accumulated results of the economy leads to a generalized sliding of having into appearing, from which all actual "having" must draw its immediate prestige and its ultimate function. At the same time all individual reality has become social reality directly dependent on social power and shaped by it. It is allowed to appear only to the extent that it is not.

I've gotten much from a rereading of Guy Debord's 1967 work Society of the Spectacle. No bones about it: it's an amazingly precise and prescient description of how our late-capitalist culture works--how it feels and tastes, how it shapes daily life. Now in my 40s I'm much better equipped to grasp Debord's thinking than I was when I first took up the book in my early 20s. This is critique written with a scalpel.

The text was written as a series of short theses, 221 in all. Numbers 1-72 offer something like an anthropology of late capitalism as religion. Though written decades ago, it's an uncannily accurate map of sorts of the postmodern world.

Did I say religion? If our present society, with its hand-held devices and social media and "Likes", were a cake, Debord in the 1960s wrote the exact recipe for this cake. He described how it tastes, its odd pervasiveness, how it tends to make everything, even the experience of time, "cake-shaped". He did this when the cake was still just a collection of ingredients on the counter, before it had even gone into the oven. In short, the ways capitalist culture has developed since the sixties show there was someone then who knew exactly what that culture was up to.

Theses 84-90, depending on Debord's faithfulness to the data of the last two centuries (which I can't assess), give a plausible interpretation of what went wrong with Marx's "science of history" as it applied to revolution--how the left, in effect, got from Marx and Engels to the Soviets and Stalinism. Debord claims it was a failure of theory that was responsible for this trajectory.

Much of the book is devoted to analyses of the ways different social orders have shaped the experience of time, and to the alienated time we are forced to live in now. The possibilities for breaking into consciousness of our false situation and thus for breaking out of the capitalist order are assessed, along with the reasons the left has failed in its various attempts at revolution since 1917.

Debord is devastatingly straightforward in giving his prognosis. What is questionable is the degree to which his vision of "the patient cured" is valid. I consider it utopian in a general sense: i.e., I do not believe any social order could completely defeat alienation.

In any case, I suggest you read these two sections: theses 1-72 (devastating) and theses 84-90. The first 72 seem to me indispensable, regardless of whether Debord is right in what follows. Even as a Catholic myself, someone whose thinking on capitalism is informed by theology, Debord's insights have much to offer.

His opening section, for me, is the map of the territory. How I might use this map as navigator is a different question.

Check Guy Debord's Society of the Spectacle at Amazon.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Samuel Beckett Reassessed: Silence, Minimalism, Late Modernism

All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. --Beckett: Worstward Ho 1983

There are many ways in which the thing I am trying in vain to say may be tried in vain to be said. --1949 interview

by Eric Mader

A review of / response to
Duncan McColl Chesney:
Silence Nowhen: Late Modernism, Minimalism,
and Silence in the Work of Samuel Beckett

Peter Lang: New York, 2013
(hardcover; 248 pp.)

Samuel Beckett is one of a handful of writers that draws me back every few years for a rereading or first reading of this or that. Last year I picked up the novel Watt, reread Murphy and parts of the Trilogy, and finally settled into the more important theater and short prose. It was, as expected, a jaunt both deadening and exhilarating, a feast all of scraps and bread crusts, but somehow it left me at a loss. (Indeed? You don't say.) The questions Beckett provoked in me had nagged before, but never quite so pressingly: How had he managed to stick to this strict regime over such a long career? And: How was one to explain the power of this work, its "power to claw", the poverty that somehow kept one coming back?

I decided to look into recent critical writing on Beckett, to see what sharper minds had lately been saying. It wasn't much. But I finally came upon a 2013 study by Duncan McColl Chesney, Silence Nowhen: Late Modernism, Minimalism, and Silence in the Work of Samuel Beckett. Chesney, I learned, had come out of Yale's Comparative Literature Department and this was his first book-length study. In fact it was the minimalism in his subtitle that led me to take up the book. Beckett's minimalism was the aspect of the work that most intrigued me: the steady paring away, the pages edging ever closer to silence.

Not working for a university myself, I have the luxury of putting down academic books when they don't hold my attention. Though I came out of Comparative Literature, like Chesney, I'm more resistant to high-theory jargon than most academics. I take up ten or so academic titles a year, but finish only a few of them. Again: a luxury.

Chesney's book is not in the put down category. It's actually, and surprisingly, hard to put down, which is almost unheard of for academic writing. The book is challenging, critically sophisticated, and cuts right to the chase of what made Beckett tick. Chesney poses the right questions, and his answers are developed in dialogue with a brilliant selection of previous work on Beckett--especially Blanchot's, Adorno's, and that of French scholar Pascale Casanova.

Samuel Beckett

One reason this book is such a pleasure to read is that it nowhere seems forced. It's obvious Chesney has a vast body of critical insight at his fingertips, modes of reading and prizing meaning that he's thoroughly made his own, and this allows him to reach for the thinker best able to help answer the kind of difficult questions Beckett's texts set going in a good reader's mind. Chesney's facility with continental philosophy and theory is made clear early on, when he takes to addressing ethical problems in Waiting for Godot through the lens of Emmanuel Levinas. The results are striking, and allow him to sketch out a kind of minimal ethics present in Godot, one that will no longer animate Endgame and other later works. His treatment of the Beckett oeuvre as a whole is balanced. His dismissive assessment of Beckett's early Joycean prose seems hard to disagree with (he concurs in my perception that "Dante and the Lobster" is the best piece in all early Beckett) and in general one feels while reading this work that one's finger is right on the pulse of a crucial late modern enigma. Unlike some critics, Chesney neglects neither the drama nor the prose. In fact, as my title indicates, I'd venture to call Silence Nowhen a major reassessment of Beckett as Beckett.

