anti-Sopa

the nervous character: Zeno 4

The popular stories about the introduction of various forms of using tobacco are always about the military. It is said that the habit of cigarette smoking passed from the Spanish soldiers, who had learned it from Brazilians, to the French in the 1830s. However, there is another story that locates the re-invention of cigarettes in the 1850s wars between Russia and Turkey. A Turkish soldier, whose pipe was destroyed by a bullet, put tobacco in the paper from the envelop of a cartouche, and smoked it. [[Ferland, 2007] And still another claims that it was the French soldiers, arriving with paper and tobacco, who diffused the habit in Russia. These different stories could be sorted out by considering that the Brazilians and Spanish may well have used a corn leaf – which is how cigarettes were described as late as 1864 in G.A. Henrieck’s Du Tabac. There we read that cigarettes are rolled in paper “sans colle”. Indeed, this was the technical difficulty with cigarettes as a commodity: its fragility.

The military is mobile, and at the same time idle, which has some effect on the form of drug that is being used. Tolstoy’s letter to his aunt Tatiana Yergoloskaya in 1851-2, when he was garrisoned in the Cacausus, describe the garrison life very well.  Garrisons were foyers for all the products that kill time, from gambling to smoking to, in recent times, heroin and marijuana. Also for politics and literature.

Here’s Tolstoy as he starts to settle in the garrison life:

 "I was at Stariy Yurt. All the officers who were there did nothing but play and at rather high stakes. As it is impossible for us when living in camp not to see each other often, I have very often taken part in card-playing, and, notwithstanding the importunity I was subject to, I had stood firm for a month, but one day for fun I placed a small stake: I lost. I began again: I again lost. I was in bad luck; the passion for play had awakened, and in two days I had lost all the money I had and that which Nikolay had given me (about 250 rubles), and into the bargain 500 rubles for which I gave a promissory note payable in January, '52.”

Tolstoy, of course, was not a typical officer, and killed time by writing “Childhood” and reflecting on the world around him.  Lucien Leuwen, the hero of Stendhal’s novel, shares some traits with Tolstoy – notably, his wealth and connections and interior life. But Stendhal’s hero is engaged not in suppressing the Turkic speaking mountain people on the Russian frontier, but, or so he feared, the French speaking people on the class frontier in Nancy – as Stendhal sets his story just after the French army had suppressed various worker strikes in Metz. Still, the life of idleness represented by Stendhal – and the contrast with the ambitions of the hero – takes on a very similar tone.

If killing time in the garrison corresponded with the use of drugs, it was a different kind of time that corresponds to the popular image of cigarettes by 1900.  In a sense, this is the same problem of weight and mass that is discussed in the preface to “The Telegraph as a means of commerce” (1857) by Karl Gustav Knies, who compares the ‘commodities’ of things, persons, and “information” – Nachricht. Knies was one of the first economists to recognize that telegrams, by introducing a real time speed into the diffusion of information, had, as it were, given a premium to the light and speedy. To come to this conclusion, Knies had to frame for himself a sense of information that, at the time he wrote, was still lacking. Yet he knew that the Nachricht “is obviously one of the objects in which commerce between people is represented.” Information (or “report”), unlike thought, requires distance – and even if one presumes to have information from oneself, one is at least metaphorically putting oneself at a distance from oneself. More normally, though, communication goes from a sender to a distanced receiver. Knies points out that if we have certain information that seems timeless, or at least doesn’t lose value in being transported from the sender to the receiver, much of what we communicate has only a passing value – just as any other commodity has. In other words, there is a shelf-life for reports. At the same time, there is a double time frame, one in which the immediacy of the need to which information corresponds may not be the same for the sender and the receiver. These things are true about letters and oral communications – but with the telegraph, a whole news temporal order, and a whole shift in the social construction of ‘immediacy”, comes about on the mass scale.

In a word, the lightness and quickness of the telegraphic message presages a different tempo in the life of human beings, which calls out for a drug that is both speedy and that suspends speed. That was the cigarette. It needed, however, to be technically changed. The cigarette becomes the object of certain changes, in manufacture and marketing, that make it an exemplary product of the turn to consumer goods in the later nineteenth century. Famously, the development of the tobacco industry in Russia, in which a skilled group of cigarette rollers were trained to produce cigarettes to serve a mass market, jumpstarted the American cigarette industry, which took its real start when James Duke enticed a number of Eastern European Jewish cigarette rollers to move from New York to North Carolina to train a number of Southern factory workers. Duke could not find an entrance to the cigar industry, so he chose to enter the tobacco industry by enlarging the production and market for cigarettes. America was famously addicted to cigars and chewing tobacco for most of the nineteenth century: cigarettes were suspiciously European. Duke introduced mechanisation, a new packaging method (a hard paper box), and advertising. Although he never was able to take over the cigar industry, which was resistant to the kind of speeded up manufacture that suited cigarettes, he did establish a strangle hold on cigarettes by 1912.

These are all developments that made cigarettes a symbolic accessory for the changes in the tempo of life that was being felt by urban populations in the U.S. and Europe by 1900.

The characterological correlate of this tempo was: the neurotic.

the new non-idle rich!

The NYT, which is caught between a love for the one percent that blooms in its style magazine and its business page and a political atmosphere in which the chummy relationship between liberalism and the one percent is coming apart, unrollsanother of its color pieces about the lifestyles of the rich. It features one Adam Katz in its first paragraph: “Adam Katz is happy to talk to reporters when he is promoting his business, a charter flight company based on Long Island called Talon Air.” So what did the Times reporters ask him?

Well, we are not far into the article when, breezing past the assets – “…an $8 million home, a family real estate company in Manhattan and his passion, 10-year-old Talon Air” … we are assured that, like so many of the 1 percent, Talon is a dynamo, a man who makes your average doublejob mom or dad seem like a slacker:

“”Still, they are not necessarily the idle rich. Mr. Katz, who sometimes commutes by amphibious plane and sometimes carries luggage for Talon Air passengers, likes to say he works “26/9.”

Of course, the NYT – as its Public Editor, Arthur Brisbane, recently put it – isn’t in the business of the “truth”. If a presidential candidate or a rich man says something, it is the Times policy to simply print it, and let he who has an hour to kill and Google find out if it is true or not. Such a comforting doctrine! Luckily, I am one of the idle non-rich, and having the time, I goodled Mr. Katz, and found that, in other interviews, Mr. 26/9 gives a different peek at his life. Especially revealing was his interview with OceanHome, which, you will be surprised to hear, does not contain any stories about CEO Katz manfully struggling to manipulate a hundred pound suitcase into his jet’s tight suitcase storage space.  He paints a different view of his time expenditure – for instance, in response to the question about what he did when he bought his current mansion in Nassau County: 

“After purchasing it in 2007, I did a $3.5 million gut renovation, rebuilding it as a six-bedroom smart house, using a Creston system for controlling everything from lighting, sound, and temperature control to operating any of the 20 flat-screen TVs that fold down from the ceilings. I added a movie theater, a solarium with a sunken hot tub, a customized gym, outdoor kitchens and fire pits, Jacuzzis, an infinity-edge pool, radiant heat terraces, and a dock for my 135-foot motoryacht and 47-foot Intrepid speed boat, with Ipe (Brazilian Walnut) steps leading to a private beach.”

You might think that all these accoutrements make it even sadder that he is spending 7 days a week away from home. But don’t cry! It turns out that he sometimes his working time is spent amid the solarium, Jacuzzis and pool: 

What do you love most about waterfront living?
I love the privacy of it all, and the views are always spectacular, particularly when the sun sets across Manhattan. Better yet, I can commute to the city via my speedboat in 15 minutes.
Is one particular room in the house used most?
For me, it’s the 2,000-square-foot master bedroom, mostly because of the water views and the comfort of relaxing near a wood-burning fireplace. And it’s where my home office is. Like I said before, because the house was built in the round, it really feels like you’re sleeping on a ship at sea.

