[Awkward Disclaimer: I didn’t mean this just as a defence of Dawkins. Some New Atheists may or may not have a sectarian obsession with Muslims – but to dismiss every bland generalisation as another instance of racist bigotry is as flippant as it is frivolous.]
Much of the Left, very dazed these days, has turned to the puritanism that Right-wingers seem to have mostly abandoned. With it has come a tendency for the Left to assume that their rivals are driven by the most base, the wickedest, the absolutely worst motivations imaginable: Owen Jones moralising on the Tories is an odd example of this. If one is flippant, he must be callous; if one clarifies his terms only in rhetorical retreat, he is a bigot. Carelessness means racism.
A number of atheists – whose gravitational pull is still mostly liberal – are declaring in chorus their antipathy towards the anti-Muslim bigotry of which they accuse Richard Dawkins. If I might quote Alex Gabriel at the Heresy Club:
The last thing secularism needs is a clash-of-civilisations narrative. The problem with Islam, as with any religion, is that it makes unknowable claims; the problem with Islamism, as well as relying on those unknowable claims, is that it’s theocratic, violent, oppressive and inhumane. To object instead to either, even by implication, on grounds of being culturally alien, foreign, un-British, un-Western or ‘barbarian’ is to racialise the terms of discussion, accepting ahistorically that the so-called ‘Muslim world’ is theocratic by definitive nature, legitimising the U.S.-led militarism which fuels Islamism’s anti-Western appeal, and enforcing the idea those who leave Islam or refuse to practice it hyper-devoutly are cultural and racial traitors – that to be an atheist ex-Muslim or religious moderate is to be a ‘coconut’, brown on the outside but white within.
To illustrate his point he takes Dawkins’ January tweet:
Like Alexandria, like Bamiyan, Timbuktu’s priceless manuscript heritage destroyed by Islamic barbarians http://t.co/D15gFcya Vive la France
— Richard Dawkins (@RichardDawkins) January 29, 2013
To the inevitable fury, Dawkins clarified on two accounts – first to accusations of selectively targeting Islam:
Xtian barbarians murder abortion doctors. Most Xtians are not barbarians. Stalin was an atheist barbarian. Most atheists are not barbarians.
— Richard Dawkins (@RichardDawkins) January 29, 2013
And second to those who believed he was treating Muslims like an uncivilised homogeneous bloc:
English is my native language. By “Islamic barbarians” I mean those Muslims who are ALSO barbarians. I do not OF COURSE mean all Muslims!
— Richard Dawkins (@RichardDawkins) January 29, 2013
Both are important.
To paraphrase Orwell – I think more democratically – to return to basic principles has become the first duty of all serious men; absolutes therefore mustn’t be relegated to the religious or the Utopian fantasist. Calling out those who exist to suppress and to suffocate the values underpinning decent society is the premise to internationalism – not its enemy.
The Incubation of Defeatism
… disregard and contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged the conscience of mankind, and the advent of a world in which human beings shall enjoy freedom of speech and belief and freedom from fear and want has been proclaimed as the highest aspiration of the common people …
Preamble to The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 1948
The 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights may one day be ranked as the most powerful expression of liberty ever proclaimed, Eleanor Roosevelt famously dreaming it up to be the Magna Carta “of all men everywhere”. It was never expected to be a permanent guarantee of personal freedom, being neither legally binding nor politically enforceable; in a few short years not a single atrocity of note in Palestine, Egypt, Spain, Portugal or Hungary would be prevented with an invocation from the United Nations. What it neglects cries out for remedy, and its simplicity of statement, though a great strength, consistently struggles with the complexities of application. But at no other point in history have nations gathered together to express, however reluctantly, the unfalsifiable authority of personal dignity before fascists, theocrats, and the mass of blandly clichéd authoritarians floating between.
But the hangover throbbed with regret. Not many years after the UN’s proclamation of the “inalienable” rights of free individuals, intellectual anarchism masquerading as “postmodernism” was looking to undermine it. In an age of decolonisation cultural theorists rushed to denounce “humanitaranism” as imperialism for the mellow-minded, fuelling the isolationist rhetoric, to name but one instance, of the odious Ayatollah Khomeini whose government would dismiss the UDHR as the secularised transcription of the Judeo-Christian tradition. Self-doubt, cynicism, and flagrant sadomasochism blurred into one ungodly polygamous marriage striding over millennia of Western philosophy in the name of “relativism”. Its academia sank into a mid-life crisis.