I did have a moment when I feared it would be otherwise. For one, the book's title almost put me off. What we have here is purportedly a study of silence in Beckett. What can one hope from an academic book on silence? Isn't, to pose a dumb but obvious question--isn't silence a matter of lack, a void of meaning requiring no special comment?

Those familiar with theory or philosophy, or indeed mysticism, will know that it's not always so. Still, Chesney's premise didn't look very promising--at least not to me. And here he was already in his Introduction talking about finding a "productive" approach to Beckett's work. I knew enough about Beckett to be suspicious of anything seeking to make this work productive. But I also knew academics were in the business of . . . well . . . in short, I knew I ought to cut Chesney some slack. The young literary academic today is in a situation quite like that of the narrator at the end of the Trilogy, whose voice winds down with the words: "one must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on."

Chesney begins his first chapter by laying out what ancient rhetoric had to say about silence. Longinus, Cicero, Quintilian--a definite whiff of olive oil here. Happily the chapter quickly moves on from the ancients to delve into what sociolinguistics might teach us about the modalities of verbal silence. These pages are interesting in their own right and go some way toward answering my initial quibble--What can a study of silence tell us in any case? If it is a study of modern literature, it might in fact tell us quite a bit. Neither, as linguists know, is silence void of meaning in our everyday communication; quite the contrary. The opening chapter, then, provides a good practical basis for what will follow. Silence has been presented in its various genres, we might say.

Chesney moves on to consider how Beckett's work relates to those of his great precursors Dante, Joyce and Proust. This second chapter, I suspect, gave the professor more than a few headaches. Still he pulls it off gracefully. The difficulty here lies in the fact that each precursor is important for Beckett, crucial even, but is also, in fundamental respects, effaced in the writer's mature work--silenced or somehow turned on his head. And it's not merely a matter here of Bloomian anxiety of influence. Beckett's debt to Joyce, which has been commented widely, is especially problematic. Both Irish writers owed much to Dante, both chose exile from Ireland, they knew each other in Paris, and Beckett even wrote for some years heavily under Joyce's influence. After the war, however, Beckett turned in his own direction, discontinuing what may have developed into a kind of heady Joycean tradition. Chesney has much to say on this, which I won't reiterate here, but Beckett himself clarified the main difference between himself and the older writer in a 1959 interview with Israel Shenker:
I realized that Joyce had gone as far as one could go in the direction of knowing more, [being] in control of one's material. He was always adding to it . . . I realized that my own way was in impoverishment, in lack of knowledge and in taking away, in subtracting rather than adding. (quoted by Chesney, p 64; unless otherwise indicated, all page citations are to Chesney's book)
In my view Beckett's relationship with Dante may also be seen as something along the lines of a photo negative. As I read through Chesney's careful enumeration of silences in the Commedia, I realized to what degree most of the tropes in question were aimed in the opposite direction from what we would find in Beckett's work. The problem Chesney faces establishing continuity from Dante to Beckett is thus nearly insurmountable. Aside from the figure of Belacqua, certainly a minor figure in Dante's work, there is little that might help. Whereas the Florentine employs silences to indicate great reverence (for the Virgin, Beatrice, the divine) or to stress the limitations of language (vis à vis mystical experience, great emotion, etc.) the Irishman uses silence to bracket out the unnecessary, to point up language's limitations (its poverty) in a very different way. The first is trying to structure and figure forth a universe the upper reaches of which are infinity or Eternity; the second seeks to pare down language's expressive capacity to Zero, to find out, as one approaches Zero, what reliable bits may be left, if any.

Beckett's linguistic rigors have led critics over the years to read his work as postmodernist, which is perhaps not surprising given that postmodernism was coming into its own during the later decades Beckett was writing. One of the very earliest theorists of the postmodern, Ihab Hassan, put Beckett among the first postmodernists. Starting in the late 1960s and early 1970s, Hassan was necessarily flailing about in his efforts to define a tendency that hadn't yet established itself. His work now seems important mostly in terms of directions in which it pointed, concepts it put into play, central of these being the concept of postmodern itself. Hassan's literary groupings of writers now seem bizarre, however. Chesney, I think, is absolutely right to reject the idea that Beckett is in any significant sense a postmodern writer. He makes much headway here by considering Beckett's literary practice in relation to developments in the modern visual arts, particularly painting, which Beckett himself followed closely and sought to emulate. Chesney's chapter on modern and postmodern visual art and its theorists (which I will discuss below) is brilliantly placed to help him in one of the main burdens of his study: theorizing a Late Modernism distinct both from High Modernism and from the postmodern in which we now find ourselves oh-so-joyously awash.

Beckett's rough contemporary Maurice Blanchot penned one of the first great critical appraisals of the writer's work in 1953. Blanchot's major essay "Où maintenant? Qui maintenant?" ("Where now? Who now?") set the terms for an important strand of Beckett study in France. With its constant reminders of the uselessness of its own continuation, Beckett's prose provided a good exemplar of what Blanchot would theorize in 1955 as a necessary uncorking in the act of writing:
The purer the inspiration, the more dispossessed is he who enters the space where it draws him, where he hears the origin's closer call. It is as if the wealth he comes into, that superabundance of the source, were also extreme poverty, were indeed refusal's superabundance, and made of him one who does not produce, who wanders astray within an infinite idleness. (The Space of Literature, 182; "idleness" here translates the Fr. désoeuvrement, which I would render uncorking)
For Blanchot the writer is not engaged, as Heidegger would have it, in hearkening to the voice of Being: rather he or she hearkens to an "incessant murmur" and tries to silence that murmur through, as Chesney puts it, "stutterings and impotent attempts to give it voice, to master it":
This impotent mastery has nothing to do with self-expression or even a willed self-abnegation. It is a renunciation, an allowing of the Work to happen obviously related to Romantic theories of inspiration. But far from being related to a Muse or some divinity or genius, it is a minimal, silent murmur of the incessant that speaks. And far from a triumphant channeling or mediation, being inspired is, on the contrary, failing. (114-5)
Blanchot puts it succinctly: "From inspiration we sense only failure."

