Saturday 7 May 2022

Leviathan, Himself.





“ George rushed in. Hagbard peered into the blue-black depths, then took George by the shoulder and pointed. "There it is, George. The origin of all the Illuminati symbols. Leviathan himself."

Far, far off in the depths of the ocean, George saw a triangle glowing with a greenish-white phosphorescence. In its center was a red dot.

"What is it?" George asked.

"An intelligent, invertebrate sea creature of a size so great the word 'gigantic' doesn't do it justice," said Hagbard. "It is to whales what whales are to minnows. It's an organism unlike any other on earth. It's one single cell that never divided, just kept getting larger and larger over billions of years. Its tentacles can hold this submarine as easily as a child holds a paper boat. Its body is shaped like a pyramid. With that size it doesn't need the normal fish shape. It needs a more stable form to withstand the enormous pressures at the bottom of the ocean. And so it has taken the form of a pyramid of five sidesincluding the base."

"The blink of a god's eye," said George suddenly. "Scale makes a tremendous difference to one's sense and definition of reality. Time to a sequoia is not the same as time to a man."

Leviathan was drifting closer to them, and it was pulling them closer to itself. A single, glowing red nucleus burned like an under-ocean sun in the center of the pyramid, which looked like a mountain of glass.

"Still, one may become lonely. For a man, a half-hour of loneliness may be enough to cause unbearable pain. For a being to whom a million years is no more than a year, the pain of loneliness may be great. It is great."

"George, what are you talking about?" said Joe.

Hagbard said, "There are plants which live just in that light. At ocean depths far below those at which any plant should be able to survive. Over the millions of years hosts of parasitic satellite life forms have build up around it." Still puzzled by George's odd talk, Joe looked and saw a faintly glowing cloud around Leviathan's angular shape. That cloud must be made of millions of creatures circling around The Monster.

The bridge door opened again and Harry Coin, Otto Waterhouse, and John-John Dillinger came in. "We didn't have any battle stations, so I figured we'd try to find outwhat's going on," said Dillinger. Then his jaw dropped 'as he looked out at Leviathan.

"Holy shit!"

"Jesus suffering Christ," said Harry Coin. "If I could fuck that thing I'd of fucked the biggest thing that lives."

"Want to borrow a scuba outfit?" said Hagbard. "Maybe you could distract it."

"What does it feed on?" said Joe. "Something like that must have to eat constantly to survive.

"It's omnivorous," said Hagbard. "Has to be. Eats the creatures that live around it, but can eat anything from amoebas to kelp beds to whales. It can probably derive energy from inorganic matter too, as plants do. Its diet has had to change quite a bit over the geological eras. It wasn't as big as this a billion years ago. It grows very slowly."

"I am the first of all living things," said George. "The first living thing was One. And it is still One."

"George?" said Hagbard, looking narrowly at the blond young man. "George, why areyou talking like that?"

"It's coming closer," said Otto.

"Hagbard, what the hell are you going to do?" said Dillinger. "Are we going to fight, run, or let that thing eat us?"

"Let it come closer for a while," Hagbard said. "I want to get a good close look. I've never had a chance like this before, and may never see this creature again."

"You'll be seeing it from the inside with that attitude," said Dillinger.

At each of the five corners of the pyramid were clusters of five tentacles, thousands of feet long, festooned with auxiliary tentacles, the long, wirelike tendrils that had first brushed the submarine. It was one of the main tentacles that was wrapped around the Leif Erikson. The tip of a second tentacle now drifted up. At the very end of this tentacle was a glowing red eyeball, a smaller replica of the red nucleus of the pyramidal central body. Under this eye was a huge orifice full of jagged rows of toothlike projections.
Pulsing, the orifice dilated and contracted.

"Those tentacles are also inspirations for Illuminati symbolism," said Hagbard. "The eye
on top of the pyramid. The serpent who circles the world, or eats his own tail. Each of those tentacles has its own brain and is directed by its own sensory organs."

Otto Waterhouse stared and shook his head. "If you ask me, we're all still on acid."

George said, "Long have I lived alone. I have been worshipped. I have fed on the small, quick things that live and die faster than I can think. I am one. I was first. The other things, they stayed small. They grouped together, and so grew larger. But I was always much larger than they were. When I needed something—a tentacle, an eye, a brain—I grew it. I changed, but always remained Myself."