“Good” and “evil” are great secular words. Their dichotomy has transcended many languages and religions, from village to nation, evolving separately in regions of the world that existed for centuries in isolation. I think it’s a mistake, and a great shame, that many atheists and agnostics have decided that we don’t need this sort of moral certainty; that we ought to leave it to the religious to express emotional outrages – because they might fall silent on crimes of which they approve. Secular space is not created; either it is offered by missionaries or it is fought for and captured.
But this rejection of absolutes has lined the mentality of those academics who believe they know better than the “civilised” – that the only true way of building a society is to accept, ultimately, that there isn’t one.
Perhaps this attitude’s most lasting apologia was Edward Said’s sweeping assault on the orientalist tradition in Western scholarship – it was both a symptom and a cause, he believed, that orientalism now only makes sense as the propagandist machine of the imperial project: in engaging in a conscious effort to misrepresent foreign cultures as backward and inferior, a colonial aggressor felt at liberty to “civilise” them. Everyone in the age of imperialism was a racist Euro-supremacist, Said claimed, which he sought to justify – to the disdain of imperial historian Bernard Porter, who has found little evidence in his Absent-Minded Imperialists – in tenuous literary imagery pre-empting paragraph after paragraph of claustrophobic “analysis” before the final write-off of the author in question as a stooge of foreign aggression. (In Culture and Imperialism there’s a very strange passage accusing Jane Austen – whose novels barely even mentioned the Napoleonic Wars – of promulgating labour exploitation through her silence on empire and the emotional withdrawal it apparently represented. See Unrepentant Jacobin’s blog for a brilliant and much more comprehensive post on Saidism.)
Nonetheless, for the all the deficiencies of post-colonialist thought it might still have seemed very reasonable that the earliest victims of Said’s argument were loaded phrases like “barbarianism”. After all, the horrors of African colonialism that some contemporaries justified in the name of “progress” now seem too absurd for serious scholarship; Rudyard Kipling’s infamous The White Man’s Burden charged the English with the ineluctable duty “to serve your captives’ need” and bring barbaric peoples “towards the light”, a path apparently lit by the intermittent fires of war, genocide, ethnic cleansing and enslavement for those who resisted the imposition of rule by gunboat, diocese, and caste. This so-called “liberal” justification for the atrocities – “civilising the savage” – managed to creep even as far as the socialist Fabians, whom Ramsay MacDonald was compelled to abandon when they refused to condemn the Boer Wars.
Considering the long history of “barbarianism” this should hardly have come as a surprise. It doesn’t come from a very politically correct ancient world: the Proto-Indo-European barbar – which pre-empted the Greek barbaros and Latin barbaria for “foreigner” and “foreign country”, respectively – mimics the unintelligible ramblings of an alien. St Augustine would write the lengthy polemic City of God in order to make sense of the fall of great Roman cities to the murderous Alaric; and though the European humanists swore adoration for Rome they never departed from their Gothic and pagan inheritance, understanding better than their ancient forebears that not all “barbarian” cultures could be dismissed without merit. Consider how the conquistadors – the Pope’s military muscle in the New World – saw it their first duty to conquer the native Americans whose immodesty of clothing apparently revealed an equal poverty of the mind.
Given this history and its tradition of merciless ironies, surely – just surely – we wouldn’t be so stupid as to invent our own savages?
Identifying the Barbarian
“Barbarian” and “savage” have not always been purely racial terms.
The reason that every colonial power got it wrong was because they all shared in the same ridiculous presumption: that an individual’s ethnicity made them a barbarian for the sole reason that they had not produced laws as “advanced” of those in whose judgement they sat. Through the adoption of customs originating in the land of the expansionists, they could they become “civilised”. In the classical world this racial link was only implicit, the Franks merrily absorbed into the Roman Empire while the Saxons continuing to appear to be wintry nomads for failing to see any virtue in Italy’s fading pyres. But by the 19th century technological industrialism had dwarfed whatever instruments the “barbarians” could offer; and with the advent of pseudo-sciences in the likes social Darwinism and phrenology this was codified into an explicitly racist set of assumptions about the genetic foundations of “alien” societies.
