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Friday, April 04, 2025
Business journalism sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks. Oh, and it sucks some more after that
Wednesday, April 02, 2025
Hunting scenes
1.
In the Carnavalet, the Museum in Paris dedicated to Paris,
there is a room full of old enseignes – painted signs of wood or sheet
metal which were put outside of wine shops, taverns, bakeries, butchers, etc.
These painted signs were not only simply pictures of wine or bread or meat, or
simple cutouts of medal, to signify what was being sold, but combined the
indexical with the emblematic, or totemic or whimsical. The Hotel du Grand Cerf
shows a metal cutout of a great buck deer, but also a reclining, draped woman
at the deer’s feet, whom the deer looks
about to kiss. Or a wooden bas-relief of a cat, hung over a café named the Black Cat.
In the spirit of the enseigne, I’d like to hang over this
little essay (if that is what this melody is) a painting from 1565. Let’s not name it – you know it, and you know
the artist. Alistair Fowlie provides a good description of it: in the
foreground, “three hunters and a dozen dogs” trudge through the snow downhill
to a village. To the left, there is a junky inn of some sort with a broken
sign, and what looks like a fire, over which a pig or a bore is being cooked.
Fowlie names the dogs – using curious hunterly lingo: “three
smooth-haired grayhounds (fast gazehounds for hare or deer or fox); one shaggy
greyhound or lurcher (for hare or rabbit); four brown limers or bloodhounds
with pendulous ears (one of them defecating); and several smaller dogs.”
Fowlie notices that none of the hunters are in livery. They
are, in other words, probably not members of some noble’s house, not servants,
but villagers. This is the Low
Countries, not France or Spain, and hunting is not a privilege, by law, of the
aristocracy. Ortega y Gasset, in his Meditations on Hunting, written in Lisbon
in 1942, laments – with his conservative nostalgia, his distaste for the age of
the masses – the decline of the privilege of hunting, which is “one of the
characteristic privileges of the powerful”.
Ortega imagines that this privilege extends back to the Neolithic era.
In modernity, the hunting privilege has aroused powerful envy: “ One of the
causes of the French Revolution was the irritation the country people felt
because they were not allowed to hunt, and consequently one of the first
privileges which the nobles were obliged to abandon was this one. In all
revolutions, the first thing that the “people” have done was to jump over the
fences of the preserves or to tear them down…” Ortega may be on to something,
at least as far as the painting we are looking at is concerned, since the
hunters and the dogs only occupy the bottom third of the painting. Over the
snowing hill and far away is a landscape with a frozen pond upon which people
are skating, and houses with snow laden rooves within which one feels,
instinctively, that people are gathered around the hearth. The world belongs to
the season, and the season is not one for occupations. As Ortega points out,
occupations, jobs, are painful, and the majority of mankind is immersed in
them.
“So here is the human being suspended between two
conflicting repertories of occupations: the laborious and the pleasing. It is
moving and very sad to see how the two struggle in each individual. Work robs
us of time to be happy, and pleasure gnaws away as much as possible at the time
claimed by work. As soon as man discover a chink or crack in the mesh of his
work he escapes through it to the exercise of more enjoyable activities.”
Though our hunters are burdened down with the prey they have
caught, though the afternoon is falling and the snow is deep, one feels like
they have had a happy expedition in the woods and fields. They have killed
animals, and are taking them back to the village, while children play a form of
hockey on the pond far below them.
2
A theory of hunting.
In the Celestial Hunter, Roberto Calasso considered hunting
myths – starting with a close reading of Jason and the Argonauts – to pull together the
thematic structures in our ever increasing humanization (which, by dialectical
cunning, pulls us ever closer to our total de-humanization), with at its center
the idea and practice of sacrifice. Hunting is an essential moment in this continuum.
“For a long time, animals, perplexed, observed men. They perceived
that something changed. Men were no longer animals among the numerous animals
that predators took down and devoured, in the savanna and in the caves. Now,
even men took down and devoured. But not with their naked hands. They always
used an extra-human object : stones, spears, pikes. And they finished by
using something even stranger : they struck at a distance, with obsidian
points that penetrated the skin. They
were the only animal that struck from afar. When men advanced, in the
brush or in the forest, one sense a particular odor, something disagreeable and
alarming. These were the hunters.”