Though descended from Romantic poetics, this poetics is something quite different. Clearly Blanchot is onto something in pointing to this incessant linguistic neutral as an animating force in Beckett's post-War work. If Heidegger found his poetic witness in Hölderlin, Blanchot, arguably, finds an even more compelling witness in Samuel Beckett.

Chesney quotes Simon Critchely on how this poetics derives from a search for "origin": "[The] goal of writing is not the work, the production of meaning and beauty, rather the writer writes out of a desire for the origin of the work, which means the work must be sacrificed in fidelity to the pursuit of its origin." I admit I have some trouble with the theorization of origin here. I don't have the Critchely text at hand. Is origin here partly a matter of the writer's desire to shut down the murmur of the incessant: the paradoxical desire, again, for silence? Chesney moves forward with a consideration of Blanchot's famous words on the myth of Orpheus: "Why," Chesney opens, "does Orpheus, who has used his art to defeat death and bring back Euridice, turn back, lose her, and eventually sacrifice himself as well?" Blanchot answers:
Not to look back would be infidelity to the measureless, imprudent force of his movement, which does not want Euridice in her daytime truth and her everyday appeal, but wants her in her nocturnal obscurity, in her distance, with her closed body and her sealed face--wants to see her not while she is visible, but when she is invisible . . . wants, not to make her live, but to have living in her the plenitude of her death.
These words, which I've read a half dozen times over the years since I first encountered them, now strike me, besides what they tell us about the desire to write, as a fine definition of eros itself as against Christian charity or agape. Blanchot: "All the glory of [Orpheus'] work, all the power of his art, and even the desire for a happy life in the lovely, clear light of day are sacrificed to this sole aim: to look in the night at what night hides, the other night, the dissimulation that appears." (115-16) Chesney glosses: "What is this other night? It is otherness itself as source, as mystery, as the unknowable that drives knowledge, the unattainable that drives desire." Again: eros.

Chesney proceeds to a discussion of Blanchot's debt to a powerful strand of thinking on language that derived ultimately from Hegel and one which Blanchot developed especially through his reading of Mallarmé, who had famously written:
I say "a flower!" and, drawn from that oblivion to which my voice consigns any contour, something other than any known calix arises, musically appears, idea and softness--that which is absent from all bouquets. [tr. mine]
The philosophical import of this line, in terms of what is said here about language, is in the recognition that every uttered word is a negation of the world. To say the word "flower" is to kill off any real flower by a movement toward the concept. Likewise, the concept man is a negation and betrayal of the inescapable individuality of any real man. When we use language, every word we use in fact, is a negation of something that, try as we might, we could never truly seize in language. (Yes, I leave aside here the more positive Symbolist aesthetic implicit in Mallarmé's line.) As Chesney puts it: "[W]ords are tombstones marking the absence of what they say."

The vast majority of people, of writers as well, remain unconscious of this negation at work. They use language as if it were a transparent and unproblematic tool of communication. They not only think they know what they're talking about, but that their words are adequate to the things to which they point. Starting from this basic human given, this nearly universal unconsciousness of language's negative power, we can think literature on at least two levels of sophistication. The first, Literature 1, seeks to be evocative and to weave persuasive depictions of reality in order to entertain, sway or otherwise inspire its readers. This is the literature of the great majority of novels, also of journalism and propaganda. Of course this kind of language use also reaches right down to many speech genres in everyday communication. Avid readers of such literature are likely unaware of its betrayal of the real; or at least, if they sense betrayal, they willingly suspend disbelief in order to keep the story, or the ideology, going.

The second level, Literature 2, is what interests Blanchot and, arguably, many serious literary readers today. In its basic gestures, Literature 2 is painfully aware of the shoddiness of language, its constant betrayal of the real and its often sinister untrustworthiness. This literature forefronts the problem of language by rigorously pushing language to its breaking point. For Blanchot, the most important, the most authentically literary of such work, is thus doggedly set on achieving its own failure. Teeth grit, it continues to spin out the nonsense of its utterly broken medium: language itself. Here, certainly, we can understand the French critic's admiration for Beckett's (non)accomplishment. Who failed more gloriously than Beckett?

What was of interest to me returning to this bleak Blanchotian territory was the question of whether or not Literature 2 really is necessarily a matter of failure. I am a firm believer both in the Hegelian insight regarding language's negative powers and in Blanchot's basic division of literature into two rough levels of rigor. But it is there in Literature 2, where the problem of language as negation is faced, that I may see things differently from Blanchot.

I'm thinking here of the Russian Formalist tradition, going back to Shklovsky, that sees in significant literary language an effort toward defamiliarization. In terms of breaking ideologies and frozen concepts, defamiliarizing poetics may liberate elements of the world from the dead or subjugated state to which both everyday language and Literature 1 have exiled them. Or, as Blanchot might put it, defamiliarization gives us something of "the reality of things . . . their unknown, free, and silent existence", what Critchely calls "things prior to their negation by language." (117) Is this work not one of positive recovery?

