‘Could a rule be given from without, poetry would cease to be poetry, and sink into a mechanical art. It would be μóρφωσις, not ποίησις. The rules of the IMAGINATION are themselves the very powers of growth and production. The words to which they are reducible, present only the outlines and external appearance of the fruit. A deceptive counterfeit of the superficial form and colours may be elaborated; but the marble peach feels cold and heavy, and children only put it to their mouths.’ [Coleridge, Biographia ch. 18]

‘ποίησις’ (poiēsis) means ‘a making, a creation, a production’ and is used of poetry in Aristotle and Plato. ‘μóρφωσις’ (morphōsis) in essence means the same thing: ‘a shaping, a bringing into shape.’ But Coleridge has in mind the New Testament use of the word as ‘semblance’ or ‘outward appearance’, which the KJV translates as ‘form’: ‘An instructor of the foolish, a teacher of babes, which hast the form [μóρφωσις] of knowledge and of the truth in the law’ [Romans 2:20]; ‘Having a form [μóρφωσις] of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away’ [2 Timothy 3:5]. I trust that's clear.

There is much more on Coleridge at my other, Coleridgean blog.

Monday, 30 March 2020

Dialectics of Plague

I've been thinking, for obvious reasons, about plague and its representation in literature. One broad-brush sense I have (it could stand, really, being rather more thoroughly unpacked and investigated, I know) is that there's a shift in the way literature figures plague around the end of the eighteenth-century. Boccaccio's Decameron is a plague book, but not only is its emphasis not on the disease itself, the stories it collects as diversions for its quarantined nobles are overwhelmingly light-hearted, satirical contes, comic tales and love-stories, with the occasion nice clean tragedy intermixed. Fast-forward to Byron, Shelley, Polidori and Mary Godwin socially isolated in the Villa Diodati in 1816, and the stories they come up with are all Gothic and Ghostly-ghastly. Conceivably this reflects the fact that the Black Death was so horrible that the last thing people wanted was to be reminded of it, whereas the plagues of modernity, whilst still ghastly (TB, cholera, typhus and typhoid fever between them killed hundreds of millions across 19th-century Europe) are more diluted by a larger population, less concentrated in specific bursts and more a matter of background noise. (Until now, at any rate.)

Whatever the reason there has been, I think, a shift in tone. Holbien's famous Danse Macabre woodcuts from the early 16th-century are grisly, yes, but also witty, even hilarious. Mary Shelley's The Last Man (1826) is ponderously gloomy, its dramatis personae all poseurs, its plotting an improbable emulsion of aristo soap-opera and war. The story is set in a late-21st-century England more-or-less indistinguishable from England in 1800. Shelley's three main character are cyphers for herself and her friends: Lionel Verney, the Last Man himself, is a gender-swapped Mary; Adrian, Earl of Windsor (son of the last King of England) is Percy Bysshe Shelley; and the charismatic and passionate young nobleman Lord Raymond (who becomes Lord Protector of England as the plague continues to cull the population) is Lord Byron. As the population thins, Verney and friends flee Britain in the hope of escaping contagion. A vain hope: they die on the way or drown in a shipwreck, all except Verney who swims ashore at Ravenna with the knowledge that he is the last human being alive. The novel ends with him walking to Rome, his only company a sheepdog he picks up on the way. There he contemplates spending the rest of his life roaming the now empty world:
A solitary being is by instinct a wanderer, and that I would become. A hope of amelioration always attends on change of place, which would even lighten the burthen of my life ... Tiber, the road which is spread by nature's own hand, threading her continent, was at my feet, and many a boat was tethered to the banks. I would with a few books, provisions, and my dog, embark in one of these and float down the current of the stream into the sea; and then, keeping near land, I would coast the beauteous shores and sunny promontories of the blue Mediterranean ...Thus around the shores of deserted earth, while the sun is high, and the moon waxes or wanes, angels, the spirits of the dead, and the ever-open eye of the Supreme, will behold the tiny bark, freighted with Verney—the LAST MAN.
There were loads of ‘Last Man’ poems and stories at the start of the nineteenth-century (Shelley's was far from the first; de Grainville's Dernier Homme (1805) was the first big hit of, and prototype for, this particular vogue). Part of the appeal of this kind of story, evidently, is its peculiar blend of melancholy exhilaration. The deal here is the thrill of a guilt-struck but liberated loneliness: tragic finality combined with all sorts of spacious possibilities, the whole world our oyster, unrestricted by other people. D H Lawrence drifts into this kind of (it seems to me, antihuman and repellent) fantasy in Women in Love, when Birkin asks Gudrun: ‘don't you find it a beautiful clean thought, a world empty of people, just uninterrupted grass, and a hare sitting up?’ This vision may be beautiful to Birkin, the death of everybody: but it's only beautiful if, in some phantasmic way, we are there to observe it, if our consciousness escapes the collective extinction-event to wander, Verney-like, through the new pristineness.