Hagbard said, "It's talking to us, using George as a medium."

"What do you want?" Joe asked.

"All consciousness throughout the universe is One," said Leviathan through George's mouth. "It intercommunicates on a level which is not aware of itself. I am aware of that level, but I cannot communicate with the other life forms on this planet. They are too small for me. Long, long have I waited for a life form that could communicate with me. Now I have found it."

Joe Malik suddenly began laughing. "I've got it," he cried, "I've got it!"

"What have you got?" Hagbard asked tensely, concerned with Leviathan.

"We're in a book!"

"What do you mean?"

"Come off it, Hagbard. You can't kid me, and you certainly won't fool the reader at this point. He knows damn well we're in a book." Joe laughed again. "That's why Miss Portinari's explanation of the Tarot deck just slipped by with a half-hour seeming to vanish. The author didn't want to break the narrative there."

"What the fuck's he talking about?" Harry Coin asked.

"Don't you see?" Joe cried. "Look at that thing out there. A gigantic sea monster. Worse yet, a gigantic sea monster that talks. It's an intentional high-camp ending. Or maybe intentional low camp, I don't know. But that's the whole answer. We're in a book!"

"It's The Truth," Hagbard said calmly. "I can fool the rest of you, but I can't fool the reader. FUCKUP has been working all morning, correlating all the data on this caper and its historical roots, and I programmed him to put it in the form of a novel for easy reading. Considering what a 'lousy job he does at poetry, I suppose it will be a high-camp novel, intentionally or unintentionally."


(So, at last, I learn my identity, in parentheses, as George lost his in parentheses. It all balances.)



"That's one more deception," Joe said. "FUCKUP may be writing all this, in one sense, but in a higher sense there's a being, or beings, outside our entire universe, writing this. Our universe is inside their book, whoever they are. They're the Secret Chiefs, and I can see why this is low camp, now. All their messages are symbolic and allegorical, because The Truth can't be coded into simple declarative sentences, but their previous communications have been taken literally. This time they're using a symbolism so absurd that nobody can take it at face value. I, for one, certainly won't. That thing can't eat us because it doesn't exist—and because we don't exist either. They're nothing to worry about." He sat down calmly.

"He's flipped," Dillinger said, awed.

"Maybe he's the only sane one here," Hagbard said dubiously.

"If we all sit down and argue what's sane and insane and what's real and unreal," Dillinger replied testily, "that thing will eat us."

"Leviathan," Joe said loftily. "It's just an allegory on The State. Strictly from Hobbes."

TERRIBLE



“I think at this point 
We start to wonder 
What's Going on in His Head
and What's Going to Happen 
because of this look on his face.”

“That's so interesting —
As An Actor, 
What is He Playing?”

Elijah Wood :
He's playing, 
"Oh, God, PLEASE Don't Let 
My Mother KILL This Girl."


Norman Bates is presented 
in all these little, you know,
encapsulated moments 
throughout the film
and in much the same way 
that The Murder is presented
in encapsulated moments of images 
and compositions, cut together.

So, I think that The Movie is, 
it's about Fragmentation,
it IS Fragmentation.


Norman goes up 
to The House —

It's very important that The Audience SEES him LEAVE,
because he is reacting to a third character that we think
is in The House, Mother.

But that is really in His Mind.

He goes to The Stairs 
and he looks up, and he looks like 
he's sad because he realises that 
Mom's not at Home upstairs.

Then he goes and flops 
into The Kitchen, like 
a dejected little schoolboy.

So he sits there, like, 
"Oh, rats, I can't have dinner 
with the lady I want to have dinner with."

I imagine he must've done that 
a LOT when Mother was alive.

That she must've 
yelled at him 
and he would just 
Go into The Kitchen 
when he couldn't get 
What He Wanted, 
when She was 
berating him 
for whatever,
he wasn't living up 
to Her Standards.

There's a LOT one could say about Hitchcock Mothers.

“Are you quite sure she didn't come down here to see you, to capture the rich Alex Sebastian for a husband?”

“Go get shaved before 
Your Father gets Home.”

“You gentlemen aren't really 
trying to kill My Son, are you?”


Eli Roth :
When you talk about 
What is Sacred in America,
people talk about 
Mom, and Apple Pie.”

“Mom is Good, We Love Mom, 
We are Mom, We are Good.”

On the other hand, there's something else going on 
in 1950s America
in Culture and Society, 
where Mom is also suspect.