For Calasso, this moment – the moment of killing from afar –
was the crucial but unspoken event that transformed man the animal into man the
human. This was the pre-sacrificial
moment in the background of all sacrificial moments.
“The detachment vis-avis the animal was the major event of
history. Every other event refers to
this. No story subsists of what took place. But the innumerable stories which
have been transmitted presuppose this story which has not be transmitted down
to us and which perhaps has never been told. Before even being a ritual, this
was what preceded all rituals, and it is what all rituals allude to.”
Another Italian thinker, Carlo Ginzburg, has hypothesized
that the hunter’s art preceded and influenced the art of writing. In his long,
manifesto like essay, Clues, Ginzburg writes:
“Man has been a hunter for thousands of years. In the course
of countless chases he learned to reconstruct the shapes and movements of his
invisible prey from tracks on the ground, broken branches, excrement, tufts of
hair, entangled feathers, stagnating odors. He learned to sniff out, record,
interpret, and classify such infinitesimal traces as trails of spittle. He
learned how to execute complex mental operations with lightning speed, in the
depth of a' forest or in a prairie with its hidden dangers. This rich
storehouse of knowledge has been passed down by hunters over the generations.
In the absence of verbal documentation to supplement rock paintings and
artifacts, we can turn to folklore, which transmits an echo, though dim and
distorted, of the knowledge accumulated by those remote hunters.
An oriental fable that circulated among Kirghiz, Tartars,
Jews, Turks, and others relates the story of three brothers who meet a man who
has lost a camel or, in variant versions, a horse.U They describe it for him
without hesitation: it is white, blinded in one eye, and carries two goat-skins
on its back, one full of wine, the other of oil. Then they have seen it? No,
they have not. So they are accused of stealing and brought to trial. For the
brothers, this is a moment of triumph: they demonstrate in a flash how, by
means of myriad small clues, they could reconstruct the appearance of an animal
on which they have never laid eyes.”
There’s a relationship between Calasso’s notion of the
animal that attacks from afar and Ginzburg of the invisible animal that is
tracked by its traces – a venatic semiotics.
Perhaps the actual idea of narration (as distinct from
charms, exorcisms, or invocation) may have originated in a hunting society,
relating the experience of deciphering tracks. This obviously undemonstrable
hypothesis nevertheless seems to be reinforced by the fact that the rhetorical
figures on which the language of venatic deduction still rests today - the part
in relation to the whole, the effect in relation to the cause - are traceable
to the narrative axis of metonymy, with the rigorous exclusion of metaphor.”
Ginzburg’s essay is an attempt to account for a change in
historical and philosophical biases in modernity – or rather, in the post WWII
period, with the decline into which the grand narrative has fallen – by
pointing to the emergence of the clue not only in detective fiction and fact,
but in the way historians have worked in excavating smaller scenes,
micro-histories.
3.
A theory of the person
Sergio Dalla Bernardina, a professor of anthropology in
France, has devoted his studies to the interface between the animal and the
human. As an anthropologist, of course, he has to operate with angelic
quotation marks invisibly dancing above his enabling categories, and I will
too, endowing those two terms with a vague generality.
He is particularly interested in hunting, or in the way
animals become subject to killing by humans. Mostly, these animals are four
footed and give suck to their young – not for Dalla Bernadina the hecatombs of
roaches that are the ordinary casualties on an exterminator’s daily work.
To that end, he’s done field work with hunters in Europe:
hunters of chamois in the alps of Northern Italy, hunters of bore and foxes in
Corsica and Spain. Etc.
There is a story about the interface between humans and
animals. In the early modern era, the old kinship that was felt between man and
beast gave way to the clockwork beast, the mere carrier of our goods and
services. The cows in the factory, slaughtered on the assembly line, are the
great image of the modern ethos.
However, dalla Bernardina has come to a curiously
paradoxical conclusion about the interface between man and beast even in modern
times, and even among modern hunters, which is that hunted animals are endowed
by hunters (and some animals, dogs and cats for instance), with personhood by
humans.