Still, “easy living”, as Ocean Home labels the article on a man who works harder than any four man in the bottom 99 percent, doesn’t always elude our hero. For instance, asked about the worst element in living in a house facing the ocean, Katz said: “Cold temperatures and wind are pretty intolerable during the winter months, which is why we head down to the Bahamas and live and sail around on the yacht.” 

Life, on the whole, is hard for the 1 percent: “They work longer hours, being three times more likely than the 99 percent to work more than 50 hours a week, and are more likely to be self-employed,” according to unreferenced stats in the NYT article. But I like to think that the fifty hours of week does have its softer side. I imagine, for instance, there might even be tax write-offs involved with working and sailing that yacht around the Bahamas. But these are mysteries the 99 percent know not of.

smoke em if you got em: Svevo 3

The closer one comes to a material detail in a text, the more distant appears the division between symbol and fact. Symbol and fact are always found in one another's arms, like lovers, and it is not an easy task to separate one from the other. And the person who does attempt to separate them must put on an anerotic mood, and will always feel a bit like a prude, a busybody or a fool. Besides, just as he pries away the fact, undresses it and preps it for the  table of statistics, let him turn his back for only a moment - and it is irresistable, this turning of your back on the fact - and when he turns back the fact will have simply embraced another symbol, or worse, the same one.

For example, take the historic facts in the case of tobacco...


William Weaver’s translation of Zeno's Conscience begins by looking at Italo Svevo’s name – “(his real name): Ettore Schmitz. The first half is Italian and, significantly, it is the name of a Greek hero, not of a Catholic saint. The surname is German. Then consider the birthplace: Trieste, a city that has had many masters, from ancient Romans to Austrians to Italians. In 1861, when Ettore Schmitz was born there, Trieste was an Austrian city, a vital one, the great empire’s only seaport and a focus of trade between central Europe and the rest of the world.”


The split Weaver points to in Svevo’s very name is, if we look a little at the history of tobacco, echoed in Zeno’s habit.


A few subtending facts, then.


In December, 1847, Italian nationalists in Milan (which, like Venice, Trieste and other parts of Italy, were under Habsburg rule) decided to imitate the American tea party – just as the Americans boycotted tea to protest British rule, they would boycott tobacco to protest Austrian rule. Tobacco was chosen for good reason: the Austrian state exercized a monopoly on the sale of tobacco. Since the habit of smoking tobacco in cigar form had been “brought” into the German sphere by English soldiers during the Napoleonic war (such, at least, was the myth to which German writers on tobacco subscribed), the Austrian state, like the Prussian state, had reacted by regulating its use. But unlike the Prussian state, the Austrian didn’t only ban smoking in public in the capital – they also devised different regulatory regimes for different regions in the Empire. And they promoted the creation of large tobacco estates in Hungary, which became part of one of the largest industries in the Empire, from cultivation to curing to manufacture of snuff, pipe tobacco, and cigars. [See Wickett, Studien ueber das Österreich Tabakmonopol, 1897]


In Dalmatia, state control of tobacco production was relaxed – in accordance with the liberalization of this area of the Empire that had been inaugurated by Joseph II. Trieste was well known as an entry point for the tobacco smuggling trade. In 1830, when Stendhal was the French consul in Trieste, he had remarked upon the openness of the smuggling trade. The tobacco that came in was, most likely, of Egyptian origin.


In Milan, the Austrian state had no rules about smoking in public. The Milanese liberals, voting to boycott smoking, sparked a nationalist feeling in the populace. On the 2nd and the 3rd, there were disturbances in the street, as cigars were plucked from the mouths of passerbys and thrown into the road.


But who were these smoking passerbys? Here, contemporary accounts differ. According to a French history from 1857, the Austrian government, knowing that the boycott was coming, had distributed 30,000 cigars to the Austrian garrison in the city. Thus, the soldiery was ‘armed’ with smokes, and when the crowds attacked, they took this as a provocation to violence and reacted accordingly. According to a contemporary Italian historian (Giusseppi Ricciardi, 1850), the smoking soldiers were joined by smoking criminals, who had been released from the jails and given cigars by the Austrian authorities to add to the confusion. Like a trick cigar, the situation ludicrously exploded, with rioting that spread to other cities in Italy.


But in Berlin and Austria of that year, the public/private meaning of the cigar was reversed. The laws that were put in place after the Vienna congress had banned cigar smoking in public, and thus made cigar smoking a daring act – or at least an act of symbolic resistance. The progressive smoked cigars – “ a democratic symbol for rabble rousers and agitators’ – while the petit bourgeouis smoked pipes. As the revolution spread, in 1848, from Paris to Berlin and Vienna, one of the demands of the liberals was the freedom to smoke in public – shoulder to shoulder with the freedom of the press.


Against this background, there is not only a split in Schmitz’s pseudonym, Italo Svevo, but even in the meaning of the tobacco addiction that provides the connection in Zeno’s account of his life. Freedom, for the Italian patriots, came via giving up tobacco. Freedom for German patriots meant taking up tobacco. And freedom is at the heart of the habit that Zeno describes, the perpetually renewed freedom of giving up the smoking habit:

"I believe the taste of a cigarette is more intense when it’s your last. The others, too, have a special taste of their own, but less intense. The last one gains flavor from the feeling of victory over oneself and the hope of an imminent future of strength and health. The others have their importance because, in lighting them, you are proclaiming your freedom, while the future of strength and health remains, only moving off a bit."

  In Georges Bataille and Roger Caillois’s program for the College of Sociology, they wrote of ‘establishing points of coincidence between the fundamental obsessional tendencies of individual psychology and the directing structures that preside over social organisations and command revolutions.’ Surely we have landed upon one of those points.


And yet – not quite. For what Zeno smokes as a mature man are cigarettes. His brush with cigars, though, was his first brush with tobacco. His father was a cigar smoker (like, it should be remembered, the founder of the psychoanalysis that provides the framework for the story – Freud). His father had a habit of smoking half a cigar, then leaving the butt for later. Zeno had a habit of stealing and smoking those butts.


“My father left some half-smoked Virginia cigars around the house, perched on table edges and armoires. I believed this was how he threw them away, and I believe our old maidservant, Carina, did then fling them out. I carried them off and smoked them in secret. At the very moment I grabbed them I was overcome by a shudder of revulsion, knowing how sick they would make me. Then I smoked them until my brow was drenched in cold sweat and my stomach was in knots. It cannot be said that in my childhood I lacked energy.”


We have not yet reached the moment of the cigarette. However, it is as though Zeno had to wean himself from cigars in order to reach that moment himself.

Svevo's Zeno 2: the croupier's rake

The individualism of methodological individualism is a strange beast. On the one hand, it promises a robust defense of the individual as the ultimate level of social analysis. All collectives, go the doctrine, are composed of individual behaviors. There are no collective agents – like a pantomime horse, when you see a collective – a state, a firm, an organization – you are seeing the sheeting over the actors inside it. And yet, this defense of the individual is, at the same time, an emptying out of the individual. Whatever his or her beliefs, passions, or promises, in effect the content of the individual consists of an algorithm for calculating the maximization of his or her advantage. It is thus that the pantomime horse of capitalist organizations gets to its feet and proceeds to walk all over you. Hayek, who was a great believer in individualism, was conscious of this paradox and explains it in The Counterrevolution in Science.  It happens that those who are not entirely sold on individualism and those who emphasize ‘historicism’ – the interpretation of social action that does not hold that a universal maximizing principle is at the heart of it – are pretty much synonymous. This gives us the paradox that those who emphasize the collective level are also those who oppose the universalism of a conjectural history going back to Smith. Thus, historicists would dispute that, say, price or monopoly as categories developed in contemporary economics could be usefully imposed on social behavior in Egyptian society in 1400 B.C. - the example Hayek uses. 