There's something interestingly dialectical going on with this, I think. When we fantastise about the End of the World—as we very often do, as we have been doing since St John's Revelation—it makes us simultaneously guilty (we're projecting the deaths of billions, after all; we're doing that) and liberated: freed, precisely, from everybody else, from the myriad forces and obstacles that prevent us from being free, the whole civilisation-and-its-discontents kit & kaboodle. For this reason I'd argue the prototype of the Last Man figure is Cain, at once the father of guilt and the first great liberated wanderer of the earth.

Byron was particularly fascinated by the figure of Cain. His closet drama Cain (1821) styles the first murderer as, surprise-surprise, a Byronic hero.

Adam Phillips's ‘Byron on the Run’ essay (in his In Writing: Essays on Literature volume) has interesting things to say about this:
Byronic heroes are always haunted by shameful secrets, but Byron is always as interested in whether (and how) people can hide things as he is in what they are hiding. We can only be governed by people who claim to know us, and so we must be able to hide things from themselves and others, as in what is hidden. We can be governed only by people who claim to know us, Byron seems to assume, and so we must be able to obscure ourselves; to hide things not only from from other people but from ourselves. Indeed, Byron sometimes intimates that the original Cain—who clearly fascinated him for obvious and unobvious reasons, as his mother's only child—may just have had to be excessively ingenious at isolating himself. That stigma can be a perverse form of privacy. That transgression is a quest for solitude. That it gives one a life (and a death) of one’s own. [Phillips, 87]
Mary Shelley's Last Man, striding out into a world picked clean (just uninterrupted grass, and a hare sitting up) is essentially Cain stepping out into an empty world. Both are inheriting arenas of tainted freedom, tainted because absolute, purchased with death. The end of things and the beginning of things become, in this knot of guilt and liberation, the same. And if Phillips is right, then this is, in an important sense, a dream of the perfection of privacy.

As an ace in card games can be high or low, this solitary figure can stand either for the last or the first man. But this isn't some Zen koan, in which the end of things and the beginning of things are the same thing. This is, rather, about apocalypse as privacy. We've been misreading the celebrated Marvellian couplet as lament, when it's actually a kind of celebration:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
The context for Phillips' argument is the idea that, through 1816, under Shelley’s influence Byron tried to ‘transform himself into a nature poet of the Wordsworthian variety’, but that he failed in this project. In retrospect: duh. ‘Soon realising,’ Phillips says, ‘he couldn’t “find solace for his acute unhappiness in landscape”, he began to see what kind of poet he wanted to be by realising what kind of poetry he distrusted. Shelley, it seems, had radically misunderstood the kind of poet Byron was. He was neither transformable nor in any way Wordsworthian.’ Instead of opening himself to the outward, Byron sought to preserve a sanctum of private individuality from the crush of everything else.
‘I only go out,’ he had written in his journal in 1813, ‘to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.’ It was after he left England in 1816 that he began to realise that the very idea of privacy – or a secret inner self, like the idea of a God – was under threat, or even that it might be, to use his preferred word, cant. All life was becoming public life; you needed something to hide in order to have somewhere to hide. What MacCarthy calls Byron’s ‘pathological desire for privacy’ was his growing acknowledgment that there may be no such thing, or at least that it might need to be reinvented. Privacy might mean whatever no one, including yourself, ever knows about you. [Phillips, 89]
This, perhaps, is the dialectical force of the Last Man trope: the phantasmic externalisation of that suspicious, subconsciously entertained, that the only way to ensure that no one ever knows about you is to eliminate everyone. Of course this leaves the dangerous supplement of you yourself, still lingering-on after the collective extinction.