It would seem that personhood would endow animals with
rights. However, that is a very theoretical point of view, a very liberal and
cushioned point of view. In history up to this very moment, the personhood of
persons has not ever prevented them from being killed by other humans. The
wars, murders, execution and general mayhem which weaves a ghastly course
through the human to human interface gives us, anthropologically, a different
sense of personhood than this ghostly substance with a right to a lawyer and
one call. The criminal, the traitor, the soldier enemy, or even the person in
the way is violated by a symbolically rich interaction that founds personhood
on responsibility and fault. We kill them, and in our eyes, to relieve,
perhaps, our own guilt, we make them responsible for their own deaths. They did
the wrong things, these killed: were born to the wrong people, fought on the
wrong side, were in the wrong place, speeded and didn’t pull over and so on.
Responsibility is hung around your neck like the albatross
around the Ancient Mariner’s.
God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!
Why look'st thou
so?'— 'With my crossbow
I shot the Albatross.
In dalla Bernardina’s great essay, A person not altogether
like the others: the animal and its status, Bernardina’s describes the
mise-en-scene of the Ainu bear ceremony, taken from Arlette Leroi-Gourhan’s
field work. Every year a small bear cub is captured. The whole village than
treats this cub with extraordinary kindness and generosity, feeding it, petting
it, pampering it like a child. The village “officially” treats it as a person,
and even a privileged person.
Then comes the feast day. The bear is taken on a tour around
the village, and everyone gently explains the festival, which is to be transmitted,
spiritually, to the whole tribe of bears after his death. This is necessary so
that the bears will be happy to come to the persons who have treated them so
nicely, and not to be angry and destroy the huts of the village. So much the
ethnologist Leroi-Gourhan understood. But then comes the puzzling part: “for a
reason that we could not grasp, but which, perhaps, has the purpose, as in the
corridas, to fatigue the animal, everyone begins to mistreat it, to anger it,
pulling it on all sides, pricking it with branches and striking it with large leafy
bamboo shoots. At last it is lead to the square of the village and attached to
a stake. Everyone assembles. Then the chief of the ceremony takes his bow and
shoots the first arrow. Officially, that is considered to kill it. Then all the
men target it with their arrows. Nearby, they lay down two big logs on the
ground. Then they lead the dying or dead bear to the logs and break its neck. A
piece of wood is introduced into its mouth and the spoils are transported
before the village’s palisade. The women clamor their indignation and hit the
men for their cruelty, the older ones weep, but, soon, the young people begin
to dance.”
Dalla Bernardina relates this ceremony to the testimony of
contemporary hunters in Europe, who almost always eventually use “person” type
words to describe the animals they hunt. The animals, it turns out, are “clever”,
“malign”, “tricky” – they are, in the narratives of the hunters, responsible,
in part, for their own killing. It is only when they are dead that they are
wholly animal, wholly separate from the realm of beings to which they hunters
themselves belong. There is, thus, an identification between the hunter and the
prey that seems to be much different from what one would expect in a Cartesian
culture, or a culture in which the animal was merely a machine, a clockwork extravagance,
a rightless object.
Dalla Bernardina rightly contextualizes his theory with the class
notion that the poor, the worker, the peasant are inherently cruel, and thus
treat the animal cruelly. This notion traverses the entire Western discourse on
cruelty to animals - a discourse that
has increased as the mechanization of slaughter has created a gap between the
people who eat the meat of the killed animal and the people who raised the
animal, shipped the animal to the abattoir, slaughtered the animal. From the
perspective of those who, like me, get their bacon wrapped in plastic in a
grocery store, the cruelty practiced on, say, pigs, which I know about from Charlotte’s
Web and Wodehouse Blandings novels can be the subject both of my horror and of
my indifference at the same time. Killing from afar is not only a structure,
but a logic.
4.
The mice.
I was sitting on the sofa four months ago when my eye caught
something. A certain shadow, a grayness. I look up and nothing is there, but I
sensed something.
I remember years ago, before the apartment was remodeled, having
the same feeling. Of something being there.
Of course, in a couple of days I saw it. The mouse. Rushing
along the baseboard at a good clip. And always being able to escape almost
magically by going through the crack between the floor and a storage drawer mounted
just above the floor.
And so it began. The mouse droppings in the bathroom. Under
the refrigerator. The sightings. Going to the bathroom at night and thinking,
sleepily, of a mouse running over your toes.