But, according to Hayek: "What this contention overlooks is that “price” of “monopoly” are not names for definite “things”, fixed collections of physical attributes which we recognize by some of these attributes as members of the same class and whose further attributes we ascertain by observation; but that they are objects which can be defined only in terms of certain relatins between human beings and which cannot possess any attributes except those which follow from the relations by which they are defined. They can be recognized by us as prices or monopolies only because, and in so rar as, we can recognize these individual attitudes, and from these as elements compose the structural pattern which we call a price or a monopoly. Of course the ‘whole” situation, or even the “whole of the men who act, will greatly diiffer from place to place and from time to time. But it is solely our capacity to recognize the familiar elements from which the unique situation is made up which enables us to attach any meaning to the phenomena.” (66)

Hayek’s notion – which appeals, in the end, to an "us" who is above the wholes of the situation and the men involved – reflects a pattern of social meanings that capitalism introduced into Western Europe in the 19^th century, and with which, especially, intellectuals caught up in the sphere of circulation wrestled: the seemingly unbridgeable difference between the individual as an accounting entity and an individual as an existential mystery. The latter is on the side of ‘experience’ – but the former rides mankind. Experience fills in the empty algorithmic unit – the economic individual – with matter that seems, well, beyond the bounds of his maximizing reason, or the reduction to individuals that is theoretically called for in analyzing economic action. The money in my pocket passed to me from some individual, truly, but the individuals involved in the chain that touched that money are all, with regards to me, rather empy and automatic – the man who put the money in the ATM machine, the woman who gave me change at the grocery store, the software engineer who designed paypal, the client who paid me – all are in my life to varying degrees, but their roles, the money, and myself seem to be bound together by arithematic more than intimacy. “The technical form of commerce creates a ralm of values that is more or less commpletely loosened from its subjective – personal substructure,” Simmel says (30)

It is in the conflict between the two aspects that is brought to bear on the discourse on freedom that was passed down from the ancien regime to the increasingly capitalist dissolution of the ancien regime in the  nineteenth century. “Commerce always strives – never fully unreal and never fully realized – towards a stage of development in which things determine their value through a self-acting mechanism – unmarked by the queion of how much subjective feeling this mechanism has taken into account as its precondition or as its matter.” (Simmel, 30)

These conflicting aspects of individualism are very much part of Svevo's novel, Zeno's Conscience - for the conscience is, too, both a peculiar personal thing and a sort of introjection of norms and rules that the individual was never consulted about. At one point Svevo’s narrator,  Zeno Costini, who, as the  heir of his father’s business, has nothing to do – by which we readers understand that he does not need to do anything to have money – insists on being given a job with his Olivi, the man to whom Zeno’s father entrusted the management of the business. Consequently, Zeno is instructed in accounting - or 'economics':

“Olivi’s son, an elegant, bespectacled young man, erudite in all the commercial sciences, took over my instruction, and I honestly can’t complain about him. He annoyed me a little with his economic science and his law of supply and demand, which seemed to me more self-evident than he would admit. But he showed a certain respect for me as the owner, and I was all the more grateful because he couldn’t possibly have learned that from his father. Respect for ownership must have been part of his economic science. He never scolded me for the mistakes I often made in posting entries; he simply ascribed them to ignorance and then gave me explanations that were really superfluous.

The trouble came when, what with looking at all those transactions, I began to feel like making some of my own. In the ledger, very clearly, I came to visualize my own pocket, and when I posted a sum under “debit” for our clients, instead of a pen, I seemed to hold in my hand a croupier’s rake, ready to collect the money scattered over the gaming table.” (166)

The croupier’s rake instead of the pen! – one seems magical, a wand that brings us back to the archaic, pre-capitalist world of treasure, while the other seems anything but magical, imprisoning us in double columns. The libido of the sphere of circulation flows into this image, which has urged itself upon theorists and clerks since the days of Law’s system.

On Svevo's Zeno 1

V.S. Pritchett once wrote about the novelist’s knack of “showing how people live in one another’s lives.” This is not only a concise way of talking about what novelists do – it also points to a large economic fact, which is that people do live in one another’s lives. Surprisingly, economists are, for the most part, blind, or at least hesitant, about seeing this fact. They have even systematized this blindness and called it the ‘micro-foundations of the economy.’

Unfortunately, all too often novels, when they are considered from the aspect of economics, are considered to be free zones over which preconceived economic theories and ideas roam. But one can think of two other relations of the novel to economics – one is as a test of economic ideas, and the other is as a source of economic ideas. It might well be that the social interactions involving exchange, the symbolization of value, gifts, scarcity  – are rehearsed in a sophisticated way in certain novels to the extent that the economist should learn from the novel, rather than the other way around.

I’d like to put these consideration in the background  against which I am writing these notes about  Italo Svevo’s novel, Zeno’s Conscience.

Let’s begin with the novel’s premise. In a short note by Dr. S., Zeno’s journal is presented to the reader as an act of malice on the part of Dr. S., and a means of ‘catching’ his former partient. In other words, the novel begins with the breaking of a contract, that of privacy between the doctor and the patient. It begins outside the law, so to speak. Zeno’s own notion is that his memoirs are therapeutic, serving one end: to help him break the habit of smoking.

Thus, on the one hand, we have the broken contract to which the book owes its existence as a published object – and on the other, we have the desire to break a habit to which the book owes its existence in the mind of the narrator. 

Before I begin with the second form of the book’s existence, let’s look at what is implied in Doctor S.’s premise – that a book not only has an inward side of content, but an outward side that objectifies that content. The book is a product of writing. Writing creates an object. And objects are not, contra the economist’s grand model, all the same kind of commodity. If they take on the form of the commodity, they take on that form because their use value for people living in each other’s lives varies not just in terms of some original position in which a preference is expressed, but in the way that preference is lived with. For instance, there is addiction. There is routine.

As Svevo’s novel was translated into French, it began to be noticed in Italy. The poet Montale wrote an enthusiastic review that, to an extent, introduced the Italian intelligentsia to Svevo, this half German Triestian Jew, whose language, according to his English translator, William Weaver, seemed “flat, unaccented, even opaque.”

Svevo wrote Montale a rather extraordinary letter, expressing his thanks and correcting Montale’s assumption that Svevo was a modernist writer linked to Joyce and the literary schools of Paris.  Instead, Svevo took the view that writing was a form of performance and manufacture – and even a form of bad habit.

“I feel the need to tell you that I don’t believe that the difference between Conscience and the two preceeding novels should be searched for in the influence of the most modern literature. I was very unaware of that literature when I was writing, since after the failure of Senilita, I forbade myself literature. I even had a ruse to help myself from falling bak into it: I studied the violin and I conscretated to it, for twenty years, all my free time. I read a lot of Italian novels, and among the French, the greatest authors of our time. I know English, but not enough to easily read Ulysses, which I am now reading slowly with the help of a friend. As to Proust, I am now hurrying to to acquaint myself when, last year, Larbaud told me that in reading Senilita (which, like you, he loves especially), one thinks of that writer.

“It is true that Conscience is a  completely other kind of thing than the preceeding novels. But just think that it is an autobiography and not my own. Much less than Senilita. I put three year into writing it in my free moments. And I proceeded in this way: when I found myself alone, I tried to persuade myself I was Zeno. I walked like him, like him I smoked, and I stuck on my past all of thos of his adventures that resembled my own, for this sole reason: that the evocation of a personal adventure is a reconstruction that easily becomes an entirely new construction, when one succeeds in placing it in a new atmosphere. And it doesn’t lose so much the taste and value of a memory, no more than its sadness. I am sure that you understand me.” [Translated from Ecrits intimes, essais et lettres trans. by Marco Fusco, 1973]

For a reader of Zeno’s Conscience, this is a pretty astonishing letter, since it seems to be both a distancing from Zeno and a usurpation of his style of audacity – the peculiar audacity of the fool that we can see, as well, in the Jewish jokes that Freud loved, and in Kafka’s never-say-die men, who are continually scheming to get into the Castle.Remember, Kafka howled with laughter when he read his own stories to his friends, according to Brod.

In Svevo, that audacity takes the peculiar form of hypochondria and addiction – which are, in turn, exemplary forms of routine. Svevo even takes writing as an addiction that he prevents himself from falling back into by taking up another routine, one that he knows he is bad at – just as a recovering  alcoholic will take up cigarette smoking, and a cigarette smoker, gum.

This, of course, is a whole other dimension of revealed preference.