Is this dialectical? I'm reminded of the rhetorical question Jameson, with his characteristically ponderous levity, poses in his Valences of the Dialectic book: ‘is the dialectic wicked, or just incomprehensible?’ I'm not being entirely flippant in suggesting there's something apocalyptic in the antithesis component of that celebrated, opaque conceptual machine: that this negating omega will, by virtue of its negation, magically emerge synthesised as a new alpha. The rabbit tugged, with such a flourish, from the top hat of history. And that's the point, I suppose (it's Hegel-and-Marx-101 of course): the dialectic can only appear in time. All these eschatological fantasies of last men and ends of history begin from the impossible, travel-faster-than-the-speed-of-light premise of time stopping, of time finding a resting point from which bourgeois individualism can (impossibly) take stock without being continually eroded by the ablating flow of history. History, of course, is other people, and the appeal of this apocalyptic dream is not only that its lonely harmony, but that it tacitly validates the notion that such a harmony is worth even the price of everybody else in the universe dying. I'm going to quote some Adorno now, so brace yourself:
Dialectical thinking acquires its character through its movement in and through the extremes: development as discontinuity. But it too arises from the experience of an antagonistic society; it does not originate in some mere conceptual schema. The history of an unreconciled epoch cannot be a history of harmonious development; it is only ideology, denying its antagonistic character, that makes it harmonious. [Adorno, Hegel: Three Studies (trans. Shierry Weber Nicholsen; MIT 1993), 82]
An Adorno-apocalypse would be the redeeming negativity that engages the remorseless and destructive positivity of advance industrial capitalist society. Or, to be a little more crass: maybe Lukács's ‘aspiration to totality’, his desire to grasp human experience as a whole, collectively and historically, becomes radically simplified when the whole of human experience is one person, and history has cancelled all its myriad terms out, like a mathematical equation, to leave as remainder only a timeless now. According to Jameson, what is crucial in any programme of Utopian imagination is always its form rather than the content: ‘what is important in a Utopia is not what can be positively imagined and proposed, but rather what is not imaginable and not conceivable’ [Jameson, Valences, 413]. What is more unimaginable than our own death? What else are these end-of-the-world apocalyptic fantastikas but attempts to body-forth this unimaginable by projecting our individual mortality upon the widescreen of the world?

This, I suspect, is what makes Zombie Apocalypses, specifically, so ghastly. The world has ended, but instead of the one-dimensional harmony of last man solitude the landscape is still filled up with people: people from whom has been subtracted all the positive potential of interpersonal interaction, but who retain all the abilities real people have to obstruct, threaten and overwhelm. The worst of both worlds! This may be why I prefer the Mathesonian I Am Legend version of the zombie myth (all three of the movie adaptations of this peerless fable are excellent, each in a different way: The Last Man on Earth (1964) starring Vincent Price, Charlton Heston in The Omega Man (1971) and yes even Will Smith's 2007 I Am Legend) to, say, The Walking Dead, graphic novel or TV serial, and notwithstanding how enormously successful that latter has been. I'm not knocking the show, although it does revert to a kind-of brutalist soap opera, characters pairing off and fighting one another against a dark background of zombies to keep the tension from flagging if the plotlines flag. The show's shambling ‘walkers’ could be swapped-out for any other kind of threat, really. Better to style your zombie story as a Last Man tale. Mind you, I have to concede that the three Mathieson-adaptation movies I mention also dilute the novel's effectiveness by introducing a possible ‘cure’ for zombism and holding out a Zion-style haven of surviving human community. The book is better, because the better version is the more extreme one.