There was a serious 
Social Panic in America 
about Juvenile Delinquency.

One thing that this Social Panic resulted in was this 
Fear that Moms were Going to 
Shelter and Spoil Children, 
possibly America Itself
to DEATH.

All of the sitcoms - 
Father Knows Best, 
Ozzie and Harriet, where 
Mother never did anything.

All She Did was 
Take Care of The House 
and The Kids.”

“I'm just practically ready 
and David has to get dressed.”

“Get dressed? You mean dressed up?”

“Well, yes, you want to look nice when Nancy gets here.”

The Director who exposes 
The Horror 
of The American Family 
in The '50s
without making 
a horror movie, 
is Douglas Sirk.

“You see Kay, I love Ron.”

“You love him so much you're 
willing to ruin all our lives?”

“You can't really think that.”

“What else can I think?”

In Sirk, it's the whole 
construction of The Family.


It's not until Psycho, though, where
The Mother is 
literally A Monster 
when you see Her at The End.

HITCHCOCK :
I think My Mother scared Me 
when I was three months old.

AUDIENCE LAUGHS 
“You remember that?”

HITCHCOCK :
You see, She Said “Boo.


“I don't know 
how many times 
in Psycho, 
Do People Talk 
about MOTHER.

“Oh, we can see each other.
We can even have dinner.
But respectably
In My Housewith 
My Mother's Picture on The Mantel,
and My Sister helping me 
broil a big Steak for Three.

“And after The Steak
will we send Sister 
to The Movies,
turn Mama's Picture 
to The Wall?

Sam!

Patricia Hitchcock talks about, 
she offers her A Tranquilliser :

“Have you got some aspirin?”

“I've got Something, not aspirin….
My Mother’s Doctor 
gave them to me 
The Day of My a
Wedding.

Teddy was furious 
when he found out 
I had taken tranquillisers.

“Any calls?”

Teddy called, me,
My Mother called, to see 
if Teddy called...

Even in that office, the influence,
The Negative Influence 
of Mothers
and here it's 
on Womennot on Men.

So, the fact that 
Norman Bates' Mother
we realise eventually 
is Norman Bates himself,
might have on an unconscious level audiences saying, 
"A-Ha! I knew it! 
Mom IS gonna to Kill Us!

Mom IS going to be 
The Death of Us ALL!"

• SHOWER RUNS •

OK. Once more unto The Breach :
Back to The Primal Moment —

The One Holding The Knife



“You’ve always got to be 
The One Holding The Knife.

Mrs. Kintner
Chief Brody?

The Chief
Yes?

Mrs. Kintner slaps Brody and sobs

Mrs. Kintner
I just found out — a girl 
got killed here last week…. 
and You KNEW it! 
You KNEW there was 
A Shark out there! 
You knew it was DANGEROUS! 
But you let people 
go swimming anyway…!!

You knew ALL those THINGS…!!
But STILL, 
My Boy is DEAD, now. 
And there's nothing 
you can do about it. 

My Boy is Dead
I wanted you to know that.

Mrs. Kintner walks away

Mayor Vaughn
I'm sorry, Martin. 
She's Wrong.

The Chief
No, she's not.


Let Justice Be Done, 
Though The Heavens Fall

“In October 1966, Jim Garrison sat down to read the Warren Commission Report and tried to make sense of the assassination of the President. The Commission had published twenty-six volumes of hearings and evidence. This was a lot of data, but Garrison was an experienced District Attorney and he was used to working with large and complicated sets of information. 

Methodically, he read through every witness statement and examined every photograph. With all the evidence mentally spread in front of him, he began to analyse. 

He saw connections and contradictions emerging from this web of data, and by linking these key facts he began to weave a narrative. This narrative, if he did his job properly, would provide clarity about what really happened. He was attempting to tease out the one story that was True. 

It did not take him long to dismiss the Commission’s findings. Their narrative claimed that President Kennedy had been shot for unknown reasons by an ex-marine named Lee Harvey Oswald, and that Oswald had acted alone, without the assistance of any other individuals or groups, either foreign or domestic. 

Garrison could see how they had pulled this story from the mass of data, but he also saw too many errors in their analysis. Too much contradictory information had been ignored, and too many omissions had not been followed through. 

The Commission’s conclusions did not, to his mind, tell The Story of what really happened. If anything, it told The Story of what people wanted to have happened. It had chosen the most palatable narrative, rather than the True one. 