TBC

New year predictions for the moronic inferno, version 2012

Prediction is a doddle. Successful ones usually fall into two groups: the easy and the lucky. In human affairs, the easy are usually derived from the two great grifter principles: 1. there’s a sucker born every minute, and 2. never give a sucker an even break.  applying these as your two parameters can make you seem like a genius when the subject is a society like America, the con man’s paradise. As for the lucky, they are composed of guesses that are driven forward by some unguessed social pulsation. Prediction, in this case, gloms onto a phenomenon without glomming on to its cause, and thus loses its intellectual strength.

I think I can rely on the  grifter principle to predict that Mitt Romney will defeat Obama, and that Romney will face a strongly Republican house and a majority Republican senate. The problem here is that the same principles also give us an Obama win. However, the superstition that lightning never strikes twice in the same place gives the edge to Mitt.

Obama, however, will proudly pass onto Romney a plutocracy that is almost completely intact, save for the odd Maddoff casualty. 16 trillion dollars in emergency loans, at 1 percent or below, have saved the upper 1 percent for us all. We are, well, tearfully grateful, of course.

The bankruptcy of hopeyness cannot of course be laid completely at the President’s feet. In fact, all liberal-left parties in the West have rotted from the head. When they work and actually elect a leader, the leader and the party then engage in such clueless policy making as would puzzle the angels. Except, of course, those fallen angels who have read Marx.

The latter have notice that, in the course of the state sponsored well being spread out over the last sixty to seventy years, a certain political and business class has done extraordinarily well in both conservative and liberal-left parties. The elite in the latter face a problem that is intimately connected to their ascent to the rarified 1 percent group, for in effect, as their personal circumstances change, so do their interests. Interests are always a hermeneutic product, but hermeneutics is done on a social level as well as a subjective one. If the tissue of your social level is constructed from interactions with fellow citizens in the gated community and the habits that grow around the perks of great wealth, your relationship to a party base that is composed of much lesser mortals becomes one of a strained sympathy. The result of this has been a threefold splintering of left politics. Substantially, the party elite engages in the ‘nudgework’ of slowly unwinding and destroying the progressive legislation and institutions that were gained over the past one hundred some years. They aren’t elected to do this, of course – quite the opposite. But they do it because it is in their interest to do it, and they simply quietly project their interest upon the population as a whole and believe, often quite sincerely, that the population as a whole is just living a little too well and needs discipline. It never occurs to these denizens of the 1 percent that they are living too well – this is a thought that simply can’t get through the gate. The gated community is especially vigilant in suppressing such ideas.

However, in order to distract their constituencies, the party elite is ever alert to moral panics and sensational trivialities. This is the sum of their political art. And thus, as congressmen making ‘regulations’ for banks retire to become lobbyists for banks, or tax breaks for the wealthiest are somehow tantalizingly never closed, or emphasis shifts from immediate problems – massive and catastrophic levels of unemployment – to problems involving the tax burden on the 1 percent’s next generation – that terrible deficit! – massive distraction work is called for. And this involves the elite’s third political method, identity politics.

Two recent newspaper stories provide a little glimpse into the content and soul of the Obama era.

One was the recent contribution by his former economics advisor, Christina D. Romer, to a NYT roundup of economists for Year End reports was a cri de coeur of Obama-ism. It contained this gem:

“On the deficit, the big worry isn’t the current shortfall, which is projected to decline sharply as the economy recovers. Rather, it’s the long-run outlook. Over the next 20 to 30 years, rising health care costs and the retirement of the baby boomers are projected to cause deficits that make the current one look puny. At the rate we’re going, the United States would almost surely default on its debt one day. And like the costs of maintaining a home, the costs of dealing with our budget problems will only grow if we wait.
We already have a blueprint for a bipartisan solution. The Bowles-Simpson Commission hashed out a sensible plan of spending cuts, entitlement program reforms and revenue increases that would shave $4 trillion off the deficit over the next decade. It shares the pain of needed deficit reduction, while protecting the most vulnerable and maintaining investments in our future productivity. Congress should take up the commission’s recommendation the first day it returns in January."


Notice the bogus analogy to the house. Notice that the deficit is considered only from the side of government spending, and no notice is taken of the effect on growth if we ‘sensibly’ shave off the ability of the majority to retire in any type of comfort, educate themselves, receive health care, or even receive standard government services, which of course are all determinates of growth and affordability. The Bowles-Simpson commission, of course, never made any suggestions because it couldn’t ultimately agree on its ‘sensible’ cuts, but the country club set hears what it wants to hear, and what it heard was the joyous sound of an ultra-right Republican senator giving cover to an ultra-connected Democratic lawyer for screwing Democratic constituencies up the wazoo. This is Obama’s vaunted ‘socialism’. Alas, it ain’t socialism. It is rat poison, and its effects, so far, are predictable: it has killed the beast. The enthusiasm of the Obama people for Bowles Simpson is not the reason Obama will lose, but it is a symptom of the attitude that will lead to his loss: an astonishing callousness with regard to the biggest slump in employment in two generations, a blindness to the American middleclass’s plucking as its housing asset disappears into a murk of bad mortgages and illegal bank finagling, and a general disconnect from any issue whose explanation would displease the 1 percent, from global warming to the Gulf disaster.
Such, then, is the policy substance that makes President Nudge’s reign a curious mixture of elevated but robotic rhetoric and astonishingly boneheaded reactionary policy, sweetened around the edges with the occasional liberal approved appointment.
But a political regime doesn’t just live – or die - on policy substance (and substance abuse). Politics has a soul. Soul, in America, is the kind of work that has devolved upon celebrities, since nobody else has time for it. Here, one needs an ear to hear. One needs to read for symbols. And a beautiful symbol came down the pike this holiday season: the bio-pic of Thatcher, brought to you by the makers of Mamma Mia.
Meryl Streep, who stars as Maggie Thatcher, is giving interviews that are simply alight with the privileged world view of the 1 percent liberal. This is the end of one she gave the NYT:
““So did Margaret Thatcher. But that’s understandable. She couldn’t show weakness. Imagine what the men would have said.” She added: “In parts of England now it’s a transgression even to consider her as a human being. She’s that monster woman, the she-devil. For me the point of the film was to find the human side.” And though hardly a Tory, she said she vividly recalled the moment when Mrs. Thatcher came to power. “Just as I remember not voting for her, I remember sitting in my room at university when the radio announced that she had been asked to form a government, and I went ‘Yes!’ It felt like one for our team.”
Ms. Streep nodded and said: “I did the same thing. We all thought if it can happen in England, class bound, socially rigid, homophobic — if they can elect a female leader over there, then it’s just seconds away in America.””
Streep is old enough (as am I) to remember the beginning of the feminist movement in the 70s. Back then, the point was to destroy patriarchy. Now, of course, the point is to find women (one from “our team”) who can be leaders – the CEOs of tomorrow! This is a feminism neutered of its original purpose, and remade in the interest of ‘role models’ – that combination of fetishized hierarchy and moralism that is the wholly owned subsidiary of patriarchy. Where once feminists fought corporations on behalf of the millions of women who were victimized in the system that gave corporations outsized power, they now are supposed to fight to make sure those corporations are led by women who, in a triumph of the new, new feminism, have broken the glass ceiling and receiving the stock options and outsized salaries of their male counterparts. The liberal-left party in the U.S. has always had a bad conscious about class, but as class recedes as an issue that the elite takes at all seriously, it becomes what all things become that sink into the unconscious: a ghost. A specter, as Marx might say. Identity politics, haunted by that spector, becomes a compensatory activity, a form of pablum, rather than a revolutionary activity. The center not only holds, it freezes the moment of liberation, stuffs it full of windy truisms, and wheels it out on all occasions in order to keep the party – the political system that has been so good to the elite - going.  This is the way formerly liberal-left ideas, bereft of their former revolutionary context, are effortlessly assimilated to the great liberal country club that goes on to worry about the deficit and the bad habits of the lower classes. Thus, Maggie Thatcher, who unleashed a Hobbesian lifestyle on the majority of British women under the withered blessing of Hayek and General Pinochet, becomes a role model of female leadership. 
Jesus (and Susan B. Anthony) wept.  
And with that: have a happy new year!