But in the 17th century there had been something of a respite to this thinking with John Dryden’s pitying indictment of the “noble savage”; although deeply condescending, only now does the phrase appear to be an oxymoron, contemporaries meaning the word “savage” as an equivalent for what we today would supply “person from another country” (though almost certainly with implications of skin colour). As a romanticism of the foreigner whose relationship with nature endowed him with values equivalent to the “civilised” virtues of England, it made a crucial point: foreign customs may indeed be “noble” but that is not a vindication of times in which they are not. Cultural toleration does not have to mean moral relativism. That points towards what today we would identify as religious and ethnic pluralism under a constitution constrained by moral parameters to human rights, and to the civil liberties they predicate.
It is the tradition around Dryden’s sentiments – which seems to have ended before the African conquest from the 1880s – that we have and will build upon in the modern world. The UDHR rules on “inalienable” rights for the very reason that no individual in the world is foreign to them: they are universal, and people are at liberty to demand them if and when they please.
Anybody who therefore uses violence to deprive people of equality from birth, to suppress and fight freedom and preservation of culture and of thought – and to murder for these ends and without remorse – is a barbarian.
That’s not a racial term; it’s written in the preamble to the UN’s greatest cause on a morality that has no bearing on nationality. It doesn’t mean “un-British” or “un-American” but anti-human. The commitment to internationalism and universality that it makes necessary is the very definition of anti-racism.
Fighting the Barbarian
It’s for this reason that it’s so intensely patronising – and very eurocentric – to presume that it’s only privileged white atheists and Christians in the West who hold especial contempt for acts of Islamic jihad:
Horrific and barbaric act in Woolwich. My prayers and condolences go out to victim’s family. How do humans commit such un-human acts?
— Mehdi Hasan (@mehdirhasan) May 22, 2013
That “b” word again – and from a devout Muslim, no less.
The most numerous – and targeted – of all of the victims of Islamic barbarianism are fellow Muslims. It was not a “civilised” person who blew up the al-Askari mosque in 2006, one of the holiest – and most extraordinary – Shi’ah sites in the world:
Massoud’s assassination was an attack, to take but one target, on Afghan women; it would be Muslim Malians who would be deprived of international aid by fanatics objecting to the presence of women in the crowd; it is Syrian and Iraqi Muslims who are currently caught in a conflict all too attractive to clerical fascists leaching on their material poverty and surplus of pessimism. In every case, “barbarian” is the only word that could possibly be used to describe those willing to kill to impose a murderous ideology – one which is alien to fellow Muslims.
“Don’t fuel the fires!”
So why then did Dawkins, unlike Hasan, feel it necessary to add the unnecessary label of “Islamic” to certain acts of cruelty or barbarianism? I would give the following explanation.
It is impossible to imagine how sociology might have developed without the contributions of Max Weber. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit Capitalism posed an historical, and to a degree empirically answerable, question: why was it that Puritan religious countries, rather than their Catholic, Lutheran or Islamic foes, were the first to succeed in developing industrial capitalism? One cannot, he pointed out rather obviously, understand different historical trajectories undergone by societies and their religions without first addressing what distinguished them.
By today’s standards this academic – who wrote lectures stressing the importance of objective scholarship – is a racist.
It has become somewhat fashionable in recent years to dismiss all religions as inherently the same. The atheist sees them all to be false, and therefore always leading to a conviction in man-made ideas which, at their most extreme, can incite believers to commit horrific abuses driven by the presumption that God is on their side.
But are we really to pretend that all religions – and the followers of their respective deities – are the same? That they have neither been shaped nor shaped common social features and shared religious property? Is it racist not to presume that no one religious outlook has anymore tendency to evil than its rivals? Is it possible that the Islamic, or the Judeo-Christian, or the Hindu religions and their respective denominations vary in their general outlooks on the world? In this context, put this tweet:
All the world’s Muslims have fewer Nobel Prizes than Trinity College, Cambridge. They did great things in the Middle Ages, though.