In this less bleak Formalist view, Literature 1 would be the level at which language negates the world. Literature 2 would be a counterattack: its work would be a negation of the negation, liberating some portion of "the reality of things". Does Blanchot's dogmatic pessimism, in other words, and Beckett's likewise, rest ultimately on something in the two writers' constitutions: a matter of their deep personal comportment toward the world? Cannot the same two-tiered presentation of Literature (1 and 2) be the basis for a kind of positive work of permanent revolution--Literature 2 as the only thing that might free us from the prison house of language?

There are in fact good reasons to be suspicious of such hopefulness. Where Shklovsky valued Sterne's Tristram Shandy as a supreme work in the canon, we may see today a parallel of such "liberating" notions of literary practice in the sterile unfolding of postmodern literature, which, as I believe Chesney would agree, has accomplished little by way of liberating us. It would seem to me in fact that postmodern aesthetics, once having attained dominance, managed only to further alienate us and make it more difficult for us even to formulate the problems we face.

In my view Chesney hits just the right tone in his description of what happened in the 1970s and 80s (a cultural shift that hit me as a high school student via the music and visual style of David Byrne and the Talking Heads--a style, moreover, by which I was immediately taken):
The arts decidedly entered into a new regime, the epoch of a new cultural dominant--the postmodern--which like any dominant has its aesthetic highs and lows, even if its criteria of value are exceedingly difficult to identify--or rather, to distinguish from pure market values. Performativity, poly-vocality, multi-perspectivism, heterogeneity, pastiche, eclecticism, double coding, fragmentariness, anti-realism, the melting of formal and generic borders, "indeterminance," "ontological uncertainty" (McHale) and so forth--many of these values or qualities are not so much different from modernist techniques per se, but different in tone--celebratory, playful and "liberating" (Hutcheon). (148-9)
Still taken by this postmodern ethos in some of its forms, and often practicing it as well in my own writing, I now see that as a dominant it has been mainly destructive--in some respects destructive precisely of what may have allowed us to remain alert and resistant. For me the phrase that especially sticks out in Chesney's words is "difficult to distinguish from pure market values". Indeed.

For those with a wider historical perspective, postmodernism has mainly succeeded in proving the sad truth behind a phrase I first heard in 1989: "Irony is destiny." As artists in the 80s and 90s, aware of the grand semiotic slippage that was culture, we donned the mask of the sardonic but liberating clown. This mask seemed so effective, so apt, that we kept it on at parties, in our politics, in our music, etc. Then there came a day when we realized the mask was no longer really helpful or even funny. But somehow we could no longer get it off our face. And the younger generation--we realized with a kind of horror--they had never seen anything but this mask. In fact it seemed that they understood this mask as the actual meaning of face. Come to think of it, if this was so, might we then say that our clowning had succeeded? Not at all. Rather, we had to face it that the mask had become a wedge dividing us from what needed to be done. But what was that? Could we even tell any more--with this clown face bending our every utterance, glaring back at us from every mirror?

Yes, as Chesney indicates, postmodernism has indeed become the "reigning dominant"; and is now, besides, indistinguishable from "market values".

Beckett's late work has almost nothing to do with this postmodern ethos. In many respects the difference is a matter of tone, but there is more to it than that. The very impetus behind Beckett's project is different. Rather than try to liberate the reader or the (dissolved) self, he seems to be trying to cling to something, all the while doing violence to it in order to keep it, to whatever degree, viable. What he clings to, as Adorno recognized, is a certain conception of art: art regardless of the collapse of all around it, including the self. This is why Chesney's reading of Beckett so stresses belatedness (Late Modernism): it is not merely an art or literary practice too late for High Modernism, but in some respects an art too late for art. Here is where we should seek the reason for Beckett's persistence. His driving question may be stated: Is it really, as it seems, all over for us? Here us could be defined variously: Europeans, artists, humans.

Chesney's short but suggestive chapter on twentieth-century art and theories of art offers needed perspective on the meaning of Beckett's minimalism. Unlike most of our major writers, Beckett was particularly conscious of literature's relations to the other arts, especially painting. Already in 1937, when he was thirty-one, he asked Axel Kaun via letter "if literature alone [was] to remain behind in the old lazy ways that have been so long ago abandoned by music and painting?" (106) Such remarks as this, combined with Beckett's extensive letter-writing on painting and his tramping about Europe in order to keep up with the work of contemporaries, suggest that his post-war work was in part an attempt to accomplish on the page what was being done by others on canvas.

Approaching the question of minimalism in art, Chesney quotes art critic Clement Greenberg writing in 1955:
It seems to be a law of modernism--thus one that applies to almost all art that remains truly alive in our time--that the conventions not essential to the viability of a medium be discarded as soon as they are recognized.
Five years later Greenberg would write: "The essence of Modernism lies . . . in the use of characteristic methods of a discipline to criticize the discipline itself, not in order to subvert it but in order to entrench it more firmly in its area of competence." Chesney points out that although such developments in American art (on which Greenberg specialized) may seem far from Beckett, it is at least noteworthy that "the wonder years of Jackson Pollock (1947-1953), as well as the first triumphs of Abstract Expressionism . . . correspond exactly, though unrelatedly, to Beckett's tremendous 'frenzy of writing' . . . that produced the Nouvelles, the Trilogy of novels (Molloy, Malone meurt, l'Innommable). . . and Godot. So too do related developments in the visual arts--and Beckett was a keen amateur of the visual arts--in Europe and the European tradition. . . ." (135-6)