At first I tried clove oil. Bought a sprayer with that
dispensed a scent that was supposedly repulsive to rodents. And this would work
for a day, or two, but then one of use would see it again.
Then the snap traps. Which I put under the sink, under the
refrigerator. Which snapped on me as I set them up. Fuck!
And nothing. Never worked. I had the feeling that it wouldn’t
work. I knew it wouldn’t work.
So the glue traps. The awful glue trap.
One evening, we were going out. To a dinner with some
friends. We were talking, coordinating. I look over and where I set the glue
trap, there it was. A mouse. Caught. On its side.
This was the first one. Now the glue traps folded over. When
you opened them out, like a book, and spread them on the floor, the mouse
would, theoretically, mostly be caught on one leaf or another. The reason for this
was not just that you could close and store the traps without getting glue on
yourself. The reason was what I now had to do. Because I was not going to leave
the mouse, seemingly stunned, in the glue. So I put one leaf over the other and
stomped, thus crushing the mouse.
A little mouse blood drop on the floor.
And so it happened. Three more times. I felt absolutely
dirty the first time. I felt a little less the second. I still felt dirty,
though. Fold over, stomp.
Poor mice. But I felt it was not my fault. I felt it was
their fault. I felt that they were invading my space, and that I would have
left them alone if we met “in nature”.
We closed up the egress from the outside, we tracked down where
they were coming from. I think, at least. Have not seen one in a month. Nor
felt one. Cause you begin to feel mice in a relatively small apartment.
It is not my fault.
Hunting scenes 2
Following
There’s a relationship between Calasso’s notion of the
animal that attacks from afar and Carlo Ginzburg’s of the invisible animal that
is tracked by its traces – a venatic semiotics.
So much depends upon that almost invisible concept of “following”.
So much: metaphysics, history, writing…
Which brings me to a familiar story. A man tells
this tale in a poem: in a chariot balanced on bronze eight spoked wheels, with
an iron axle, pulled by wise horses and led by celestial maidens, he comes to
the portal of night and day and is there greeted by a goddess who cries out to
him that he has left the beaten track of men.
The goddess then proceeds to tell him a cosmic secret. There are two ‘routes’
of inquiry: that of what is, and that of what is not.
Philosophers, enraptured by what is and what is not, have neglected the
question that some more naïve inhabitant of roads, ways, trails, streets,
pistes, sentiers, Wege, some vagabond, some pour lost soul, might ask – say a
girl wearing a red hood, entering a forest and coming to two trails to her grandmother’s
house. That question is – how is being, or non being, like a road? Or, if
inquiry and being are so related as the chariot wheel is to the track – how is
inquiry a road? Why this image?
Who leads the inquiry? I imagine this question coming from the girl, as she
strips off the hood and throws it into the fire, and strips off her socks and
throws them into the fire, and strips off her chemise and throws it into the
fire, a magic fire that consumes instantly and ashlessly, and all the
undergarments, strip he tells her, and her staring at the being on the bed of
whom she has always had a presentiment. The being who wants to see all of her
and never will, there will never be enough seeing, just as she has remarked on
enough of him, seen him – his teeth, his ears, his hairiness. This couple, made
of girl and wolf, sex and hunger. Both know trails, tracks, paths. One will
return, one will not. Both know the pins and needles. One is the route of what
is, one is the route of what is not and cannot be. Beware of the second route.
Not that this couple would have been in any position to read the fragments of
Parmenides, which were first gathered together again – all the extant verses -
in the West by G.G. Fuelleborn in 1795.
In Calasso’s telling of the event/non-event of the arrow,
the thrown spear, the first killing at a distance, he contrasts metonomy – the event
described – and metaphor – the event modelled, analogized. For the arrow is the
first human transcendent, opening up a world of thrown things, from light to
vision itself. The world as projection.
“There are two original sins for Homo : separation
and imitation. Separation takes place when Homo decides to oppose itself to the
zoological continuum, in taking certain animals into its service and
considering others as a material potentially useful for it own ends. Imitation
is when Homo approximates, in his behavior, the predators. Once the passage to
predation is accomplished, Homo does not know how to treat this new part of its
nature. It chooses to circumscribe it in its literal signification and extend
it as a metaphor. It invents hunting as a non-indispensable activity, a gratuitous
one. It was the first art for the sake of art.”