And it was important to know What Had Happened. 

Murder is serious and Human Life is valuable, but JFK’s murder had another dimension above and beyond the loss of one man’s life. 

His murder hit people on a symbolic level. Kennedy was not then as universally popular as he is now remembered, but he was young, virile and the figurehead of The Nation. 

The Beheading of A King is an ancient and powerful archetype, and when the second bullet removed much of Kennedy’s head, that archetype played out in the psyche of the country. The American People, collectively, went into a kind of shock. 

Like the events of 9/ 11 and the death of Princess Diana, it was a tragedy whose impact on the nation’s subconscious was greater than anything a rational assessment of the death toll would suggest. The killer shot at one man, but millions were hit. 

And whoever was responsible, it appeared to Garrison, was getting away with it....”


"What was that homosexual business? Just buggin' old Bushman?" 

"Entropy. Breaking the straight line into a curve ball." 

Hagbard," I said, "what the hell is Your Game?

Proving that Government is a hallucination in the minds of Governors," he said crisply. We turned onto Lake Shore Drive and sped North. 

“Thou, Jubela, did he tell you the Word?" asked the goat-headed man. 

The gigantic black said, "I beat him and tortured him, but he would not reveal The Word." 

“Thou, Jubelo, did he tell you the Word?" 

The fishlike creature said, "I tormented and vexed his inner spirit, Master, but he would not reveal The Word." 

“And Thou, Jubelum, did he tell you The Word?" 

The hunchbacked dwarf said, "I cut off his testicles and he was mute. I cut off his penis and he was mute. He did not tell me The Word." 

"A fanatic," the goat-head said. "It is better that he is dead.

Saul Goodman tried to move. He couldn't twitch a single muscle : That last drug had been a narcotic, 
and a powerful one. Or was it a poison? He tried to assure himself that the reason he was paralysed and laying in a coffin was because they were trying to break down his mind. But he wondered if The Dead might tell themselves similar fables, as they struggled to escape from The Body before it rotted. 

As he wondered, the goat-head leaned over and closed the top of the coffin. Saul was alone in Darkness. 

“Leave first, Jubela." 

"Yes, Master." 

"Leave next, Jubelo." 

"Yes, Master." 

"Leave last, Jubelum." 

"Yes, Master." 

Silence. It was lonely and dark in the coffin, and Saul couldn't move. Let me not go mad, he thought. 

Howard spotted the Lief Erikson ahead and sang: "Oh, groovy, groovy, groovy scene/Once again I'll 
meet Celine." Maldonado's sleek Bentley edged up the drive to the home of "America's best-known  financier-philanthropist," Robert Putney Drake. (Louis marched toward the Red Widow, maintaining his dignity. An old man in a strange robe pushed to the front of the crowd, trembling with exaltation. The blade rose: the mob sucked in its breath. The old man tried to look into Louis's eyes, but The King could not focus them. The blade fell : the crowd exhaled. As the head rolled into the basket, the old man raised his eyes in ecstasy and cried out, "Jacques De Molay, thou art avenged!") Professor Glynn lectured his class on medieval history (Dean Deane was issuing the 
Strawberry Statement on the same campus at the same time) and said, "The real crime of The Templars, however, was probably their association. with The Hashishim." George Dorn, hardly listening, wondered if he should join Mark Rudd and the others who wanted to close down Columbia entirely. 


“Very few readers of The Golden Bough have pierced Sir Prof. Dr. Frazer's veil of euphemism and surmised the exact method used by Isis in restoring life to Osiris, although this is shown quite clearly in extant Egyptian frescoes. 

Those who are acquainted with this simple technique of resurrecting The Dead (which is at least partially successful in all cases and totally successful in most) will have no trouble in skrying the esoteric connotations of the Sacred Chao — or of the Taoist yin-yang or the astrological sign of cancer. 

The method almost completely reverses that of the pentagrams, right or left, and it can even be said that in a certain sense it was not Osiris himself but his brother, Set, symbolically understood, who was the object of Isis's magical workings. 

In every case, without exception, a magical or mystical symbol always refers to one of the very few* variations of the same, very special variety of human sacrifice: the "one eye opening" or the "one hand clapping"; and this sacrifice cannot be partial — it must culminate in death if it is to be efficacious. 