Compared to writers, painters necessarily approach their work more as a matter of producing objects: the canvases that will stand on their own and convey what they will convey. This naturally leads painters to think of the work more in terms of its autonomy. Unlike a literary text, the canvas is not inevitably inscribed in anything so socially immediate as language--that everyday medium through which we negotiate our social being. Taking his cue from developments in visual art, Beckett sought to write works of a like abstraction and autonomy. He has been quoted saying of his work: "I produce an object. What people make of it is not my concern." (see The Cambridge Companion to Beckett, p. 67)

Which brings us to French critic Pascale Casanova's reading of Beckett. I believe Chesney returns to her work in his chapter on painting because this work, like the painting chapter itself, provides a useful bridge to his eventual turn to Adorno. In her 1997 study Beckett l'abstracteur (in English as Samuel Beckett: Anatomy of a Literary Revolution) Casanova offers a reading that treats the late prose texts as radically autonomous art objects, word machines painstakingly divorced, over a lifetime of labor, from any reference to reality or any fealty to the imperatives of representation. For Casanova, Beckett's Worstward Ho, which she sees as his supreme achievement, is "not the evocation of a nihilistic stance or the representation of ontological tragedy, but a kind of ultimate poetic art . . . a pure object of language which is totally autonomous since it refers to nothing but itself." (107) Chesney sees merit in this reading, and we might point out that it again underlines that quest for autonomy that Beckett may have adopted from the painters. What's more, this same radical autonomy may have ultimately, and somewhat paradoxically, expedited Adorno's Marxist reading of Beckett by forcing the philosopher to overcome this autonomy through critique. Indeed, such works as Beckett's throw down a gauntlet to all who think of literature as reflecting social realities: How is one to read these works? Chesney uses his remarks on Casanova to signal where he is headed in this study:
What seems lacking in Casanova's reading of Beckett, however compelling, is a larger theory of art's relationship to society. It is vital to understand artistic choices within a semi-autonomous field. Artists "think" in terms of their medium and they "know" this medium from the formal achievements of their predecessors and contemporaries in it. . . . But any given art system is only semi-autonomous, and is, of course, related . . . to society in general: the economy, technology, politics, and so on. Thus to understand the move to abstraction as characteristic of modern art, we must have some kind of theory of the relationship of art to society (in modernity) over and above detailed, sophisticated, formal and form-historical descriptions of the various artistic fields. (111-2)
Here Chesney turns away from Casanova and also from Blanchot by posing the simple question why. Not: does the turn to abstraction happen, or how does it happen, but why does it happen at this particular historical moment? In his fifth and sixth chapters, the hardest hitting of the book, Chesney will take up and develop Adorno's reading of Beckett as answer to this question.

The critical theory developed in the Frankfurt School of Social Research, and particularly by its greatest representative Theodor Adorno, offers the strongest reading both of Beckett's aesthetic and the historical meaning of that aesthetic. Where traditional Marxist approaches to Beckett could only find a decadent bourgeois escapism in such non-representational work (indeed Beckett shows nary a proletariat hurling a brick or working a saw) Adorno saw a revelatory index of the real historical situation. Chesney approaches Adorno's Beckett via a careful assessment of the philosopher's important essay on Endgame and a nuanced recapitulation of Adorno's aesthetics as found in his major works (Negative Dialectics, Aesthetic Theory, Minima Moralia). I will attempt a rough outline of this reading.

What does the Frankfurt School represent in relation to orthodox Marxism? The most salient feature differentiating Frankfurt School thought was the turn toward the valuation of consciousness as partly determinant of historical reality. Marx had theorized that base economic factors determined the content of consciousness (class consciousness, ideology, legal concepts, art, etc.) and that historical transformation depended on a given mode of production reaching its peak potential, upon which, unable to develop further, a revolutionary movement would arise to transform society, ushering in the next historical stage. Orthodox Marxist thinkers thus focused on analysis of economic factors (the extent of development of the capitalist system) and looked for signs of a growing proletarian class solidarity that would ultimately lead to revolution. Frankfurt School thinkers found this orthodox approach one-sided: it neglected the role ideology (consciousness) played in maintaining the capitalist order. Consciousness was not merely determined or projected by base economic factors, rather it was instrumental in ensuring a given society's economic order remained intact. In terms of the unjust capitalist system dominant in Europe and elsewhere, some Frankfurt School thinkers, among them Adorno, began to suspect the guardians of capitalist ideology might be able to keep the system intact indefinitely.

Beyond the turn toward consciousness, Adorno's thought effected an even more radical break from orthodox Marxism--a break, in fact, from Enlightenment tradition as a whole. The philosopher put into question the usefulness or neutrality of reason itself. If the culture created by Enlightenment had led to Auschwitz on the one hand and Stalinism on the other, was there not maybe something wrong at the very core of that culture? Adorno recognized that reason in modernity had attained to the status of myth. Unquestioned in itself, it had become a shiny fetish by means of which the horrors of the century had been justified. And who could predict what horrors it would justify in the future? In Negative Dialectics he wrote:
Auschwitz demonstrated irrefutably that culture has failed. That this could happen in the midst of the traditions of philosophy, of art, and of the enlightenment sciences says more than that these traditions and their spirit lacked the power to take hold of men and work a change in them. There is untruth in those fields themselves, in the autarky that is emphatically claimed for them. . . . All post-Auschwitz culture, including its urgent critique, is garbage . . . Whoever pleads for the maintenance of this radically culpable and shabby culture becomes its accomplice . . . (189-90)
In a culture so deeply corrupted, gone so thoroughly astray, what is the philosopher or artist to do? Adorno found part of an answer in the mature work of Samuel Beckett.