 

From 2007

Making the rich less rich is not socialism

I’ve become a reader of Floyd Norris’ blog over at the NYT. I’ve noticed, with some amusement, that any time a vague and distant hint arises that the rich in America might be oh, oh, slightly too… rich, the comments section is reliably flooded by screeds against socialism and for the American way.

It makes me long for a snappy way to point out that capitalism was not abolished in the U.S. in the fifties, nor was the Reagan tax cut on the wealthiest the second coming of Adam Smith in the eighties. What is funny about the rabid defense of the wealthy is that I imagine it often comes from the non-wealthy. It isn’t like billionaires are trolling blogs. But what they are defending is, of course, absolutely against their interests. It is the great American paradox: the almost saintly disinterestedness of the American householder in defense of systematic greed.

There are a number of ways to redistribute wealth down. Imagine, for instance, that unions had been strong enough, back in the eighties, to peg earnings to the ratio between upper management and the lowest paid functionaries in a company. Back then, the ratio was about 70 to 1 – today, it averages something like 300 to 1. If the unions had done this and the CEO level had succeeded in extorting the pay packages they had today, we would be living in a utopia in which the merest entry level receptionist would be taking home 150-200 thou. This would be excellent – except of course that corporations would no longer make profits. Instead, they’d be pouring all their cash into paying their workforce. Still, at the 70 to 1 ratio, upper management’s efforts to increase their compensation packets would have significantly pulled the earnings up of the entire workforce.

Unfortunately, when you don’t have powerful unions, you have to rely on the countervailing powers of the state. You have to work, then, to raise the taxation on the upper tier considerably. You have to do this not only because you need to pay for public investments, but because there is a macro good to great income equality. For one thing, it discourages economic activity that is, in reality, mere churning. Looking at the mortgage mess, one can see more and more clearly how the fantastic, Pirenesian structure of false economic activity has worked since 2001. It has allocated money not to the most productive, but to the most churnful. For another thing, more equality now means more equality latter. As the gap widens between the resources of the rich and the not-rich, it becomes exactly what we socially reproduce. Those non-rich who, for instance, decided that the death tax, otherwise know as the estate tax, was just terribly unfair to their children actually screwed their children terribly, because they are not leaving the kids fortunes, whereas the fortunate few are – thus aggravating the already unfair structure that separates rich from non-rich children. The cost of abolishing the estate tax is borne by the non-rich in such areas as trying to get their kids into top schools and the like.

But what most impresses me about expropriating a good share of the wealth of the wealthy is its environmental impact. As anybody with the eyes to see can see, the last twenty years have been years of great GDP growth in many countries. In fact, the whole Tom Friedman-esque economy is oriented towards steroiding GDP. Why? Because if you are going to have increasing inequality, growth is the way that the middle income sector – the vastly more numerous non-rich – can, at least, maintain their lifestyles. But GDP growth could also be called the Diminishing Environmental Return. DER is the natural result of overexploiting a system that is limited in many ways. Put up a zillion towers for cell phones, and you can say bye bye to songbird populations – make your McMansions of tropical wood, and strew them with the kind of wiring that gives you 24/7 instaconnectoinstamaticinstatubelivegirlsxxxxpronomatic action, and you can say bye bye to the environment of Sumatra. Down the intertubes it goes. It is an incredible waste of resources, which is the total result of the elite decision to grossly exacerbate the wealthiest’s share of the wealth. With a greater equality of income, of course, GDP doesn’t have to grow as fast. The drift of our current society into endless war, endless stupidity, an endlessly degraded public sector, the unwinding of all those hard fought democratic gains of the last one hundred years, is the direct result of a simple arithmetic ratio. To repair this – to go back to the managed capitalism, as Kuttner calls it, of the past – isn’t socialism – it is the self interest of the vast mass of American citizens.

the forest and the address

Yes I'm lonely
wanna die

About the time Rousseau was meditating on the original men in the forest of St. Germane, in the 1750s, the French government was beginning to assign numbers to buildings in various cities. This was a two-fold process. According to David Garrioch, it was not only about assigning a number, but also about a great loss of names: the names of houses. For before the number address, houses were found by their name on the street:

“In the cities of early modern Europe the houses and shops almost all had names and signs. There were red lions and golden suns; names of ships, trees and plants; figures of history and myth; every conceivable saint.”

Garrioch questions a history that sees these names solely in terms of identifying marks. Firstly, the names could be, and were, changed; secondly, there was no system to the marks. There was no succession  of suns, for example. While they may have played a role in identifying the house or shop, the name or sign played more of a role in expressing something about the possessor of the house or shop, from the owner’s loyalties to the owner’s family:

“Yet the signs and house names, like heraldic symbolism, might have more than individual significance. They might act as links between generations, between the namer of the house or the fhounder of a dynasty and that person’s descendants. This is exemplified by the arms of Albrecht Duerer, the painter, which bore a door. The sign outside his father’s workshop in late fifteenth century Nuremberg had been an open door, an obvious pun on the family name, itself a traslation into German of the name of the village the family had come from, Atjos, meaning ‘door’ in Hungarian.” (Garrioch 33)

The Ancien Regime, we are learning, did not fall with the French Revolution. Even after the system of number addresses – first decreed in “military’ towns in France in 1768 – was normalized all over France, including Paris, in 1805, the house names and signs continued for a while. But that advance of numeration had an organizing effect on the city, much like the Prussian method of ‘organizing’ forests by culling certain species, taking out dead wood, creating allies between trees to allow for cutting, etc.

Recent research has shown that the numeration devised by the Revolutionary government had two functions: one was to fix a correspondence between the house and taxes, and the other was to fix the house on the street for police purposes. In fact, the Ancien Regime attempts at numeration often left the system of numeration as confusing as the system of names. The father of the modern system of addresses in France was a certain Ducrest, who submitted a memoir on the subject to Fouche, Napoleon’s minister of the police, in 1804.  In his memoir, he touted the system of numeration (for identity cards, houses, etc.) as an instrument of total observation, a police dream: “The objective of the project is ‘to be able to follow, so to speak, step by step all  citizens.”[Quoted in Vincent Denis, Entre Police et demographie, Actes de recherche en science social, 2000]

The great bonfire of the names of the nobles, which has always been seen as one of the most important symbolic moments in the Revolution, was paralleled by this other bonfire of the names – a slower one, granted. In Milan, the Parisian system of numeration by the street – instead of numeration by the city quarter – did not start until 1857. But the point is that it did get started.    

Evidently, to balance the forest against the address, which is symbolically pleasing, is not exactly accurate. And yet, it does give us, at least as far as we use this to understand Rousseau’s sense of the individual, a good starting point for understanding the nature of  Rousseau’s great objection to the social. It was, I think, an objection to its tendency to totality: its non-intermittance.

The thematic that brings this out is solitude. In an essay on the romantic writer as victim, Eric Gans adduces Rousseau as the prototype, quoting his remarks from the Reveries: “Here I am, then, alone in the world, with no longer brother, neighbor, friend, or society other than myself. The most sociable and the most loving of humans has been excluded from society by a unanimous consent.” Gans is quite right to interpret this as Rousseau’s claim to being a victim: the solitary and the victim are jointed together in one semantic field in Rousseau’s work, and, in fact, in society at large: to make solitary, to put in solitary, was, even in the 18^th century, a form of torture inflicted on certain prisoners. At the same time, from Rousseau’s viewpoint, it was characteristic of the corruption of the society that he wrote to ‘improve’ that it could imagine solitude in no other way than as a punishment, even as it was beginning to imagine the individualism that corresponded to the private sphere of exchangers.

The thematic of solitude that winds its way through Rousseau’s autobiographical works is, as well, at the heart of the Discourse on Inequality.