To follow – this is rooted in the animal world of tracks,
flights, lines of attack and retreat. Yet, for something so fundamental, it is
also so hidden. It is about hiding and seeking, it is the business of the child,
the girl going into the forest and choosing the trail to follow to grandma’s
house. Or Hercules at the crossroads, that swollen boy at his twelve appointed
tasks.
2.
Rane Willerslev’s did his field work among the Yukaghirs, a small
tribe in Siberia whose social system relies upon hunting – hence the name of
his book, Soul Hunting. Willerslev was a participant-observer – he joined the
hunting parties and, according to his own account, became pretty good at it, good
enough to find sedentary life, life in the village, tedious:
“Like most other hunters, I found the monotony of life in
the village almost intolerable. In addition, the young village women, with
their elegant leather boots and Russian-style clothes, seemed alien to me. When
I was not interviewing teachers, administrators, and retired people, I killed
time by hitting the bottle with the other hunters. It was only when Akulina and
Gregory Shalugin, an elderly Yukaghir couple with whom I had developed a
particularly warm friendship, dragged me along to the forest that my condition
improved. From that point on, however, I avoided village life as much as I
could and spent the rest of my time in the field with Spiridon’s group and
other groups of hunters in the forest.”
Willerslev frames his notion of the Yukaghir sense of the
world in terms of the mimetic agent: to follow a track is, in some sense, to mimic
the being that made the track. Following here is a common but unspoken skill of
both the hunter and the prey, for the prey that makes the track is also
following some mimetic goal: escape, food, sleep, sex, birth, play.
In this sense, the hunter’s spirit lies over all writing,
all incisions or marks on surfaces. To write is to follow. And the time of
following is a double time, divided between going forward in the future and
knowing that going forward is what constitutes the past – that past inhabited
by beings that are going forward on one’s track, that are tracking one.
Sunday, March 30, 2025
A sunday meditation on balls
There is a tremendous literature about sports in the 20th
and 21st century, but really little about the ball. The ball itself. Yet the
ball is fascinating. The hardness, the compression of the racket ball balls is
satisfying, but I can’t get myself into one of those balls. By contrast, that
is what I spent my time trying to do between 11 and 21, playing tennis. I was a
steady player, but mediocre. I was paired with another such player on the high
school team – not for me the thrill of starting as a single. On the other hand,
I was good enough that I could sometimes defeat our single player – not the
Swedish ringer, but my buddy, W. – in a match. In tennis, sometimes you have a
growth spurt – you play above the level of your play, you get it in a new way,
the ball is your second self. But I could never climb to that level and stay
there. Not enough dedication. Even so, I knew that when I played well, it was
about the ball. The racket, the beautiful racket, followed, obeyed, it was a
part of you, but it wasn’t idiosyncratic, it didn’t have a free will, it wasn’t
a ball.
It is odd that economists don’t consider the ball. All the
activity, the immense labor, that is woven around balls. Because why? Because
you want to win, and to win means doing your thing with the ball, which is the
thing – the object and the symbol – between you and your opponent.
Balls have evidently been around a long time, but they don’t
get the study that, say, coins do. They should, though. Take, for instance, the
American football. That ball is grotesque. It is less ball than projectile. If
Adorno had had a sportif bone in his flabby kritikdrenched body, he would have
recognized the intimacy between the football and Hiroshima. In fact, football
is a tremendously interesting game, but it is interesting the way the war in
the Pacific, circa 1941-1945, is more interesting than the Thirty years war.
On the other hand, you have the baseball, which is all
Renaissance, a thing of beauty that would have been recognized by Alberti or by
da Vinci. The stitching and the whiteness and the generally regal bearing of
that ball, the great materials it is made of, mystically color the entire game.
When I was a kid, someone – I think Uncle Harry – gave me a
baseball on which was inscribed the names of the Baltimore Oriole players from
the great 1966 team. Boog Powell, Frank Robinson, Brooks Robinson, etc. Looking
back, this was probably a manufactured thing, with those signatures. But the
thing about the thing is: we move here from pragmatics to memorabilia. From the
sphere of use to the sphere of fetishism. And this has downward effects on our
way of thinking of Plato’s heaven of ideas. Myself, I think we cannot get rid of essences in philosophy,
but we find them right before our nose rather than beyond the starry sky. When
we try to pluck one and only one particular from the crowd of essences, we
pluck it out of one field of use. A wonderful thing about the baseball in Don
Delillo’s Underground is that it is literally plucked, or caught, by
someone seated in the Dodger’s stadium. It is a magic trick – as all catching
of a baseball has a certain magic aura about it. From the essence to the
particular – this is the route of humanism as well as magic.