The literal-mindedness of the Saures, in the novel, caused them to become a menace to Life on Earth; the reader should bear this in mind. 

The sacrifice is NOT simple. 

It is a species of cowardice, epidemic in Anglo-Saxon nations for more than three centuries, which causes most who seek success in this field to stop short before the death of the victim. Anything less than death — that is, complete oblivion — simply will NOT work.** 

(One will find more clarity on this crucial point in the poetry of John Donne than in most treatises alleging to explain the secrets of magick.) 

* Fewer than seventy, according to a classical enumeration.

** The magician must always identify fully with the victim, and share every agonized contortion to the utmost. Any attitude of standing aside and watching, as in a theatrical performance, or any intellectualization during the moments when the sword is doing its brutal but necessary work, or any squeamishness or guilt or revulsion, creates the two- mindedness against which Hagbard so vehemently warns in Never Whistle While You're Pissing. 

In a sense, only The Mind dies.

Friday 6 May 2022

Try AGAIN.






Arthur :
Keep a distance, Mordred.

Mordred The Bastard :
I have come to claim 
What is Mine, Father.

Arthur :
Show Yourself —
I cannot Give You 
The Land...
...only My Love.

Mordred The Bastard :
That's the only thing 
of yours I don't want.
The Quest Knights have failed.
They're all dead.
You are dead, too.
I shall come back and 
take Camelot by Force.

Sir Parsifal :
Uryens!

Mordred The Bastard :
Renounce The King 
and I'll spare Your Life.

Sir Uryens :
Never!

Mordred The Bastard :
So be it.

Sir Parsifal :
Uryens...
I was afraid to Help You.

Sir Uryens :
Perceval, never 
give up The Quest.

Sir Parsifal :
I saw The Grail, Uryens.
It was in My Grasp —
….I failed.

Sir Uryens :
You are The Last of Us —
 Try again.

Sir Parsifal :
I am Not Worthy.

Sir Uryens :
You must... You... Listen!
FollowThey call You.


Lancelot :
All around is Death!
Death everywhere!
All of You Will come to Death...
for it is Our constant companion
through Life as We trudge...
through this weary and tragic scene of 
The Valley of The Shadow of Death.

Look at The Great Knight!
Peace and Plenty they promised.
But what did they give us instead?
Famine and Pestilence.

Sir Parsifal :
Lancelot, is it You?

Lancelot :
….and Death.
Because of Their Pride,
and because of Their Sin...

Sir Parsifal :
It's Me, Perceval.

Lancelot :
... God has left The World.
They made themselves God
and Christ has abandoned us.

Lancelot, won't You help us?
Come back to us, Lancelot!
Arthur needs You!
Lancelot!

I can't give up Hope, Lancelot.
It's all I have.


What is The Secret 
of The Grail?

Who Does it Serve?


Sir Parsifal :
You, My Lord.

Who am I?

Sir Parsifal :
You are My Lord and King.
You are Arthur.


Have You found 
The Secret that I have lost?

Sir Parsifal :
Yes. You and The Land are One.


You and The Land are One. Drink.

Arthur :
I am wasting away.
I cannot Die and I cannot Live.

Sir Parsifal :
Drink from The Chalice.
You will be reborn and 
The Land with You.

Arthur :
Perceval...
...I didn't know how empty 
was My Soul...
...until it was filled.


Arthur!

Arthur, King of The Britons :
Ready My Knights for Battle.
They will ride with 
Their King once more.

I have Lived through others far too long -
Lancelot carried My Honor
and Guenevere My Guilt.
Mordred bore My Sins.
My Knights have fought My Causes.

Now, My Brother...
...I shall be King.

Guards!
Knights!
Squires!
Prepare for Battle!

Ian McShane

Ian McShane discussing Richard Burton and "Villain" on The Jonathan Ross...

Ian McShane recounts working 
with the great Richard Burton 
on the 1971 film "Villain
on The Jonathan Ross Show

Thursday 5 May 2022

Relativity

Planet of the Apes '68


“Seen from out here, everything seems different, Time bends, Space is boundless....

It squashes a man’s ego -- I feel lonely.” 

-- Taylor




Charlton Heston in The Planet of the Apes on the relativistic effects of traveling near The Speed of Light.