— Richard Dawkins (@RichardDawkins) August 8, 2013
Is it possible that, in fact, it is partly due to common religious principles that Muslim societies have such poor records in education?
In his post, Alex spends some time talking about Dawkins’ connection – both implicit and acknowledged – with the English Defence League and horrid crackpots like Pamela Geller, Robert Spencer, Geert Wilders and Pat Condell. He writes:
It should be no surprise these people now claim the Dawkins name-brand in their support: a rhetoric which objects to Islam and Islamism as foreign, alien, un-British, at odds with Western values, barbarian and so on plays straight into their hands – and indeed into Islamists’, who trade on the idea democracy, freedom, human rights and secularity are Western notions, and that adopting them constitutes cultural betrayal.
I won’t condone any support for these people – but that is not say that they have never uttered a word of morally-palatable sense. Just because the right-wing press says it’s true doesn’t mean it isn’t, as Orwell said, which he then explained more fully:
Whenever A and B are in opposition to one another, anyone who attacks or criticises A is accused of aiding and abetting B. And it is often true, objectively and on a short-term analysis, that he is making things easier for B. Therefore, say the supporters of A, shut up and don’t criticise: or at least criticise “constructively,” which in practice always means favourably. And from this it is only a short step to arguing that the suppression and distortion of known facts is the highest duty of a journalist.
The postmodern assumption that religions are “without fundamentals” is an utterly pointless remark: if the corollary that all of a given religion’s followers therefore share nothing in common – rituals, practices, holy sites, books, parables, folk tales or gods – is not then made, then there remains an imperative to identify what is broadly common. Weber looked for the “ideal-type” – the abstract projection of a religious follower from which every actual believer would deviate it some degree, but which would and can be necessary to make empirical arguments.
And demonstrating how these broadly common factors might or might not condone barbaric actions should not be suffocated in case nationalists seize upon them to denigrate entire communities. One can and should point out that parts of the Koran can lead to “barbaric” acts without then endorsing anti-Muslim (and by implication anti-Islamic) sectarianism. If one rejects every point in Wilders Fitna simply because they were intended to justify racist policies, then one leaves some of the most important moral criticisms of religion in the hands of nationalist thugs. That is how the issue is polarised; that is how one stokes a “clash of civilisations”.
Did foreign criticism of the old Tutsi monopoly on Rwandan government cause the Rwandan genocide? Did our disgust with the small number of atrocities committed by Bosnian Muslims mean that we could not also oppose the ethnic cleansing carried out by Serbian forces? Does the evolving – or devolving, perhaps – of the Free Syrian Army into sectarianism prevent us from sending aid to the civilians there, or mean that we have to support Assad’s government?
Indeed, we are above naming any war a “class of civilisations”. It is to elevate atrocities to a level of which they are undeserving: barbarians would replace a society allowing for freedom of conscience with whatever tyranny might arise from their blood-soaked totalitarian insurgency. Most Muslims are on the right side – and it’s a nakedly perverse paradox to say that this was a war initiated by humanitarian principles.
It was not on Dawkins’ orders that Boko Haram – whose name means “Western education is sinful” – declared war on every manifestation of what they see to be “foreign” philosophy, elements including the rights to education sought by most Nigerians, who in turn become traitors for whom the punishment is murder or detonation. Add to these Islamic imperialists the Malian Ansar Dine whose expansionism under the guise of Sharia has hijacked whatever rights the Tuareg might have ever had to self-determination, adding eschatological justification to the region’s still deeply-ingrained problem with slavery. It was the anti-fundamentalist Ahmad Shah Massoud whose assassination at the hands of the Taliban would occur two days before the fall of the Twin Towers; his support for the rights of Afghan women and cultural freedom would allow Islamists to put him as a stooge to “the West”. They have embraced the status of “alien” since it confers religious exaltation.