Yet even so – there is the ball – not the individual balls.
Oddly, all of these balls are inter-substitutable. One doesn’t play a ball game
with the individual ball in mind. There are, of course, balls that are
fetishistically claimed – bowling balls, for instance. But mostly the balls are
disposable in their very essence. You might try to live on the tennis ball
during the game, you might try to clear your mind of everything else, but in
the end, you have no affection for the ball qua that particular ball.
…
Children’s encyclopedia’s retail glorious myths about the
invention of fire, or of the wheel, or the pully, or bronze – but they never
both to imagine the invention of the ball. The ball, in fact, seems part of
nature. A pebble, a nut. Yet the ball is surely the very symbol of culture – it
is the very symbol of the symbol. In itself, it is nothing. But in play, it
becomes more than itself. It starts to mean. It is Victor Turner’s symbolic
object, and as such, it defines spaces and limits. It creates a passage,
traversing a space that is charged with meaning. But unlike those objects –
human beings – who also go through passages, the ball can mean but it can’t
express. This, of course, brings us back to the afore mentioned fact that balls
do not earn our affection, as say a piece of furniture, a house, a car do. A
ball is always being subsumed into the great collective of balls.
…
And that’s it for the Sunday meditation on balls.
Thursday, March 27, 2025
Liner notes by Karen Chamisso
There was one song he played I could really feel – Joni
Mitchell
Little Sheba’s in the under-verse spotlight
Lapdancing for sugar and feels
And there’s this one white American heiress
blown westward in platinum and heels
This one white American heiress
Leaving selfies in Vegas and Paris
Yes, race, the brunt and burden of it
Is the putty and soul of the American song
And some have to make money working
While others in family trees belong
And there’s this one white American heiress
Leaving selfies in Vegas and Paris
The angels ride the browning needles
That are shedding from Grandma’s Christmas tree
Which is where the lynch rioters ended up
With the usual hot tar and bigotry
And that was so long ago
That it might be this morning’s penitentiary
In a number of small towns dying
Save for that old-time punitive luxury
Which will never reach out for one white American heiress
As she leaves selfies in Vegas and Paris
Tuesday, March 25, 2025
Causes and resentments
What difference does cause make?
The Egyptians and Eastern Mediterranean cultures thought
that thinking went on in the heart. There was strong evidence for this: the
heart for instance spoke – it beat. Whereas for the Egyptians, nothing came out
of the brain exactly.
The Greeks strongly believed, for the most part, in the extramission
theory of vision – that miniscule rays issue from the eyes, which is how we see.
In a sense, vision is touch – the rays touch the things seen. Even Leonardo da
Vinci implies an extramissionist belief in his notebooks. In fact, as was shown
in a widely circulated 2002 article by Winer, Cottrell, Gregg, et al., a survey
of adult Americans finds that large numbers of adults, among whom are college
students, still think something shoots out of the eye that “causes” vision. When shown a three models of vision, one
showing “rays” represented as dotted lines going out of the eye, one showing photons
“entering the eye” and one mixing the photons entering the eye with the rays
coming out of the eye, from 41 to 60 percent of the adults surveyed preferred
the last choice. I’m not sure however if the adults really believed this or
thought that if given three choices, one of which mixes up the first two
choices, the safest bet is the half of one, half of the other choice. The last
refuge of the student who didn’t have time to study the subject.
Until the 17th century, the majority of
physicians in the “Western” world believed that the passions were the result of
various humors, usually put at four: blood, black bile, yellow bile, and phlegm.
The animal spirits were the middle men, so to speak, of the humors. Very subtle
entities, the animal spirits were produced by the blood in the heart.
We – by which I mean myself and Occidental physicians and
most of their patients – no longer believe any of these “cause” stories. By
believe I mean that it doesn’t cross your doctors mind to check and see if some
subtle vapor formed in the heart is picking up too much black bile, thus causing
you to be depressed.