The first human beings, in fact, are natural solitaries, according to Rousseau. He imagines their state as one in which the natural and the voluntary are joined in a life form that is pre-social. True, Rousseau’s grasp on this state goes in and out of focus, just as his periodizations have a tendency to become misty or contradictory as he wants to make this or that observation about the course of human socialization. Language and other collaborative human things – religion, for instance, and, importantly, division of labor – are absent at this point. The Discourse then provides a sort of kaleidoscopic analysis of how the social came about, which is equivalent to the rupture with the first, natural solitude and the first, natural sense of the self.

Since forests are my theme, here, it is interesting that one of the aspects of the emergence of the social and of inequality, for Rousseau, comes about with the fall of the forest:

“ So long as men are content with their rustic cabins, so long as they limit themselves to sewing skins together with thorns or with bones, to ornament themselves with shells or feathers, to paint their bodies with diverse colors, to perfect or embellish their bows and arrows, to carve fishing canoes or awkward instruments of music out of tree trunks with sharpened stones, in a word, as long as they apply themselves to what a single man can do, and to arts which have no need for the help of several hands, they live free, healthy, well and happy, as much as their natures allow; and they continue to enjoy with each other the sweetness of commerce. But in that instant where one man has need of another; in the moment that someone perceives that it is useful for one person to have provisions for two, equality disappears, property is introduced, work becomes necessary, and vast forests change into smiling fields that it is necessary to water with the sweat of men, and in which one sees germinate slavery and misery, which grow with the harvest.”

Rousseau is, perhaps, the first European thinker who can truly imagine backwards – but he requires a reader who can imagine backwards, too. It is easy to think of the primitive man of his description as a self-conscious individual. But this gets Rousseau’s conjectural history utterly wrong. He is, rather, an unself-conscious solitary. He does not know the contours of his individuality. His independence is a lack of need, not a principle. The individual of modern theory only emerges when the primal state of solitude is broken. The individual can be consciously independent, but in having that awareness of dependence and the social tie, even in rejecting it, the individual exists in a society which has taken a turn against primal solitude. The new solitude, the touchy solitude that emerges in a society that is organized according to division of labor, and thus of work, and property, is a different kind of human being:

“It is reason which engenders self-love, and reflection that strengthens it. This is what folds man back upon himself; that separates him from all that discomforts and afflicts him. It is philosophy that isolates him. It is by this means tht he says in secret, at the look of the suffering man: “perish if you want to – I’m safe.”

This, as Rousseau sees, is one of the hidden mottoes of civilization, a canon that nobody can afford to ignore – and survive.

   

file under revolution

Joseph Stiglitz’s article in the Vanity Fair about the current Big Slump has been picked up and argued about by certain economists – Brad Delong and Nick Rowe for instance – in terms of whether it deviates from neo-Keynesianism or not. I'd argue that the more applicable background disagreement is that between Keynes and Marx.

Stiglitz's argument, I think, is that the ‘economy’ or the international system of production is very well able to produce goods and services – but its increasing efficiency means that it can’t produce employment or higher wages for work. This is a sectoral dysfunction – it happened with agriculture in the 20s and 30s, and with manufacturing post 70s (that is, in the U.S.). The increasing efficiency over time thus works both to narrow the ability of other entrants in the field - it shrinks competitiveness - and it diminishes the need for labor. In other words, there is an asymmetry between this capacity for production and the ability of the population to absorb it by – crucially – paying for it. This strikes me as very much like the Keynesian position and the Marxian position vis-à-vis the chronic problem of market clearing faced by ‘free markets”, and predicted by equilibrium realists – people like Says, who believe that the market really is self-regulating, rather than booby trapped. Marx, however, says that the increasing efficiency will eventually bite the capitalist in the ass by lowering his rate of profit. The Keynesian doesn’t think this is true, and in the short term it certainly isn’t. The capitalist can benefit in two ways from the current system: he can benefit from the increased efficiencies all the way down the logistical line that cheapen his labor cost, and he can benefit from the free insurance given him by the government when a problem with ‘aggregate demand’ happens – free insurance that can take many forms, some of which have to do with allowing the tax payer to make tax free investments – in houses, in 401ks – some of which consists of guaranteeing monopoly – IP rights – and some of which is simply giving money to the capitalist on a grand scale as the last resort. For the Keynesian, then, all problems are short term problems and will be solved accordingly. The long term never arrives. For the Marxian, the long term does arrive occasionally – in true structural crises. The Keynesian being right depends, crucially, on the capitalist being able to paper over the cracks in the structure caused by efficiency through the government – but that, in turn, depends on the idea that these efficiency problems can be isolated within one sector and that the legitimacy of the government doesn’t come into doubt. Legitimacy doesn’t just mean the confidence of the bond market in the state, but – and this arises only in moments of abnormal structural stress – the confidence of the people in the state.
It strikes me that Stiglitz economic point is joined with the political point that he has been making a lot - that the confidence problem is not fundamentally in the bond market or upper management, but among the people. And this isn't some amorphous problem that one can ignore, economically, for if the people turn against the state provided insurance for business, businesses will be cast into the Marxian hell. Marx’s notion can be put very well in the dystopian proposition that, every once in a while, you can’t avoid the long term. Which is why the revolutionary part of Marx, which most Marxists now tamely discard, is, I think, central not just to Marx’s politics, but to his economic analysis.

Orwell and Hitchens

Hitchens made no bones about idolizing George Orwell. The result of that infatuation is that the names Orwell and Hitchens came together enough times that – as quantity turns into quality in the black magic of the press – it became a cliché that Hitchens was like Orwell. That he was our Orwell, or something.

You don’t have to read very much in the works of either writer to find that Hitchens is not at all like Orwell. Hitchens would have been incapable of writing Down and Out in Paris and London because he would have been incapable of being down and out in Paris or London. Orwell’s strength came from not only being able to imagine the “common people”, but being, existentially, as close to them as a Public School graduate can get – whereas Hitchens had no sense whatsoever for the common people. Hitchens’s sensorium was hooked up to the Byzantine elite, whether to despise them or to raise an elbow with them, depending on the various stages of his career.

Last night I went and read the great first chapter of Orwell’s The Lion and the Unicorn: Socialism and the English Genius, the booklet Orwell wrote in 1940. The first sentence of the booklet was cited by, among others, Kurt Vonnegut, who took from it his idea of how to write about war: “As I write, highly civilized human beings are flying overhead, trying to kill me.” The idea that the universal – the war – is trying to kill the particular – me – gets a workout in Catch 22. Of course, it gets a workout in the literature of war at least since Stendhal, but Orwell’s sentence sharpens it to a point. Even though it was not an anti-war point – Orwell was anything but a pacifist. He poured a lot of homophobic scorn on pacifists. He was not at his best writing about pacifists. Who is?

However, the sentence I want to take out of that essay comes from the first chapter, which surveys the “English genius”. “But in all societies the common people must live to some extent against the existing order.” This is the Orwellian touch, the premise for his best writing, the insight that makes him, still, a fascinating writer to think with. Hitchens was completely oblivious to this fact. Hitchens writing, at its best, can help one penetrate the feeling in a novel, or the tone of a ‘set’ of political players, but he had no sense for the genius of the common people, and when he would set himself up as a generalizer about nations, regions, politics, etc., he was pretty much at a loss. He made up for this loss of tactile knowledge by moralizing. When moralizing about the doings of his own society, the governing class of the nations in which he prospered enormously, he was often on target. But as his moralizing took in larger and larger fields, it became less and less valuable. In the end, taking up the whole of the Middle East, he only showed, with an amazing stubbornness, that he knew almost nothing about the Middle East.

Orwell, on the other hand, was very uncomfortable in the role of ‘regional expert”. Famously, he quit the BBC in 1943 because his section, which was concerned with India, and his broadcasts made him very unhappy. Unhappy about the Churchillian assumption that the British empire was moral (Orwell disagreed) and unhappy, I think, that he was supposed to fabricate pundits knowledge (a sort of identikit knowledge coming from hasty reading of newspaper clippings) and spit it out when, of course, he could imagine India much better than that. He could imagine that Indians heard other things than the BBC, and were moved by other news than that printed in English papers. He even imagined that Indians might have interests that were opposed to his own, or to his politics. He recognized, in short, the genius of the common people as a different genius from that of the notables.