This, also, is dialectical, I think. If what we're articulating, in howsoever veiled a form, with these myths of the end of the world is not only our relation to our individual mortality, but our complicated and troubled orientation towards otherness as such—other people, for instance—then the iteration cannot be one of compromise. The cool thing about zombies is that we cannot make treaties with them. If the whole world dies, mortality and other people have both reached their ne plus ultra. And that's the proper way to figure the problematic. One last quotation from Adorno:
For Hegel mediation is never a compromise beween extremes, as, since Kierkegaard, a deadly misunderstanding has depicted it as being; instead, mediation takes place in and through the extremes, in the extremes themselves. This is the radical aspect of Hegel, which is incompatible with any advocacy of moderation. Hegel shows that the fundamental ontological contents that traditional philosophy hoped to distill are not ideas discretely set off from one another; rather, each of them requires its opposite, and the relationship of all of them to one another is one of process. [Adorno, 9-10]
There's a similar dialectical tension in the way Coronavirus has presented Shelley's Last Man fantasy of perfect mobility with a reality of lockdown and house-arrest. And here we are.

Saturday, 28 March 2020

Viral Phenomenologies: Update

There's a lot of vagueness about the Virus, of course, and a great deal we don't know. My university closed its doors to face-to-face teaching halfway through the 17th March. I was in work that day: gave an hour-long 10-o'clock lecture to a room containing about a third of its usual audience and then scurried back to run an office hour. I received the official shut-down email before my 12 noon seminar (I went down to let the students know, but only one solitary individual had actually turned up; the rest had received the same email as me and wisely absented themselves). The thing is, assuming Coronavirus arrived in the UK mid-Jan, which I understand is the most likely date, and factoring-in that my university has a large cohort of international students, it is as close to certain as makes no odds that I have been exposed to Covid-19. Of course I don't physically touch my students (yeah yeah, laugh it up fuzzball), but I do touch many doorhandles and other surfaces they have touched, and I only started obsessively washing my hands, and taking the necessary pains to keep my wandering fingers from exploring my face, at some point in March. So long story short: yikes.

I worry in the ways that we all worry, but with the added considerations that I'm a fiftysomething geezer in poor respiratory health (I don't smoke, but I've had lifelong and occasionally acute asthma), so it seems to me I really don't want to be getting this bug. I mean, obviously I don't want anyone in my family getting this bug, but my wife is a fair bit younger and in much better health than I am, and our kids are, well, kids and it seems they are less at risk for that reason. My asthma is pretty well controlled by modern drugs, but my lungs are not strong. So far, and touch wood, I don't seem to have picked it up. This coming Tuesday will be 14 days since my last trip into work, and whilst that's not an absolute cut-off (14 days incubation is, so far as I can see, a guess by the medical authorities, although an informed and conservative one; plus, in the last week and a half I have been out twice for groceries) I'll start to breath a little easier [hah!] if we reach that deadline without me succumbing.

But wait: what if I've had the virus already and happened to be one of the nonsymptomatic ones? Or what if the virus is waiting, like a sniper, until the lockdown eases and then it bags me? Impossible to know, either way of course. That's part of the insidiousness of pandemics: the way their reality trades in probabilities, not certainties, and for whatever evolutionary or other reason, we are not well fitted-up to calculate and process a world of probabilities. We prefer the lineaments of a world where striking this white billiard ball to hit that red billiard ball will cause that red billiard ball to shoot off in that direction. This isn't how viruses present, phenomenologically.

Still, roll-on Tuesday. I don't mean to sound like I'm bragging, but the home lockdown doesn't bother me. Or hasn't yet. It's early days I know, and saying so is probably a hostage to fortune, but: relieved from the obligation to go out, staying inside a house in which there are tens of thousands of books to read ... this is very far from being Alcatraz, for me. It's going harder on my more extravert and gregarious wife, who I fear is starting to feel the walls closing in, somewhat. And our two kids (one eighteen, the other twelve) are bouncing around more than a little. What can I say? We have their best interests at heart. In the words of Fauxlip Larkin:
They lock you down, your mum and dad.
They really mean to, and they do.
They stop you seeing all your mates
And stop those mates from seeing you.