However, if the extreme change in the belief in causes –
causes on an intimate scale, causes that helped one define one’s very self,
down to thinking thoughts about the very self and feeling “feels” about the
self – hasn’t caused any meta-change in the self’s concept of itself, hasn’t a
place, so to speak, in the intellectual history of our ordinary life – is this
proof that, basically, we don’t have any feelings about cause?
I ask this question because it isn’t often asked by
historians. That is, not in this way. One traces the “progress” of science, but
one doesn’t ask what effect that progress has on the Da-sein in question.
2.
I admire Carlo Ginzburg for being one of the historians who admits
the existence of other disciplines into his historical method – but it astonishes
me that he is one of the few who does so. In the anthropology of emotions,
there has long been a dialogue over the study of how different cultures express
emotions. But this dialogue has to do with the Other – with the “non-Western”
peoples who, in the colonialist calendar, are primitive, live in another age –
say the stone age – from our hip to the plastic Westerners.
I have long thought – it was the thought that drove my
interest in the way happiness became a total social fact in modernity – that we
should look to these anthropologists in order to understand the development of
that modernity in places like France, Britain, Germany, Italy, Spain, etc.
For instance: Robert I. Levy, in an essay entitled Emotions,
Knowing and Culture [1984], proposed two axes for analyzing emotions on the
sense making level – that is, not as private experiences, but as experiences
that enter into the public domain. On the one hand, he speaks of hyercognition
– “Hypercognition involves a kind of shaping, simplifying, selecting, and
standardizing, a familiar function of cultural symbols and forms. It involves a
kind of making “ordinary” of private understandings.” In contrast to that stands
hypocognition – “Hypocognition forces the (first order) understanding into some
private mode.” Citing his own work on “sadness” among Tahitians (Levy claims
that, while there are words for severe grief and lamentation, there are “no
unambiguous terms that represent the concepts of sadness, longing, or
loneliness… People would name their condition, where I supposed that [the body
signs and] the context called for “sadness” or “depression”, as “feeling
troubled” pe’ape’a, the generic term for disturbances, either internal or
external;…”) Levy writes that these are some “underschematized emotional
domains”, and that these are hypocognized. “One of the consequences of
hypocognition is that the felt disturbance, the “troubled feelings,” can be
interpreted both by the one who experiences them and by others around him as
something other than ‘emotion’. Thus, the troubled feelings that persist too
long after the death of a loved one or those that occur after some loss that
Tahitian ideology holds to be trivial and easily replaceable are in the village
often interpreted as illness or as the harmful effects of a spirit.”
Other anthropologists have named this form of emotional
expression “situated”.
Levy’s idea has not, unfortunately, been taken up by intellectual historians.
Perhaps this is because one thinks, still, of emotion as being a very intimate
and incommunicable state of feeling, which, though perhaps aroused by an
external incident, is wholly enveloped within the individual self, much as a
tooth ache is felt by the possessor of the tooth and not by the dentist who
pulls it. But the affections are not spontaneously invented within us, even if
they are, of course, neurologically guided. In fact, one would expect that the
kind of epistemic and social ruptures that are thought to constitute the great
transformation within the Occident – defined as capitalism, or the industrial
or scientific revolution, or the emergence of new encompassing institutions –
should present situations that evoke feelings that are ‘underschematized’.
The feeling of cause, for instance, seems underschematized.
And yet, much of our schooling is all about schematizing our sense of cause.
And in so doing, it alienates us from a sort of idiot sense – a private, but
shared, popular sense – of cause.
It is harsh, schooling. The accumulated social feeling about
teachers often comes out in reactionary times when the whole process, the
learning that one is entirely wrong about almost everything, is revenged.
It is an oddity of the work of Foucault, and of his followers, that though
Foucault was very clear about the kind of epistemic rupture that he dates,
approximately, to the late 18th and early 19th century, the rupture is not
witnessed. On his account, it happens in a sense without any contemporary
realizing it. I call this odd in that Foucault thought that he, on the
contrary, could very well recognize the ‘end of man’ and the shifts that
signaled another epistemic rupture. If we suppose that such things could be
witnessed, perhaps the witnesses would struggle with hypo-cognition – perhaps
they would not be able to interpret their feelings about what they witnessed,
about the new thoughts they thought. Suppose, suppose.