The high point of Adorno's engagement with Beckett is his essay on the play Endgame. First staged in 1958, Endgame is a starkly minimalist one-act drama that unfolds on a bleak stage between four characters--Hamm, Clov, Nagg and Nell--two of whom are reduced to near idiocy and remain ensconced in trash bins for the duration. The play was loosely conceived on the model of a chess game. We spectators watch the game's last useless moves. Beckett, who described the play as "more inhuman than Godot", commented on it as follows:
Hamm is a king in this chess game lost from the start. From the start he knows he is making loud senseless moves. That he will make no progress at all with the gaff. Now at the last he makes a few senseless moves as only a bad player would. A good one would have given up long ago. He is only trying to delay the inevitable end. Each of his gestures is one of the last useless moves which put off the end. He is a bad player. (Cambridge 70-1)
Giving a quick history of the reception of Adorno's essay on this play, Chesney argues persuasively that although it must be considered canonical in Beckett studies, its import hasn't yet been fully recognized. For Chesney, Adorno's essay represents a crucial opening of insight into not merely the play in question, but into Beckett's raison d'être as literary artist. Adorno's reading of Beckett begins from the general understanding of twentieth-century culture we've already glimpsed. He writes:
After the Second World War, everything, including a resurrected culture, has been destroyed without realizing it; humankind continues to vegetate, creeping along after events that even the survivors cannot really survive, on a rubbish heap that has made even reflection on one's own damaged state useless.
Adorno recognizes Endgame as a staging of the collapse of the Enlightenment subject: "Endgame assumes that the individual's claim to autonomy and being has lost its credibility." Chesney elaborates:
Endgame is the endgame of the subject, the truth of instrumental rationality realized in both Nazi death camps and American administered society. The subject, whose Enlightenment goal of rational domination of nature towards perfection and peace has been dominated by its own domination, its irrational rationality, has lost its autonomy, that for which it had conceived the Enlightenment project, and reason--having routed myth, dogma, and superstition--has, particularly in mathematics, logic, physics, and, today, economics, regressed to the status of timeless, unquestionable myth. As usual, this is a complex point for Adorno, for the autonomous subject is both the product of rationalization (the process of civilization, the long history of the formation of the self up to its distortion by irrational reason) and a refuge from utter domination (the place of happiness in, say, bourgeois art at its greatest period, and the last holdout against a uniform, reified society). (157-9)
If Endgame indeed stages this collapse as it occurs in twentieth-century Europe, how does it manage to do this while nowhere alluding to political parties, modern technology, fascism, the market, or the death camps? Isn't Beckett's play rather, as Marxists like Luckacs would claim, a work of bourgeois escapism? Isn't this a work, like nearly all Beckett's mature works, that precisely neglects to address historical reality?

Well, for one thing, neither Endgame nor any other Beckett work can be found attempting to construct anything resembling an ivory tower. Quite the contrary. If we take the work's radical minimalism and bleakness seriously, considered in its historical context, we see that it represents not an escape from so much as an indictment of society. For Adorno, bourgeois art and politics are all referred to in Beckett by the very absoluteness of their silencing. Beckett's is a negative art which makes itself as best it can out of what remains after the exclusion of all that is false.

Adorno had infamously claimed in 1955 that "to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric". Beckett's work led him to revise this judgment. Adorno's change on the possibility of a viable modern literature again shows his stark departure from the methods of orthodox Marxism.

If lyrical transcendence in its Romantic mode was barbaric, if even the "progressive" methods of socialist realism were compromised through their subservience to a bankrupt reason, how was literature to reflect social reality? In 1966, in a passage from Negative Dialectics that appears following a discussion of the loss of identity in Endgame, Adorno writes: "Perennial suffering has as much right to expression as a tortured man has to scream; hence it may have been wrong to say that after Auschwitz you could no longer write poems." Beckett's work represented such a scream through the very rigor of its own negative poetics: a poetics of subtraction, a teeth-clenched minimalism that refused to be diverted by the false hopes the world had on offer, whether through bourgeois ideology or the transcendence one might find in art. Beckett's aesthetic was in large measure an anti-aesthetic. Carrying a formidable rhetorical and artistic toolkit, the Irishman had struggled decades to build the very opposite of castles in the air. For Adorno, the withdrawal and autonomy of this work was its triumph as a social work. Endgame reflected the disaster of history in its very striving for autonomy.

Chesney contrasts Adorno's aesthetics with theories of engaged literature offered by his contemporaries:
According to Adorno's understanding of the autonomy of art, art is social and political, contra Brecht, Sartre, and so many others, precisely by its distance from the social and political, from everyday life, profit concerns, prises de position, and so forth. In a key definition . . . that weds a Marxist conception of art praxis to a Modernist conception of artistic autonomy, Adorno writes in the Aesthetic Theory: "By crystallizing in itself as something unique to itself, rather than complying with existing social norms and qualifying as 'socially useful,' [art] criticizes society by merely existing . . ." By silencing the chatter of the instrumental-communicative use of language, by resisting the market of exchange value in its complete uselessness and irrecuperability, the artwork accuses the very society of exchange where, as Mallarmé insisted, words themselves function like money. (156)
It was Adorno's rethinking of mimesis that allowed him to assert the Marxist validity of this aesthetics. Mimesis as traditionally formulated did not account for how radically autonomous artworks could also be read as dialectical representations of their historical situation. We might say that Adorno reconceived mimesis as a more primitive or animistic concept. He writes:
The communication of artworks with what is external to them, with the world from which they blissfully or unhappily seal themselves off, occurs through noncommunication. . . . That artworks as windowless monads 'represent' what they themselves are not can scarcely be understood except in that their own dynamic, their immanent historicity as a dialectic of nature and its domination, not only is of the same essence as the dialectic external to them but resembles it without imitating it.
Chesney glosses: "[A]rtworks speak to their historical situation not by speaking about it, but by embodying its constitutive contradictions." And how do they "embody" these contradictions if, indeed, they do not speak about them? Through animistic mimesis. Chesney: "[For Adorno] mimesis does not mean imitation through control, conceptual understanding, and realistic detail. Instead it indicates the intuitive impulse at the basis of the experience of the sensuous particularity of the world prior to clear distinctions of subject/object and even self/other." Chesney quotes Jay Bernstein in The Fate of Art: "Mimetic affinity is the primitive form of sympathy and compassion . . . Mimesis is appropriation without subsumption . . . As cognition [it] acknowledge the sensuous particularity of the other without dominating it." I've referred to this here as animistic mimesis because it describes the artist's relation the other as similar to that of a shaman to the spirit that invades him. In both cases, it is not a matter of domination but of reception and "mimetic comportment" toward the other.