Wednesday 4 May 2022

Damned Things











APPENDIX TETH
HAGBARD'S BOOKLET
After prolonged pleading and vehement prayers of entreaty, the authors finally prevailed upon Hagbard Celine to allow us to quote some further illuminating passages from his booklet Never Whistle While You're Pissing.* (Before we made these frantic efforts, he wanted us to publish the whole thing.)

* The title, he informs us, is taken from R. H. Blythe's Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics.

The story is instructive: Blythe, studying za-zen (sitting zen, or dhyana meditation) in a monastery at Kyoto, asked the roshi (Zen Master) if there was any further discipline he should adopt to accelerate his progress. The roshi replied, concisely, "Never whistle while you're pissing." Cf. Gurdjieff's endless diatribes about "concentration," the rajah in Huxley's Island who unleashed talking mynah birds to remind his citizens constantly "Here and now, boys, here and now!" and Jesus, "Whatever thy hand findest to do, do it with all thy heart."

Here, then, are some of the keys to the strange head of Hagbard Celine: I once overheard two botanists arguing over a Damned Thing that had blasphemously sprouted in a college yard. One claimed that the Damned Thing was a tree and the other claimed that it was a shrub. They each had good scholarly arguments, and they were still debating when I left them.

The World is forever spawning Damned Things — things that are neither tree nor shrub, fish nor fowl, black nor white — and the categorical thinker can only regard the spiky and buzzing world of sensory fact as a profound insult to his card-index system of classifications. Worst of all are the facts which violate "common sense," that dreary bog of sullen prejudice and muddy inertia. The whole history of science is the odyssey of a pixilated card-indexer perpetually sailing between such Damned Things and desperately juggling his classifications to fit them in, just as the history of politics is the futile epic of a long series of attempts to line up the Damned Things and cajole them to march in regiment.

Every ideology is a mental murder, a reduction of dynamic living processes to static classifications, and every classification is a Damnation, just as every inclusion is an exclusion. In a busy, buzzing universe where no two snow-flakes are identical, and no two trees are identical, and no two people are identical — and, indeed, the smallest subatomic particle, we are assured, is not even identical with itself from one microsecond to the next — every card-index system is a self-delusion. "Or, to put it more charitably," as Nietzsche says, "we are all better artists than we realize."

It is easy to see that the label "Jew" was a Damnation in Nazi Germany, but actually the label "Jew" is a Damnation anywhere, even where anti-Semitism does not exist. "He is a Jew," "He is a doctor," and "He is a poet" mean, to the card-indexing center of the cortex, that my experience with him will be like my experience with other Jews, other doctors, and other poets. Thus, individuality is ignored when identity is asserted.

At a party or any place where strangers meet, watch this mechanism in action. Behind the friendly overtures there is wariness as each person fishes for the label that will identify and Damn the other. Finally, it is revealed: "Oh, he's an advertising copywriter," "Oh, he's an engine-lathe operator." Both parties relax, for now they know how to behave, what roles to play in the game. Ninety-nine percent of each has been Damned; the other is reacting to the 1 percent that has been labeled by the card-index machine. 

Certain Damnations are socially and intellectually necessary, of course. A custard pie thrown in a comedian's face is Damned by the physicist who analyzes it according to the Newtonian laws of motion. These equations tell us all we want to know about the impact of the pie on the face, but nothing about the human meaning of the pie-throwing.

A cultural anthropologist, analyzing the social function of the comedian as shaman, court jester, and king's surrogate, explains the pie-throwing as a survival of the Feast of Fools and the killing of the king's double. This Damns the subject in another way. A psychoanalyst, finding an Oedipal castration ritual here, has performed a third Damnation, and the Marxist, seeing an outlet for the worker's repressed rage against the bosses, performs a fourth. Each Damnation has its values and its uses, but it is nonetheless a Damnation unless its partial and arbitrary nature is recognized.

The poet, who compares the pie in the comedian's face with The Decline of the West or his own lost love, commits a fifth Damnation, but in this case the game element and whimsicality of the symbolism are safely obvious. At least, one would hope so; reading the New Critics occasionally raises doubts on this point.

Human society can be structured either according to the principle of Authority or according to the principle of Liberty. Authority is a static social configuration in which people act as superiors and inferiors: a sadomasochistic relationship. Liberty is a dynamic social configuration in which people act as equals: an erotic relationship. In every interaction between people, either Authority or Liberty is the dominant factor. Families, churches, lodges, clubs, and corporations are either more authoritarian than libertarian or more libertarian than authoritarian.