Sunday, March 23, 2025
The sidelined "lefty"
It is the fate of the people of “lefty” opinions, such as myself, with no particular organizational skills but a buncha thought out and even written down notions, to feel that we generally sit on the sidelines of history. Lefties, during most of the twentieth century, felt like actors, while lefties in the 21st century, even under the best of circumstances, feel like responders. The accidents pile up and the responders can merely sort through the bloody mass of victims – usually at a safe distance. There they are, in the photographs, under this or that bombed building. Here we are. Hi.
Saturday, March 22, 2025
This spring we're on our own: the end of the cult of the savior billionaire and the battle of Columbia
As the revolutionary fevers of the sixties were calming in
the seventies, the Right Wing was alarmed by what they took to be the sneaky
new strategy of subversion by the New Left, the so called “long march through
the institutions”. The Modern Age, a
magazine that was proudly to the right of National Review, published an article
by a certain Helmut Schelsky (translated by Edward Shils) in 1974 that laid out
the program in the most apocalyptic terms possible: “The unity of “left-wing
radicalism” which resides in this consensus regarding strategy embraces the
German Communist Party and its university affiliate “Spartakus”, as well as the
most diverse anarchist grups, the leadersip of the Young Socialists, as well as
important sections of the Young Democrats.” Schelsky’s message was not just for
Germans (West Germans, who lived in a country, incidentally, where the Communist
party was as illegal as it had been in the 1930s, under the Nazis), but for all
defenders of the West. Schelsky puts upfront the fact that the systematic strategy
of subverting the system is about “the conquest of the universities and of
teacher training colleges…”
Schelsky’s sense of the Long March through the institutions was
not exactly an illusion. Indeed, in the seventies, the return of student
radicals to graduate programs was a long event. In many ways, the second wave
of feminism was nurtured in English departments – to my mind, one of the great
triumphs of liberal civilization. Similarly, gay civil rights was an exercise in
both the streets and the classrooms.
Although I am quoting an article from 1974, I could be
quoting Chris Rulfo in 2023. He even uses the verb conquest in his articles and
podcast about how the “radical left conquered everything.” It is a curious
thesis – in the year 2023, without a peep from the Democrats or the “radical
left”, billionaire wealth surged by 2 trillion dollars. Not, from this “radical
leftist”, a banner year in our conquest. But if one keeps in mind that the
conquest has a nub of truth – the oppression of women, of gays, of blacks,
Hispanics, etc in America was, at the very least, discredited, even if out
there in the fields it was still doing its work – and one looks at that surge
of wealth for those at the top, it was obvious that the so called “cultural war”
– which is really a civil rights struggle, disguised as a struggle against “woke
censorship” – was about to take a new turn. The universities and schools simply
cannot hold out in their aging liberal sensibility against the massive changes
in the composition of wealth not only in America but throughout the “West”. The
American liberal cult of the savior “billionaire” – the ex of Bezos, or Bezos
himself, or Soros, or some other moneybags – signals that everything has gone
wrong. The long march had become a wholly owned subsidiary, in the standard
centrist Democratic party narrative, of the “good rich people”.
Thus, the Potemkin villages were easy targets of
destruction. Much easier than anybody thought. The news channels, newspapers
and universities have been rolling over at speed in a mere three months due to
the efforts of the truly stupidest collection of bozos ever to have used the
Oval office to sell baseball caps.
When a collective collectively loses its backbone like this,
one must look at more than individual vice. The long march of plutocracy
through the parties, starting with the Dem surrender to Reaganism, has borne
its poisoned fruit.
There is some relief, I suppose, in knowing who you can’t
rely on. In this acid test of American democracy, we can see the savior
billionaire groupies looking for some win-win figleaf, some way of making
retreat and surrender look like the most reasonable thing ever done by a
Democratic politico in the gym basement of the Senate building. In other words,
we see the sheer comedy and parody on display of the woke-lite brigade. They
will, when the cards are down, join the Trumpies.
Tin soldiers and Columbia folding/this spring we’re on our
own, to parody an old song.
We are on our own.
Business journalism sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks. Oh, and it sucks some more after that
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