But they are locked down in their turn
By governmental dictats from
A P.M. with a soppy gurn
And experts looking dour and glum.

We're in this for the long haul, guys,
All isolating, each to each.
Stay inside, healthy, cool and wise,
And don’t go popping down the beach.
I'm well aware we're better off than many. We're in a house and the house has a garden; I'm still on salary; there are, as I say, tens of thousands of books here. We're all in the same boat, nationally (globally, indeed) and there's nothing special about me. Unless I get the bug and it kills me, in which case I will have the unappealing distinction that our collective mortality shines, darkly and always individually, upon us all sooner or later. But here's hoping: the second one.

Saturday, 14 March 2020

How Many Did Justinian Kill?

A trillion. You read that right.

Hard to keep your hands clean when running a large empire over many decades, of course. But did Justinian the Great, Byzantine emperor, really kill so many? Here's the relevant bit from chapter 18 of the Anekdota, or ‘Secret History’, of Procopius:
And that he was no human being, but, as has been suggested, some manner of demon in human form, one might infer by making an estimate of the magnitude of the ills which he inflicted upon mankind. For it is in the degree by which a man's deeds are surpassingly great that the power of the doer becomes evident. Now to state exactly the number of those who were destroyed by him would never be possible, I think, for anyone soever, or for God. For one might more quickly, I think, count all grains of sand than the vast number whom this Emperor destroyed. But making an approximate estimate of the extent of territory which has become to be destitute of inhabitants, I should say that a trillion people perished.
That's the 1935 Loeb translation. The translator/editor, H. B. Dewing, notes that the Greek translated as a trillion is literally ‘a myriad myriad of myriads’, adding ‘the “cube of ten thousand” is not the language of exact computation, and Procopius is trying to make out a strong case against Justinian.’ No shit. A trillion is the number a kid reaches for when he wants to emphasise the magnitude of a given thing.

But let's imagine it was true. How might we frame it, as history or (better) as fiction? A planet vastly more populous than it is, even in the overcrowded twenty-first century; a world in which humans live cheek by jowl, perhaps because, as with the Biblical patriarchs, people live hideously elongated lives. And here comes Justinian, to cull the overcrowding, to reduce human lifespans to their present levels and sweep away billions upon billions into the afterlife. No wonder the Eastern Orthodox Church made him a saint.

Thursday, 12 March 2020

O lux mentis! o lucens veritas!

Saint Augustine (glossing John 1:5), cropping up unexpectedly in Shelley’s ‘To A Skylark’:
Like a Poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.
Although actually, if I come to think of it: maybe not so unexpectedly after all.

Augustine's third exposition of Psalm 103, there.

Wednesday, 11 March 2020

On "Silent Spring"s Silences

Carson's titular silence is that of the birds, of course, their song stifled by pesticides: either they have been killed directly by the poisons we are pumping into the environment, or they have been starved by the fact that our poisons have killed off all the insects, their food, indiscriminately. Carson's 1962 book, very influential on subsequent culture and society, remains a powerful read today. It didn't create ‘eco-criticism’ or ‘Environmentalism’ from whole cloth, but its enormous success certainly added momentum to what, in the 60s, they called ‘ecology’. Carson's skill as a writer leavens what might, in other hands, have been a merely drily factual, or (worse) a hectoring or preachy, work; to read Silent Spring is potently to feel how polluting industrial pesticides can be. Nor do I wish to position myself as someone, as it might be, in opposition to environmentalism. That is, honestly, the last place I wish to go, down amongst the scums and bums of climate-change denial and anti-environmentalism. DDT was backed by wads of big-business money, no question; and its indiscriminate use had, as Carson demonstrates, a range of deleterious consequences. Her work was one factor that led to the creation of the American EPA, and the worldwide banning of DDT. Carson argues for alternate modes of pest control in our farming, and talks about the possibilities of biological controls, but actually what has happened is that other pesticides have been developed. Most farmers use them unless they are producing that luxury good, ‘organic food’, for which some affluent consumers are prepared to pay a premium. Not everyone sees the banning of DDT as an unallowed good, mind:

That uptick, on the right side of that graph? That's mosquitos bouncing back, after many years of being rather well controlled by DDT. Nowadays 300 million people get malaria annually and about a million die, the vast majority of these (80% and up) being children under the age of 5. Their voices, we might say, are doubly silenced, by being the children of the globally poorest, and by being dead. Eight hundred thousand dead children. It's the sort of statistic that numbs the brain. It shouldn't though; it ought to set the brain on fire. [Update: Peter Erwin, in the comments below, challenges this point and provides evidence for a different take.]

Here is Carson's rather finely-written opening chapter:
1. A Fable for Tomorrow

THERE WAS ONCE a town in the heart of America where all life seemed to live in harmony with its surroundings. The town lay in the midst of a checkerboard of prosperous farms, with fields of grain and hillsides of orchards where, in spring, white clouds of bloom drifted above the green fields. In autumn, oak and maple and birch set up a blaze of color that flamed and flickered across a backdrop of pines. Then foxes barked in the hills and deer silently crossed the fields, half hidden in the mists of the fall mornings.

Along the roads, laurel, viburnum and alder, great ferns and wildflowers delighted the traveler's eye through much of the year. Even in winter the roadsides were places of beauty, where countless birds came to feed on the berries and on the seed heads of the dried weeds rising above the snow. The countryside was, in fact, famous for the abundance and variety of its bird life, and when the flood of migrants was pouring through in spring and fall people traveled from great distances to observe them. Others came to fish the streams, which flowed clear and cold out of the hills and contained shady pools where trout lay. So it had been from the days many years ago when the first settlers raised their houses, sank their wells, and built their barns. Then a strange blight crept over the area and everything began to change. Some evil spell had settled on the community: mysterious maladies swept the flocks of chickens; the cattle and sheep sickened and died. Everywhere was a shadow of death. The farmers spoke of much illness among their families. In the town the doctors had become more and more puzzled by new kinds of sickness appearing among their patients. There had been several sudden and unexplained deaths, not only among adults but even among children, who would be stricken suddenly while at play and die within a few hours.

There was a strange stillness. The birds, for example— where had they gone? Many people spoke of them, puzzled and disturbed. The feeding stations in the backyards were deserted. The few birds seen anywhere were moribund; they trembled violently and could not fly. It was a spring without voices. On the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of robins, catbirds, doves, jays, wrens, and scores of other bird voices there was now no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh.

On the farms the hens brooded, but no chicks hatched. The farmers complained that they were unable to raise any pigs— the litters were small and the young survived only a few days. The apple trees were coming into bloom but no bees droned among the blossoms, so there was no pollination and there would be no fruit. The roadsides, once so attractive, were now lined with browned and withered vegetation as though swept by fire. These, too, were silent, deserted by all living things. Even the streams were now lifeless. Anglers no longer visited them, for all the fish had died.

In the gutters under the eaves and between the shingles of the roofs, a white granular powder still showed a few patches; some weeks before it had fallen like snow upon the roofs and the lawns, the fields and streams. No witchcraft, no enemy action had silenced the rebirth of new life in this stricken world. The people had done it themselves.