It becomes obvious as we proceed that the most pugnacious and intolerant form of authority is the State, which even today dares to assume an absolutism which the Church itself has long ago surrendered and to enforce obedience with the techniques of the Church's old and shameful Inquisition. Every form of authoritarianism is, however, a small "State," even if it has a membership of only two. Freud's remark to the effect that the delusion of one man is neurosis and the delusion of many men is religion can be generalised : The authoritarianism of one man is crime and the authoritarianism of many men is the State. Benjamin Tucker wrote quite accurately :

Aggression is simply another name for government. Aggression, invasion, government are interchangeable terms. The essence of government is control, or the attempt to control. He who attempts to control another is a governor, an aggressor, an invader; and the nature of such invasion is not changed, whether it be made by one man upon another man, after the manner of the ordinary criminal, or by one man upon all other men, after the manner of an absolute monarch, or by all other men upon one man, after the manner of a modern democracy

Tucker's use of the word "invasion" is remarkably precise, considering that he wrote more than fifty years before the basic discoveries of ethology. Every Act of Authority is, in fact, an invasion of the psychic and physical territory of another.

Every fact of science was once Damned. Every invention was considered impossible. Every discovery was a nervous shock to some orthodoxy. Every artistic innovation was denounced as fraud and folly. The entire web of culture and "progress," everything on earth that is manmade and not given to us by nature, is the concrete manifestation of some man's refusal to bow to Authority. We would own no more, know no more, and be no more than the first apelike hominids if it were not for the rebellious, the recalcitrant, and the intransigent. As Oscar Wilde truly said, "Disobedience was man's Original Virtue."

The human brain, which loves to read descriptions of itself as the universe's most marvellous organ of perception, is an even more marvellous organ of rejection. The naked facts of our economic game, are easily discoverable and undeniable once stated, but conservatives—who are usually individuals who profit every day of their lives from these facts—manage to remain oblivious to them, or to see them through a very rosy-tinted and distorting lens. (Similarly, the revolutionary ignores the total testimony ofhistory about the natural course of revolution, through violence, to chaos, back to the starting point) We must remember that thought is abstraction. In Einstein's metaphor, the relationship between a physical fact and our mental reception of that fact is not like the relationship between beef and beef-broth, a simple matter of extraction and condensation; rather, as Einstein goes on, it is like the relationship between our overcoat and the ticket given us when we check our overcoat. In other words, human perception involves coding even more than crude sensing. The mesh of language, or of mathematics, or of a school of art, or of any system of human abstracting, gives to our mental constructs the structure, not of the original fact, but of the symbol system into which it is coded, just as a map-maker colors a nation purple not because it is purple but because his code demands it. But every code excludes certain things, blurs other things, and overemphasises still other things. Nijinski's celebrated leap through the window at the climax of Le Spectre d'une Rose is best coded in the ballet notation system used by choreographers; verbal language falters badly in attempting to convey it; painting or sculpture could capture totally the magic of one instant, but one instant only, of it; the physicist's equation, Force = Mass X Acceleration, highlights one aspect of it missed by all these other codes, but loses everything else about it. Every perception-is influenced, formed, and structured by the habitual coding habits — mental game habits — of the perceiver.

All authority is a function of coding, of game rules. Men have arisen again and again armed with pitchforks to fight armies with cannon; men have also submitted docilely to the weakest and most tottery oppressors. It all depends on the extent to which coding distorts perception and conditions the physical (and mental) reflexes.

It seems at first glance that authority could not exist at all if all men were cowards or if no men were cowards, but flourishes as it does only because most men are cowards and some men are thieves. Actually, the inner dynamics of cowardice and submission on the one hand and of heroism and rebellion on the other are seldom consciously realized either by the ruling class or the servile class. Submission is identified not with cowardice but with virtue, rebellion not with heroism but with evil. To the Roman slave-owners, Spartacus was not a hero and the obedient slaves were not cowards; Spartacus was a villain and the obedient slaves were virtuous. The obedient slaves believed this also. The obedient always think of themselves as virtuous rather than cowardly.

If authority implies submission, liberation implies equality; authority exists when one man obeys another, and liberty exists when men do not obey other men. Thus, to say that authority exists is to say that class and caste exist, that submission and inequality exist. To say that liberty exists is to say that classlessness exists, to say that brotherhood and equality exist.