Nor would any decent New Atheist claim, just as Dawkins does now, that barbarians are all Islamic. The Christian white supremacists of the Ku Klux Klan, torch in hand, murdered and pillaged in aversion to the very first article of the UDHR; the slave labour of High Stalinism was just as evil as that authorised by Tuareg Islamists; say nothing beyond the probable claims of cannibalism within the ranks of the Lord’s Resistance Army; and Orthodox (or perhaps simply highly masculinised) Russians who assault gay pride protesters are, indeed, manifestly wicked. Savagery might be everywhere; but it is not racist to ask whether some religions or non-religious ideologies, more than others, warm to it, and not imperialistic to decry those who embrace it.
“For the union makes us strong!”
So much of left-wing thought is a kind of playing with fire by people who don’t even know that fire is hot.
‘Inside the Whale’, George Orwell
I didn’t intend this post to be so long; congratulations if you made it, for thou art a noble savage (and damn you to hell if not). But the problems with New Atheism are not simple-minded instances of bigotry and racism. Dawkins is a clever and eloquent academic who does not need prattling teenagers like me defending him; if he is careless with his language, or if he endorses the bigots rather than whatever few decent points a bigot may have to offer, then he is being provocatively flippant.
It is perfectly possible to conceive of evils as barbarian; it is the first imperative of the internationalist to do so, irrespective of the religions and societies with which he is confronted. The methods of Islamic fanaticism are as alien to the moderates who share their faith. As the clash between Mehdi Hasan and Irshad Manji showed, some Muslims accept that the Koran can incite violence, while others do not; but, as with any decent New Atheist, no moderate would consider extremists “civilised”.
Let’s stop calling legitimate criticism of barbarism – Islamic or not – “racist”. This is very, very important.
In his introduction to Our Man in Havana, Christopher Hitchens draws a distinction between Graham Greene’s whisky and non-whisky novels. He quotes the verse from the 1963 poem, ‘On the Circuit’, in which W. A. Auden is tempted by the novelist’s sweet healing drug:
Is this a milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
Snatch from the bottle in my bag
An analeptic swig?
I, for one, took Greene’s impenitent reliance on the drinks driving his narrative – no scene ever far from a daiquiri or Wormold’s miniature whisky collection – to be a rather satisfying combination. The Cold War comes to be defined by an alcoholic anachronism, as though hungover before the drinking has started. In the climax of the novel, it would be a game of chess – with all the pieces replaced for miniature whisky bottles – that would finally free Wormold from the rather awkward implications of espionage and provide him with the courage to commit the killing.
The very same substance that would guard him from the terrors of his Catholic-come-narcissist of a daughter, Milly, and his material poverty for which she is mostly responsible would, in a beautiful irony, also liberate him from the mightiest cliff-hanger of all – that of a pre-nuclear conflict.
I have a feeling that Our Man in Havana is likely to stick with me.
Would Orwell hate the cliché to which his pseudonym has degenerated? How much contempt would he have for those seeking seances with him in the blogosphere? Well, as he says in Animal Farm, “the only good human being is a dead one.”
Like a true Marian martyr, Tom Chivers announces his heresy proudly amid the brewing thunderclouds:
He clearly was one of Britain’s greatest ever writers; an extraordinary novelist and journalist, a fierce and clear voice warning against totalitarianism, and prophetic, in a way. But I get a bit annoyed when he gets quoted as an authority on how to write – most especially, when the “laws” from his essay “Politics and the English Language” get bandied about as THIS IS HOW YOU DO WRITING, GUYS.
For the record: it’s not. I don’t claim to be any sort of authority. But even an idiot like me can see that his rules make no sense.
Well, Orwell definitely wasn’t “all that” but he was a sizable portion. Enough, I think, for me to play the apologist.
Orwell bold, Chivers below:
1. Never use a metaphor, simile or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print
Never use a figure of speech which “you are used to seeing in print” is a bit weird. For example, you could make the case that “figure of speech” is a figure of speech, since the things it refers to are not literal figures, ie physical shapes or written symbols, but metaphorical ones. And you’ve definitely seen it in print lots and lots. And there’s nothing wrong with it. “Don’t resort to cliché” is what he means, but it’s so obvious it doesn’t need saying.
Bit of a crafty point. Alluring casuistry, in any case. “Figure of speech” is not a cliche; it is a phrase in its own right. It’s a term which is both technical and standard English. It is a plea to originality, not just the trope to “avoid cliches” – John Rentoul gets it.