“The genuinely popular culture of England is something that goes on beneath the surface, unofficially and more or less frowned on by the authorities. One

thing one notices if one looks directly at the common people, especially in the big towns, is that they are not puritanical. They are inveterate gamblers, drink as much beer as their wages will permit, are devoted to bawdy jokes, and use probably the foulest language in the world. They have to satisfy these tastes in the face of astonishing, hypocritical laws (licensing laws, lottery acts, etc. etc.) which are designed to interfere with everybody but in practice allow everything to happen. Also, the common people are without definite religious belief, and have been so for centuries. The Anglican Church never had a real hold on them, it was simply a preserve of the landed gentry, and the Nonconformist sects only influenced minorities. And yet they have retained a deep tinge of Christian feeling, while almost forgetting the name of Christ.”  

Undoubtedly, Orwell had a jingoistic side where he would forget the doublesidedness of national cultures – the official and the common culture. But he at least recognized it when his nose was crushed up against it.

I should say, too, that in this pamphlet Orwell makes several remarks about socialism and capitalism which, if printed without his name, would be taken to be by Lenin. For instance, this:

“What this war has demonstrated is that private capitalism -- that is, an economic

system in which land, factories, mines and transport are owned privately and operated solely for profit -- does not work. It cannot deliver the goods. This fact had been known to millions of people for years past, but nothing ever came of it, because there was no real  urge from below to alter the system, and those at the top had trained themselves to be impenetrably stupid on just this point. Argument and propaganda got one nowhere. The lords of property simply sat on their bottoms and proclaimed that all was for the best.

Hitler's conquest of Europe, however, was a physical debunking of capitalism. War, for all its evil, is at any rate an unanswerable test of strength, like a try-your-grip machine. Great strength returns the penny, and there is no way of faking the result.”

Orwell would have recognized the economic crisis we are going through as another test of strength, in which the reliance on private banking with insurance provided – in the trillions of dollars – gratis by the States as another physical debunking of capitalism. His solution should be mentioned, too:

Socialism is usually defined as "common ownership of the means of production".

Crudely: the State, representing the whole nation, owns everything, and everyone is a State employee. This does not mean that people are stripped of private possessions such as clothes and furniture, but it does mean that all productive goods, such as land, mines, ships and machinery, are the property of the State. The State is the sole large-scale producer. It is not certain that Socialism is in all ways superior to capitalism, but it is certain that, unlike capitalism, it can solve the problems of production and consumption.

At normal times a capitalist economy can never consume all that it produces, so that there is always a wasted surplus (wheat burned in furnaces, herrings dumped back into the sea etc. etc.) and always unemployment. In time of war, on the other hand, it has difficulty in producing all that it needs, because nothing is produced unless someone sees his way to making a profit out of it.

In a Socialist economy these problems do not exist. The State simply calculates

what goods will be needed and does its best to produce them. Production is only limited by the amount of labour and raw materials. Money, for internal purposes, ceases to be a mysterious all-powerful thing and becomes a sort of coupon or ration-ticket, issued in sufficient quantities to buy up such consumption goods as may be available at the moment.”

Try getting those two paragraphs printed in any publication in America that routinely genuflects to the name, Orwell. As for this, which could well be applied to the current scene of pharaonic inequalities in the developed countries:

What is wanted is a conscious open revolt by ordinary people against inefficiency,

class privilege and the rule of the old. It is not primarily a question of change of

government. British governments do, broadly speaking, represent the will of the people, and if we alter our structure from below we shall get the government we need. Ambassadors, generals, officials and colonial administrators who are senile or pro-Fascist are more dangerous than Cabinet ministers whose follies have to be committed in public. Right through our national life we have got to fight against privilege, against the notion that a half-witted public-schoolboy is better for command than an intelligent mechanic. Although there are gifted and honest individuals among them, we have got to break the grip of the moneyed class as a whole. England has got to assume its real shape. The England that is only just beneath the surface, in the factories and the newspaper offices,in the aeroplanes and the submarines, has got to take charge of its own destiny.”

In England now, of course, both parties are headed by half witted schoolboys, and the intelligent mechanics have seen their jobs offshored so that other halfwitted schoolboys could make a killing on the stock market.

But to get back to a comparison of the style of the two writers. Here’s a vintage piece of Hitchens’ prose before the apple soured, from a 1998 essay on the teaching of history in America:

“About four years ago I began to ask the teachers of my own children how it came to be that they could not tell Thomas Jefferson from Thomas the Tank Engine. In the preceding sentence, it is unclear whether I mean that the children didn't know unless I told them, or that the teachers didn't know unless I told them. The confusion is intentional. One instructor, at a rather costly District of Columbia day school, cheerfully avowed that she herself "had never been that much of a reader." Others, more candid, announced that history was a bit of a minefield subject and that "good examples" (like Pocahontas and, on a good day, Frederick Douglass) were the thing. Parson Weems himself could hardly have bettered the modern method whereby children get good reports in a subject that they have never studied in order that a tiny pump be applied to the valves of their fledgling self-esteem.”

I think this is very funny. However, it is very funny because, one notices, the common people are ignorant – the infant Hitchens’ teachers are more akin to the impossible servants of Boot Manor in Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop than anything in Orwell – and it has just the nattering tone of complaint of the elites that hints at the turn Hitchens would take to fully Toryism a few years later. The shot, for instance, at the vogue for ‘self-esteem’ is blindly conjoined to a tone of an overwhelming self-esteem, which produces an inadvertent comedic moment – a moment when the author loses control of the material, which takes behind the scenes control of the author. 

Of course, the judges are always being judged themselves – Jesus, as well as Oscar Wilde, warned about that. Orwell’s humor is not funny in that Waugh like way – it is funny in the classic modernist way. The sentence about civilized men flying overhead trying to kill him de-routinizes war. This is the characteristic Orwell gesture, and the gesture of the great writers of his generation, who had inherited it from the formalist revolution at the turn of the century.  

So, for instance, this is Orwell on the teaching of history:

“When I was a small boy and was taught history -- very badly, of course, as nearly

everyone in England is -- I used to think of history as a sort of long scroll with thick

black lines ruled across it at intervals. Each of these lines marked the end of what was called a "period", and you were given to understand that what came afterwards was completely different from what had gone before. It was almost like a clock striking. For instance, in 1499 you were still in the Middle Ages, with knights in plate armour riding at one another with long lances, and then suddenly the clock struck 1500, and you were in something called the Renaissance, and everyone wore ruffs and doublets and was busy robbing treasure ships on the Spanish Main. There was another very thick black line drawn at the year 1700. After that it was the Eighteenth Century, and people suddenly stopped being Cavaliers and Roundheads and became extraordinarily elegant gentlemen in knee breeches and three-cornered hats. They all powdered their hair, took snuff and talked in exactly balanced sentences, which seemed all the more stilted because for some reason I didn't understand they pronounced most of their S's as F's. The whole of history was like that in my mind -- a series of completely different periods changing abruptly atthe end of a century, or at any rate at some sharply defined date.”

In one sense Orwell’s paragraph seems much simpler – Hitchens’ depends, for its business, on a lot of fancy referential footwork, from Parson Weems (who is a pure reference – surely Hitchens has never read Parson Weems biography of Washington, but he doesn’t have to – it stands in as an exemplar of didactic history heromaking) to Thomas the Tank Engine. Its texture comes out of a certain association of ideas that makes Hitchens the superior teller – he has the references under his fingertips, and the teachers don’t. This relationship is, purposely, up-ended in Orwell’s paragraph. Although in a parenthetical aside Orwell does tell us history is taught badly in England, he spends the rest of the paragraph displaying his own naivete. The references that are associated with him are cartoonlike, and Orwell himself, at least as a boy, didn’t understand all the references – for as a boy, he mistook a typography that printed s’s as f’s as reflecting the way people spoke. In other words, Orwell shows himself getting it wrong – he is the butt of his own joke.