Authority, by dividing men into classes, creates dichotomy, disruption, hostility, fear, disunion. Liberty, by placing men on an equal footing, creates assocation, amalgamation, union, security. When the relationships between men are based on authority and coercion, they are driven apart; when based on liberty and nonaggression, they are drawn together.

There facts are self-evident and axiomatic. If authoritarianism did not possess the in-built, preprogrammed double-bind structure of a Game Without End, men would long ago have rejected it and embraced libertarianism.

The usual pacifist complaint about war, that young men are led to death by old men who sit at home manning bureaucrat's desks and taking no risks themselves, misses the point entirely. Demands that the old should be drafted to fight their own wars, or that the leaders of the waning nations should be sent to the front lines on the first day of battle, etc., are aimed at an assumed "sense of justice" that simply does not exist. To the typical submissive citizen of authoritarian society, it is normal, obvious, and "natural" that he should obey older and more dominant males, even at the risk of his life, even against his own kindred, and even in causes that are unjust or absurd.

"The Charge of the Light Brigade" — the story of a group of young males led to their death in a palpably idiotic situation and only because they obeyed a senseless order without stopping to think — has been, and remains, a popular poem, because unthinking obedience by young males to older males is the most highly prized of all conditioned reflexes within human, and hominid, societies.

The mechanism by which authority and submission are implanted in the human mind is coding of perception. That which fits into the code is accepted; all else is Damned. It is Damned to being ignored, brushed aside, unnoticed, and — if these fail — it is Damned to being forgotten.

A worse form of Damnation is reserved for those things which cannot be ignored. These are daubed with the brain's projected prejudices until, encrusted beyond recognition, they are capable of being fitted into the system, classified, card-indexed, buried. This is what happens to every Damned Thing which is too prickly and sticky to be excommunicated entirely. As Josiah Warren remarked, "It is dangerous to understand new things too quickly."

Almost always, we have not understood them. We have murdered them and mummified their corpses.

A monopoly on the means of communication may define a ruling elite more precisely man the celebrated Marxian formula of "monopoly on the means of production." Since man extends his nervous system through channels of communication like the written word, the telephone, radio, etc., he who controls these media controls part of the nervous system of every member of society. The contents of these media become part of the contents of every individual's brain.

Thus, in pre-literate societies taboos on the spoken word are more numerous and more Draconic than at any more complex level of social organization. With the invention of written speech—hieroglyphic, ideographic, or alphabetical —the taboos are shifted to this medium; there is less concern with what people say and more concern with what they write. (Some of the first societies to achieve literacy, such as Egypt and the Mayan culture of ancient Mexico, evidently kept a knowledge of their hieroglyphs a religious secret which only the higher orders of the priestly and royal families were allowed to share.) The same process repeats endlessly : Each step forward in the technology of communication is more heavily tabooed than the earlier steps. Thus, in America today (post-Lenny Bruce), one seldom hears of convictions for spoken blasphemy or obscenity; prosecution of books still continues, but higher courts increasingly interpret the laws in a liberal fashion, and most writers feel fairly confident that they can publish virtually anything; movies are growing almost as desacralised as books, although the fight is still heated in this area; television, the newest medium, remains encased in neolithic taboo. (When the TV pundits committed lese majeste after an address by the then Dominant Male, a certain Richard Nixon, one of his lieutenants quickly informed them they had overstepped, and the whole tribe — except for the dissident minority — cheered for the reasertion of tradition.) When a more efficient medium arrives, thetaboos on television will decrease.

Sunday 1 May 2022

If a Shark Stops Swimming, it Will Die.






“The great fish moved silently through the night water, propelled by short sweeps of its crescent tail. The mouth was open just enough to permit a rush of water over the gills. There was little other motion: an occasional correction of the apparently aimless course by the slight raising or lowering of a pectoral fin – as a bird changes direction by dipping one wing and lifting the other. The eyes were sightless in the black, and the other senses transmitted nothing extraordinary to the small, primitive brain. 

The fish might have been asleep, save for the movement dictated by countless millions of years of instinctive continuity: lacking the flotation bladder common to other fish and the fluttering flaps to push oxygen-bearing water through its gills, it survived only by moving. Once stopped, it would sink to the bottom and die of anoxia. 

The land seemed almost as dark as the water; for there was no moon. All that separated sea from shore was a long, straight stretch of beach – so white that it shone.