2. Never use a long word where a short one will do
Language Log nails the “Never use a long word” and the “Never use a foreign phrase” one neatly by pointing out that “when a shorter one will do” or “an everyday English equivalent” are entirely subjective terms. In the very same essay, they point out, Orwell talks of “scrupulous writers”. Could he have said “careful”, Language Log wonders: “Not quite the same meaning, of course. But would it have done?” Similarly, foreign and technical words have subtly different meanings to the English equivalents: there are no true synonyms. “Don’t show off by using needlessly fancy language”, again, is so obvious and unhelpful that it doesn’t need saying; it’s little better than saying “write well”.
Oh, now. “Subjective”. One of the most important roles of the polemicist is to act as the medium between dry academia and people; it’s a theme of which Orwell is most embracing. Animal Farm warmly invites Stalinism into English circles; it’s how my 10 year-old self, ignorant of communism, managed some level of understanding of the Russian Revolution. That ‘s to say nothing of the layman’s venture to the imperial world in Burmese Days or the critique of capitalism via Comstock’s romance in Keep the Apidistra Flying. Perhaps it’s why many see him as a better journalist than novelist given how successfully he blurred the two professions.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out
Three: “If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out” should, by its own rule, be “If it is possible to cut a word, cut it.” Or even “Cut words where possible.” Is that better?
No, because it’s less memorable. It might be valid a statement but it neglects Orwell’s literary purpose that the “possible” considers.
Even if it were better, wouldn’t that prove the point?
4. Never use the passive when you can use the active
“Never use the passive” is complete nonsense and Orwell uses it regularly himself because there is nothing wrong with it.
Sure – but the active does usually add urgency, as many journalists would do well to remember. And it’s not as though he’s dismissing the passive, the implication being that the active is not always appropriate – as in rule 3, “possibility” does not have a doctrinaire definition. Many people don’t think about that; others do. As Chivers says, it’s “subjective” – and Orwell is fully aware of the difficulties of exercising rules on polemical grammar.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent
Five we’ve dealt with; see two.
Me too, I think. But I’ll add something further about jargon – because Chivers himself avoids it very well, especially given how much effort to which the government has gone to cloud the technical changes it’s making to the NHS. Jargon is a diagnosed symptom of intellectual constipation.
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say something outright barbarous
Six: So what you’re saying, Mr Orwell, is that applying rigid rules to writing is unhelpful and silly? At last we agree.
The point behind Politics and the English Language was to explore how one may be used to transmit the other. Wordplay does not create meaning in and by itself. Better to write an important point poorly than a terrible one crisply.
Some writing is good, and others is bad; and in so rich a language tepid generalisations for each are the best we can hope for. Of course, any rules can therefore inevitably be reduced to “largely empty” advice. I am, after all, partly playing devil’s advocate here because some of Chivers’ criticisms are very valid. I simply mean to show that pedantry and application do not necessarily obscure the importance of the points Orwell is making.
Anyone, after all, who treats Orwell’s rules dogmatically breaks the point behind the first. (Hence six.)
Confused, puzzled, dazed? Watch this terribly exciting video instead.
The undying conundrum for the utopian is to explain why it is that happiness can thrive in the face of oblivion. He can’t do it, not without conceding his idealism, his belief that without the perfect society we are both caged and lost; and Cormac McCarthy’s novel The Road is a fantastic rebuttal to such brainless thinking.
The BBC recently ran the film adaptation. It wasn’t, on the face of it, a good choice for viewing in the early hours. The world is grey, going greyer; and even the image of the man and boy huddled before a burning forest mercilessly scoffs at the prospect of comfort in a world of destruction.
This was my second viewing. The grey was to be expected; and before long it was normalised, a glimpse into the minds of our two central characters tip-toeing across the American shadow. Every now again, I looked outside. At those moments nothing seemed more depressing than the thought of my lovely college burning, or the streets of Oxford abandoned to timeless silence (apart from the buskers – they can shut up).