I think this comparison tells us a lot about the virtues and vices of the essay styles of Hitchens and Orwell. The people who give us the cliché that Hitchens was the Orwell of our time have as little knowledge of Orwell as Hitchens has of Parson Weems – Orwell, here, has been made into a one-dimensional marker. This is a shame, since Orwell truly is a great essayist, the only English equivalent I can think of for the great Sprachkritiker on the Continent (Bloy, Peguy, Tucholsky, Kraus, etc.).

Hitchens is simply another kind of writer, from another family tree – the Tory wits. I was about to say, crossed with Shaw’s prefaces, but no – that isn’t really so. The Tory wits cultivated a style that had its roots in nursery room humor, when the children of the house were under authority figures –the nanny being the great target – who, at the same time, were subordinate to them (as they well knew) in the great scheme of society. Thus, the anti-authoritarianism is directed most cuttingly against authorities who are really secondary to the money and power that keep Vanity Fair going – the proxies, those who have achieved their positions only with a mixture of industry and asslicking. Of course, Hitchens was not to that manor borne, but he made the chameleon’s choice early on to mimic it, and in the end, he had re-created himself as an English nob as well as Waugh re-created himself as a scion of old Catholic nobility.

A pity that the American audience did not, after all, get the references.

Hitchens RIP

Hitchens once jokingly explained that terrorism, in American Govspeak, is an incoherent term that means anything from combatant to “swarthy opponent of American foreign policy.”

That was in the eighties, when Hitchens had a grasp of the linguistic cunning that makes for the politics of reaction. In the 00s, when Hitchens became famous, that grasp had slipped. It is not too much of an exaggeration to say that Hitchens ruined his prose when he, too, decided that terrorism is defined by “swarthy opponent of American foreign policy,” for in that decision he both rubbished his own ability to understand the nexus of power and definition that makes for propaganda, and he became one of the fruitier of the right’s propagandists, an atheist Bob Novak. Slate, at the moment, is in official mourning for Hitchens, who was a columnist there after he jumped ship from the Nation. This is rather like John Wilkes Booth donning mourning for Abe Lincoln. Slate’s infinitely meretricious reporting-plus-punditry presented just the sort of gaseous, inside the Beltway conventional wisdom (which, in an audacious P.R. move, the editors dubbed contrarianism) that killed Hitchens’ prose. His “Fighting Words” column was written in the same style that an owl digests its prey – everything is quickly swallowed, and then the bones are spit out. Thus, Hitchens would survey some vast subject that he was manifestly uninformed about – Iraq, for instance – and he would then emit a number of parenthesis long bellows, vaguely connected by his personal experience, which was all Lawrence of Arabia without Arabia, the man of action without the action. The symbol of the contradiction was  Hitchens being waterboarded for the celebrity mag, Vanity Fair. As a young writer, Hitchens would surely have enjoyed the reduction of the issue of torture to a photo op next to the story about Angelinia Jolie's wonderful bosom; but of course, in the D.C. where Hitchens was most at home, the sensibility that understands the difference between photo op and action has long vanished.

That D.C. found its voice in Hitchens.  Some of his most stirring columns were, in fact, in defense of chicken hawkery among those who, with great sacrifice, guide the foreign policy of the great American empire. One of them, Paul Wolfowitz, who, after being wheeled from one job he was incompetent at – in the State Department – to another job he was incompetent at – at the World Bank – was removed from his sinecure after insisting the institution pay for his mistress too, was lamented in truly pitiful tones by Hitchens, who by this time had imbibed the views of Doctor Strangelove about the need for elite males to have on had a steady supply of nubile females. But Wolfowitz was only one of the indefensibles that Hitchens buddied up to in his last years, a roll call that includes Kurdish gangsters, lowbrowed Cheneyites from the Hoover institute, and, of course, Ahmed Chalabi, the perfect 00s freedom fighter, with a biography that combined instances of Enron-like fraud with instances of peculating U.S. Government funds to an extent that would have been considered bold by Halliburtan.

Perhaps it was the contradiction between holding himself up as a moral entrepreneur – for Hitchens’ later political columns were rank with his own virtues – and keeping such evidently immoral company that did in the writer in Hitchens. There were traces of that writer even in the book on Clinton: but the writer definitely died after 9/11. Hitchens survived him and flourished in the moronic inferno of Bush’s America. He succumbs on the day that America withdraws its troops from Iraq. Surely he would have endorsed his hero, John McCain’s description of that withdrawal as a dark day for American foreign policy – it will make it that much harder to march to Teheran.

Merit and dreams

(from here)

I looked, last night, for a passage in Cioran where, as he discusses what he sees as the decline of Europe into bourgeois comfort (he is writing in the fifties), he makes a passing remark that we are all equal in our dreams. I couldn’t find the exact words, but as I remember the passage, he is speaking literally: while our waking lives may be structured by numerous and overwhelming inequalities, there is neither wealth, fame, nor competition in dreaming: we dream alone. And in this sense, radical egalitarianism is not a political credo so much as a natural historical fact about human beings. A good third of our lives, our lives when asleep, are equal.

Cioran does not go any further with this idea; but it seems to me that it deserves more than to die in that undiscoverable passage, another philosophical “crack” that one forgets. Rather, I think it gives us an angle on the strange career of egalitarianism in our time.

I would develop the idea by matching it with a passage from another great essayist, Roberto Calasso. In an essay on Karl Kraus’ war on public opinion, Calasso puts  his finger on another radically equalizing moment in modernity: that of public opinion.

Calasso links the rise of public opinion to the Enlightenment, in line with a recent trend among historians who have found a use for the notion of the public sphere to explain certain traits about the 18^th and 19^th century in Europe and the U.S. Calasso, however, is after a tension between the Enlightenment utopia of the tabula rasa, able to “endure the total abrasion of meaning produced by an all consuming nominalism”, and the emergence of public opinion. If the Republic of the tabula rasa led to a constant reign of virtuous terror, the epistemological search for the tabula rasa led to a contradiction. For in fact, Calasso claims, the public mind is neither blank nor inhabited by Descartes innate ideas – rather it is inhabited by opinions. And of opinions, the opinion is: “One opinion is as good as another: The abyss yawns in this commonplace as in every other.”

That particular abyss has been plumbed extensively by the great pessimists – Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Leon Bloy, Kraus - and Calasso himself, who all share the theme first announced in Plato’s dialogues, which is that opinion is a bad epistemological object. However, I have never been convinced by this argument and its arriere pensée, which is a contempt for the people. My impulse, on the contrary, is to take hold of another piece of the great Platonic whale – the idea that doxa, in the chain of being, is halfway between the real – the ideas – and the unreal – their images, or the physical world. That doxa exist only halfway puts them on the same plane as dreams. In this way, public opinions are part of the great public dreamlife. Now, one might object that opinions aren’t the same as dreams, and I’d agree to an extent. The difference is made by waking. However, one should not overestimate waking. In a formal sense, waking is a break with dreaming, but it is so only to the extent that consciousness succeeds in substituting its strong sense of externality for the insulation of dreams. In fact, of course, we carry that insulation about with us in our ordinary life, a depthless pocket that we become uneasily aware of when we drop something in it – the typo, the address we forgot, bad luck and fuckups, a whole day’s worth of silent muttering and inattentions.

It is against this psychological and existential background that one should examine the last instantiation of the Enlightenment utopia, meritocracy. The version current in America is tht disparities of wealth and income should correspond to disparities in merit. Some students did the homework and got As, some didn’t and got Fs.

This, it should be said, is a curiously childish way of seeing the world, and could only have been developed in that Asperger’s paradise of a discipline, economics. To return to Plato again, what this idea does is shift the focus entirely from the thing done to the external reward for doing it. In so doing, the thing done is curiously emptied of all merit on its own, all glory. The perfect meritocracy would be one in which the thing done requires a highly developed amount of skill, and is absolutely pointless. Thus, it should be correspondingly awarded with showers of external reward. This is an exact representation of the current financial services sector, at least in its higher reaches.

But if we reverse the values and forces in play, here, we might find room for both merit and egalitarianism. Or at least that was the dream entertained by the most solitary of men in the forest of Saint Germane in 1753.