Also important here is Adorno's rethinking of Walter Benjamin's concept of aura. Chesney writes of the artwork's aura under advanced capitalism:
The fundamental otherness of the object that had characterized pre-"Enlightenment" thought . . . is progressively lost to reification and rationalization, and retreats instead into the art object. . . . [The] unmasterable otherness of the work is crucial . . . beyond the aesthetic, as analogous to (or symbolic of) the unmasterable otherness of the other as such. The loss of aura then would be the possibly final loss of a certain kind of experience of otherness itself.
As Chesney puts it, Beckett's works are valuable not because they represent the writer's "experiences and pains. Nor do they express something universal, 'man's fate.' Rather they give voice (and silence) to a historically specific feeling of destitution and suffering." (167-9) This is how, for Adorno, these works manage to be in some respects adequate to the broken world in which they appeared. We may also note that through his heavy conceptual lifting here Adorno has accomplished something of a theoretical impossibility: a Marxist theory of art that is also an aestheticism. The philosopher succeeded in dropping neither of the poles toward which, on the one hand, gravitate materialist theories of art, and, on the other, art for art's sake or idealist theories of art.

Chesney's discussion of Late Modernism and belatedness in thinkers like Fredric Jameson (and also Adorno) offers much to consider, but here a few remarks will have to suffice. As I've hinted above, Chesney reads Beckett as a major European modernist working not simply chronologically later than the usual decades given for that movement but, more essentially, later even than the possibility of such work. This was Beckett's particular agon: to continue making art in a world where, as Adorno might say, art in its usual modes could be nothing but barbaric. Both as a man and as artist Beckett indeed had something of the heroic about him. He was a decorated fighter in the French Resistance, and his work has often been remarked for its palpable element of struggle, its "virile strength" of language, as J.M. Coetzee wrote. As Modernist, Chesney might say, Beckett was one of the last left standing: paring down, subtracting, but standing. Beginning as Joycean wit he ended by transcribing a barely audible voice at the very margin of silence. This silence was something that both threatened (as true ending) and something that beckoned. Here one may recall Blanchot's notion of the writer as one who works bravely toward a foreseen failure, and one who, after that failure, continues working. As Beckett put it: "Try again. Fail again. Fail better."

Chesney's multifaceted reading of this struggle (taking in philosophy, contemporary art, ethics, aesthetics) has answered my own questions regarding that persistence of Beckett's that had nagged me as enigma. Regardless of the length of my review here (if that's what it even should be called) I've not touched on several of the most interesting questions. Specifically: How does Beckett's work, in the thinking of Adorno and others such as Jay Bernstein, suggest a minimal hope regardless of its radical hopelessness? Chesney's discussion of Adorno addresses this question, and his several glances at Jay Bernstein's work since the 1990s suggest new directions of study which may, for me at least, lead to ways of bridging what remain quite separate poles in my intellectual development: first, a concern for theological questions, the meaning of theological language in the modern/postmodern world; second, a concern for traditional literary genres, their various breakdowns, and what these breakdowns or metamorphoses reveal (how they may be made fruitful); third, a commitment to the political left and to seeking ways the left may again be effective against the totalizing neoliberalism now leading us to ruin.

Chesney has written a brilliant reassessment of Beckett, one that should also help in further defining a Late Modernism distinct from Postmodernism. On the basis of this reading I am led again to the question of what is gained by readers like myself who frequently return to Beckett. My own experience reading Beckett--how is it a matter both of reveling in the black humor and feeling a kind of awe? Awe before what? Before Beckett's writerly genius? Perhaps. But is there something else? Maybe there is, something, Adorno might insist, that remains unsaid, being impossible to say in the 20th century Europe Beckett knew.

Check Duncan Chesney's Silence Nowhen: Late Modernism, Minimalism, and Silence in the Work of Samuel Beckett at Amazon.com

Some of the best of Samuel Beckett:
Murphy

Watt

Three Novels: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable

The Complete Short Prose of Samuel Beckett

Endgame and Act Without Words

I Can't Go On, I'll Go On: A Samuel Beckett Reader
Critical works and sources:
Duncan Chesney: Silence Nowhen: Late Modernism, Minimalism, and Silence in the Work of Samuel Beckett

Adorno's essay on Endgame can be found in his collection Notes to Literature, Volume 1

Pascale Casanova: Samuel Beckett: Anatomy of a Literary Revolution

The Cambridge Companion to Samuel Beckett

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Impressed by Taiwan's Sunflower Student Movement



我在台灣快20年教的學生很多。 我可保證他們其中有一大堆很驄明很成熟的人。 我教過太陽花活動其中一些學生很,引以為榮。 你們台灣年輕人太利害!