But within the setting McCarthy builds for us, there are much subtler fires. He’s too clever to make that glib dismissal of colour that so many modernists do – everything being uncertain and miserable and desolate like T. S. Eliot and his “handful of dust”. Instead the man remembers the quest he has set himself, “carrying the fire” from the old world to the new. Promethean fire is stolen from the gods; it burns so that men never forget the dangers present in that which lies beyond their understanding. And yet when the man crosses that boundary of civilisation, from a world of Greeks and Darwins to that of cannibals and stoics, the old myths shed their meaning, their mythical gods. Just as his name is forgone, so the “fire” is humanised.
That’s the key; because it’s more than a gentle abstraction. If they guard the ideas of a civilisation now burning in the books of skeletons then it’s entirely accidental. The fire that makes the man and the boy the “good guys” could not exist without the glow of their own relationship, the stubborn persistence of the nuclear family in an otherwise barren winter. When they meet an elderly man later in their story, his accent is rough, his emotions evidently dormant if not dead. Alluding to his lost son, he says, “Whoever made humanity will find no humanity here.” But all the while the man nurtures the boy like hands clasped around sticks, shielding the spark from the wind; even as life drifts out of him he hopes to protect the playful innocence of the boy who insists they do not harm the very thief who left them naked.
“If he is not the Word of God, then God never spoke.” The boy is a test and the world is his laboratory; if humanity exists, it is inside us, and it is much more than survival. Humanity is not just to exist; if that were so then even cannibalism, that perversion of the natural violent course of Darwinian evolution, would be legitimised. The man and the boy carry two bullets and a pistol with them to prevent that from ever happening to them. If humanity means anything, it is warmth and glowing with a flame. It exists within us. This is not some obscure, faint idealism; it’s biological certainty. The boy was born when the mysterious fires that licked civilisation still raged, and yet he is still sad to see the elderly man pass by without a single can of food to eat. We all share something good and common within us no matter the world around us. With the right nurturing, it can burn bright; and it’s in the last few moments of the film that this becomes so wonderfully clear. We all carry the fire, provided we do not let it go out.
And this brings me back to the starting point of this post – McCarthy is not swallowed by the view that we can change society to achieve the happiness we crave. Meaning is not lethargy in paradise, boredom on the beach – it’s continuous, dialectical. It doesn’t seek an end but a situation. The Road does not need to be read – or seen – as depressing; triumph amid tragedy proves that happiness, if it can ever exist, arises from within us. It is not granted from external powers in this world or the next; there’s something innate, something conflicting with the survival of the fittest, that makes us seek company and goodwill naturally.
And that’s a bloody encouraging thought.
The last series of Game of Thrones was dark and full of terrors, but nevertheless ended with a pleasant glimmer: the freedmen of Yunkai receiving Daenarys Targaryen as their “mhysa” – mother.
Studying the ancients, Niccolò Machiavelli concluded that the most effective guarantor of civic glory is the love of liberty. He denounces mercenaries in The Prince:
The mercenary captains are either capable men or they are not; if they are, you cannot trust them, because they always aspire to their own greatness, either by oppressing you, who are their master, or others contrary to your intentions; but if the captain is not skilful, you are ruined in the usual way.
Later, he writes:
I conclude, therefore, that no principality is secure without having its own forces; on the contrary, it is entirely dependent on good fortune, not having the valour which in adversity would defend it. And it has always been the opinion and judgment of wise men that nothing can be so uncertain or unstable as fame or power not founded on its own strength. And one’s own forces are those which are composed either of subjects, citizens, or dependants; all others are mercenaries or auxiliaries. And the way to take ready one’s own forces will be easily found if the rules suggested by me shall be reflected upon, and if one will consider how Philip, the father of Alexander the Great, and many republics and princes have armed and organized themselves, to which rules I entirely commit myself.
Only those with the steadfast love of their country will fight for it with true conviction. Consider, several centuries later (or before) how the best pretender in Game of Thrones has travelled from lonely sell-out wife to Daenarys the benevolent ruler of Yunkai. By freeing slaves. Turning her soldiers into citizens.
Machiavelli might be excused for having neglected the power of dragons and a pretty face but the point does, I think, stand.
As the world gets more complicated, I’d have thought the need for longer works of fiction to describe it would become ever more important; but Philip Roth argues that it’s doomed. No one will read that one solid vessel for personal autonomy in so technological an age as ours.