. . . This town does not actually exist, but it might easily have a thousand counterparts in America or elsewhere in the world. I know of no community that has experienced all the misfortunes I describe. Yet everyone of these disasters has actually happened somewhere, and many real communities have already suffered a substantial number of them. A grim specter has crept upon us almost unnoticed, and this imagined tragedy may easily become a stark reality we all shall know. What has already silenced the voices of spring in countless towns in America? This book is an attempt to explain.
What this is, as a piece of prose, and in a word, is: pastoral. It takes its place in the long traditional of framing the countryside as an idealised, small-scale, inviting (‘a checkerboard of fields’; white clouds like ‘bloom’ in the blue sky; ‘shady pools where trout lay’) and above all authentic location. It was in the 1950s-60s that the global population shifted from more people living in ‘the countryside’ than in cities to the other way about, but you wouldn't get any sense of that from Carson. We get no sense that foxes are predominantly suburban animals nowadays, or that nature flourishes in metropolises in a thousand ways. I suppose it's that the city is not clean, in the sense that Carson values cleanness. I mean, urban living is clean, according to some important salients of that complicated term (it's a much more efficient mode of human habitus, for instance) but it's not uncluttered, spacious, unhurried, untechnological. It's not, in Carson's tacit reckoning, aboriginal: ‘so it had been from the days many years ago when the first settlers raised their houses, sank their wells, and built their barns.’ Ah, the autochthonic farmers of America! It's not as if there were any other folk living in this spotless land before these settler housebuilders and barn-raisers arrived, after all. It's not as though a whole congeries of people, living not according to pastoral-agrarian but rather hunter-gatherer logics, were almost entirely obliterated by the gun and the smallpox germ: a deeply unclean business, here wholly occluded. So we might say: one of the silences in Silent Spring is the voice of the Native American, a figure nowhere mentioned in the volume.

Pastoral, as a mode, has a long a complicated history, from the more stylised and conventional idylls of classical antiquity, and their Renaissance and 18th-century imitation in poetry and painting (and, in the case of potemkin villages or Marie-Antoinette-esque cosplay, in real-life), through the reappraisal of pastoral as a more strenuous but spiritually beautiful mode of life in Wordsworth and his 19th-century imitators. By the 1960s countercultural ideas and hippy naturalism intertwined with art, both pop and narrative, that celebrated a small-scale agrarian life in specific opposition to the horrors of the machine and technology. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings (published earlier, but a book that broke through into the mainstream in the 1960s with cheap paperback publication), pastoral in the same anti-machine, small-c-conservative manner, is similarly a hymn to spacious rural environments uncontaminated by, well, by inhabitants. Think how low-density the populations of Middle Earth are! Much quieter than the real world. There is a clamour in reality, but it is at least a human clamour; the noise of traffic is humans getting about, the city din is people being people, and although none of that has any place in Carson's vision of a deer silently padding across a mist-wreathed field, it seems to me a marvellous thing in its own right. I suppose I'm suggesting that Carson's silence possesses a complex valence, a thing to be deplored where the birds are concerned but, dialectally, celebrated on a human scale. I suppose I'm suggesting I don't agree.

Another anti-machine writer who saw a second-wind, a new vogue, in the 1960s and 1970s was D H Lawrence, and he too fundamentally disliked the mess that he took people to be. He liked individuals; he just disliked people in the mass, and his environmentalist vision was even more Year Zero than Carson's: “Don't you find it a beautiful clean thought, a world empty of people, just uninterrupted grass, and a hare sitting up?” Me? No. As it happens, no I don't: I find it a totalitarian and indeed sociopathic thought. But perhaps that is just me.

Sunday, 8 March 2020

Rudyard Kipling, "If And Only If"

Iff you can keep two premises in view
In every proposition, and not bodge it,
Iff you can carefully derive the true
Via both sides of biconditional logic;
Iff you can frame precisely all you state,
Distinguish logic from the vulgar fable,
Step cleanly through the XNOR gate
Lay placemats on your P ↔ Q truth-table;

Iff it's both necessary and sufficient
That you out-logic all your math-opponents;
Iff their old inference proves inefficient
Beside your à-la-mode, dense modus podens;
Iff you unpack the statement “P iff Q”
As “if P, then it's Q” and “if Q, P”,
or as “if not-P, then not-Q” linked to
The “if P, then Q” prior necessity;

Iff you draw Euler digrams to show
How logical relationships obtain,
Not caring that you bore both friend and foe
With such mathematical legerdemain;
Iff you define the unforgiving minute
As sixty seconds squeezed of all their fun,
Yours is the Math and everything that’s in it!
And—one thing more—you’re on your own, my son.