Yesterday BBC profiled the Taiwan Sunflower Student Movement, stressing the vision and organizational skills of the students involved. Myself, having taught some of these students, I can only agree: there are many brilliant and serious young folks here. I wish American 20-somethings would study what is happening here and learn from Taiwan's Sunflower Generation.

BBC: What unprecedented protest means for Taiwan

中文: BBC讚太陽花學生有秩序,決定台灣未來

E.M.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Risks of Decoding Priory of Sion Internal Correspondence

Some weeks ago a young Irish friend of mine named Paul Wylie posted the following photo on Facebook. He didn't know then that figures quite like these, with less talent however, were at that very moment looming just on the periphery of his humdrum student life, threatening to move in and suffocate him in the rosy flower of youth.

Jean Cocteau and Coco Chanel

For Paul Wylie had gotten involved in a plot to decode the several parts of the Internal Correspondence of the Priory of Sion that had so far been made public. It was his acquaintance with one Shonie Owens that brought him too close to the Priory to allow him ever to be completely free of it again. What started as a bit of historical sleuthing for one curious Irish university student was turning into something else entirely.

Eric Mader
G.M.P.o.S.

Yesterday evening I noticed Mr. Wylie clamoring for my attention in chat, as if I didn't have enough on my hands already with the recent leak of Priory documents:

Hey Eric, can I reproduce the coded Priory Correspondence in book format? For my private use only.

I'd appreciate it, very much!

I should add, both coded and decoded. Vols. I & II.

Certainly, Paul. We will not cause you any trouble. ;)

Thanks I knew you wouldn't object!

;)

I felt as though I had to do the winky face back.

Y'know, because you did it.

But you did it in an ambiguous way. Some burly men aren't going to come and kidnap me are they? They won't have their way with a delicate soul like me? Will they? Although that could be fun.

On the outside we do not look burly. But don't misunderestimate us. We are deadly. In order to protect what we protect, which is the thing we hold under our protection, we will shrink from no deadpan intervention, no matter how unpleasant, that might prove necessary.

On the outside we look like Jean Cocteau, or even like Coco Chanel. But on the inside we are not what we seem. We are something else. From what we seem, that is. On the inside, that is. Because you shouldn't be fooled by the outside, which is a different side altogether. Still, the outside can be pretty snotty on its own if needs be. Say, for instance, the inside is busy contemplating Priory business, and the outside, looking like Jean Cocteau or Coco Chanel, feels a looming threat. It may simply, the outside I mean, NOT EVEN INFORM the inside of said threat, but decide to handle it on its own. And you don't want to see it. You think French waiters are snotty? Hah. Don't make me laugh. THAT is not snotty by Priory standards.

So it is not the burly fellows you need to worry about, Wylie. By publicizing internal Priory documents you are moving to an entirely different level of danger here. Never forget that the root word of "deadpan" is "dead". And "pan". Never forget that, Wylie.

You may share these words with Ms. Owens if you like. We know her role in the decoding. She has won a place in our hearts by naming a lamb after us. It is a deeply archetypal gesture. But we have our limits. We do have our limits, Wylie.

What if I name a dog after you?

This is an archetype that, I'm sure you are aware, could point different ways. If you were to name a Chihuahua after me, for instance, you would be putting yourself in serious danger. Imagine Jean Cocteau and Coco Chanel X 1000. So choose your dog wisely, Wylie.

A Scotch terrier mutt?

I'm going against my better judgment here, but will conclude by saying: Don't inform Ms. Owens of this brief chat. Tomorrow I will make a more public warning. I think others may benefit from this too. There are, after all, untold numbers of Chihuahuas out there, unnamed and threatening. So tomorrow you and Ms. Owens will be cited in a public manner. Until then, make no mention to her.

* * *

Earlier that day another Irish friend named Shonie Owens wrote as follows. I had only just recently learned of Shonie's role in decoding the Priory Correspondence:

Eric, I named one of our pedigree Texel lambs after you. Here we go, Eric the lamb!


Yes, it was a wonderful gesture on Ms. Owens' part. She had been made aware of all the people her rash revelations had put at risk, and was trying by this to apologize to me personally, the current Grand Master. I was appeased. The lamb is surpassing cute after all. And previously I'd never had anything named after me except a half a bee.

And so: For the time being, Paul and Shonie, I will think of the lamb when I think of this unfortunate leak of internal Priory documents. In other words, I will think of myself. For I am pedigree and warm of aspect, not snotty like my minions who, at this very moment, are waiting to pounce. They have heard word that the Priory has been compromised, and they await orders to act. They wait in chic cafes and hotel lobbies, waiting for my word, the word that will send them out with withering snottiness, a snottiness of such chic ferocity as to discomfit and ruin the lives of any they might glom onto. Yes, they are eager to train this deadpan snottiness on those who have compromised Priory secrets.

For now, however, I am thinking of the lamb, and so I will let it pass. They will sit in those cafes and hotel lobbies and run up big tabs with the sullen waiting, tabs that will be on us to cover, but I am thinking of the lamb, so I will cover their tabs.

Any others in fair Ireland or elsewhere who would divulge Priory secrets should think on Jean Cocteau and Coco Chanel instead--rather, they should imagine slightly smaller but snottier versions, whole troupes of Jeans and Cocos, swarming about you with dry remarks and cold gazes. And then you will have nowhere to hide. And then there will be no lamb cute enough to thwart my certain vengeance.

Eric Mader
G.M.P.o.S.

Friday, March 21, 2014