Worryingly Weberian. I hope he’s wrong, but my lazy experience can hardly counteract it!
Had its bishops been a little more flamboyant, Charlie Chaplin’s quip that “in the light of our own egos, we are all dethroned monarchs” might just have become the motto of the Church of England. To hear nothing beyond Lord Carey’s recent bombast one might be forgiven for thinking that David Cameron had recently led an anti-theist coup to purge England of all things non-infidel:
More shockingly, the Equalities Minister, Helen Grant, recently gave her support to the Labour MP Chris Bryant’s campaign to turn the 700-year-old Parliamentary chapel of St Mary Undercroft into a multi-faith prayer room so that gay couples can get married there. The Speaker of the House of Commons is reported to be supportive of the move.
Thankfully, he elected not to predict from the omens that by dawn we’ll be burning Protestants like it’s 1554. But more:
Lord Carey also that said a recent ComRes poll suggested “more than two-thirds of Christians feel that they are part of a ‘persecuted minority'”.
“Their fears may be exaggerated because few in the UK are actually persecuted, but the prime minister has done more than any other recent political leader to feed these anxieties.”
Ah, yes. The same Cameron whose homage to our “Christian roots” will go down as one of the most embarrassing pretensions to conservatism our political establishment has seen for some years.
The bemused reader of Carey, like myself, has plenty about which to be irritated. Much like its counterpart in Tehran, 26 places are reserved specifically for the Anglican episcopate in the House of Lords; the Church’s governor is the British head of state in Queen Lizzie; on paper, at least, it is our national church. Were these merely quaint anachronisms I doubt anyone would seriously care. I might oppose it on moral and constitutional grounds but be somewhat indisposed to that extra bit of administrative waste, being the history student with a curious affection for old things that I am.
And yet it would seem that no matter how many times these points are rehearsed they will never quell the arrogance of the Anglican Church – because these legislative tidbits are more like nourishing provocateurs than comforts for the senile. That the Church has in its history sunk to the most abysmal depths of the worst criminal acts should give it cause for humility; for having opposed attempts to end the African slave trade, for opposing the emancipation of gays and women in the 1960s, for administering African colonies on behalf of the British crown, for waving the flag in 1914 as young men marched like cattle into gunfire and never dropping it. That is not the record fitting for complacency, and fitting even less as a precedent to a panicky manifesto to a secular Parliament.
So when Carey cries “persecution” one ought to be astonished, and yet is somehow embarrassed and vaguely confused. The Tudor dynastic church, scrambled together in the bedroom of Henry VIII, now ranks in matters of sexual morality far below the condom machine. And psychiatrists love to remind us that relationships begin to fall apart when the sex dries up. That’s why it’s so farcical and not at all tragic: the absurd hysteria of Anglican figures is fueled by the knowledge that, deep down, their political authority is as hollow as the crown of Richard II. It wasn’t after all always so easy to get the Church to admit that its members are now in a minority.
But Lord Carey’s remarks are as insulting as much as they are arrogant: and none less, would you believe it, than to Christians worldwide. The sad irony is that they are probably the most persecuted religious group on the planet, alongside the Jews: in the Middle-East, China, North Korea, parts of India, north Africa and even Turkey, Christians simply for their beliefs and practices might face anything from exclusion from office to death. The ideology that once gave moral directorship to imperialism has now created victims in its modern adherents. To compare this with secularism – with the position of the equality of religious and non-religious outlooks – is a pompous disgrace, one which probably won’t humiliate the Church as much as it should.
Back in Britain it would seem that the Church is dying in the bed in which it was born, brought as it was into England feeding on the marital morality of which today it is starved. It can’t stop gay marriage – how dreadful. I never really cared for it until the Church revealed why they thought it was so important to oppose it. Indeed, one can only hope for one final divorce: not just from Rome, but from Parliament. Kick out the bishops, democratise the Lords and we really will have true freedom conscience in this country.
To Chaplin’s earlier quoted line might be added another, that “life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.” Think of that with the Anglican Church, who might like many others learn from Shakespeare how a dethroned monarch need not forgo his assured self-respect:
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d;
All murder’d: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear’d and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour’d thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!