Heart of Darkness

Can high school students and—yes—even university students, understand Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness? Here is a masterpiece borne from the mind of a man for whom indigenous cultures and Western civilization had no appeal, a man once involved in gun-running and political conspiracies, who spent nearly two decades in a merchant navy and who bore witness to the horrors perpetrated by Europe in Africa; now, compare such a man to our students:—generally speaking—a class of pampered and privileged children raised on games, noise, and ignorance of silence and suffering. Now, I do not wish to argue that we are bound by experience and that the Heart of Darkness cannot be grasped across time and space, but, please, let us be realistic.

We do not enlighten the “heart” by leading students to treat the Heart of Darkness as a work of historical fiction. Text-based questions cannot serve to comprehend the Heart of Darkness. It is not merely a story about the heart of Africa, of Kurtz, or of Marlow; the darkness at the core is also the darkness at the core of every human enterprise, and, it is also the universal darkness of the interminable, monotonous, ungraspable Other that is death, the death that challenges and tests human understanding and deserves not essays or courses but entire universities, entire civilizations. Indeed, according to one psychologist, everything human already exists for this purpose.

Although Conrad’s Heart of Darkness can be treated as a work of historical fiction, to treat it as such is to do it a disservice. If we are interested in teaching about the crimes committed by King Leopold against the people of Africa, then we should examine Mark Twain’s neglected, far less ambiguous, far less amoral and far more vitriolic “King Leopold’s Soliloquy.” In contrast to Conrad’s work, Twain’s work does not sound a deep existential note, nor does it indulge in narrative niceties; Twain’s work is a moral assault that condemns the privileged class and exposes how easily a religion of love is adapted to the purposes of horror.

To be fair, Joseph Conrad did not neglect the religious dimension of the historical horror. “Kurtz” is a cryptogram for “Christ.” He comes from the east, from Germany, to Belgium, where he seeks success. Filled with resentment for the aristocratic upper class, he sails to the Congo, to make his mark as King Leopold’s merchant of ivory. However, as Jesus rejected Hebrew law to establish a mythology around his own crucifixion, Kurtz soon departs from the methods and policies of the imperial company, establishes even more violent methods of operation, and becomes the center of a cult. Finally, as Christ’s body symbolizes food, in the minds of the natives—Kurtz’s body was fit to eat, especially on account of his persona.

Conrad’s decision to focus his tale on the aspirations of a merchant instead of on King Leopold, the historical “heart” of the problem, is prophetic. Today, kings are largely symbolic, nearly non-existent. In their place, a new class of conquerors has arisen: the merchant class, the capitalists, the industrialists, the entrepreneurs and the robber barons and financial elitists, all people who, without swords, often without guns, produce a greater swathe of death and destruction than any king ever dreamed of. And yet, are these facts taught in our classrooms? We do our best to avoid it by reducing the Heart of Darkness to an aesthetic object and a historical-moral lesson that has no bearing on the ongoing crimes being perpetrated in the Congo, in Africa, and throughout the World of Darkness.

Yes, yes, obviously Marlow’s adventure is loosely based on Conrad’s own life; but he is also a Kurtz figure, another man from the east.

To misread the heart of darkness is to become Kurtz’ widow, someone too deluded and too deeply in love to see anything else but her delusions.

The Bible and the Latest United Nations Report and…

Recently a UN report predicted that nearly 70 percent of arable land will be subject to desertification by the year 2025, and, having a somewhat erratic mind, I was reminded of the story of Sarah and Abraham, who wandered in a desert and sought water, an ancient symbol for the origin of life.

The story of Sarah and Abraham is a special one, not only because it is a legend about the origin of the Arabs and the Semites, not only because it is crucial to Islam, Christianity, Judaism and Hinduism (After all, “Abraham” is almost a perfect anagram for “Brahman,” a Hindu priest, and, as we know, Abraham does some priest-like things…).

Sarah and Abraham are special because, in the Bible, they are the first to laugh and the only ones to laugh at God. Sadly, it wasn’t God’s intention to make them laugh; they laughed at God’s promise that Sarah, at the age of 90, would bear a child to Abraham, who was 100. Now, as you know, laughing at God is hardly a habit or character trait among any religious folks, so I treat this story as a prophecy about the kind of folk who are already coming.

Who is Sarah, the once-barren wife of Abraham? Among other things, Sarah is also African. She is also the Sahara. If I were to tell someone that the Sahara will one day cease to be barren, that it will be made into a garden, people would laugh. And yet, it is both possible and necessary, at least, according to environmental monitors and permaculture pioneers.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sohI6vnWZmk

http://www.commondreams.org/headline/2009/10/04-0

Suspense as the arch-genre of the world

Suspense, or, the building of expectation, is a crucial ingredient in many works of fiction and non-fiction. The trick is to give readers a trace of what they want, a foreshadowing of something, a hook, and so on. Once the reader is hooked, the author cunningly reels them up a series of minor conflicts, ever closer to the amazing climax before heading down to the wondrous, longed-for resolution. Dogs will chase bones in much the same way. This voluntary submission to hope is arguably the essence of what I, as a writer, resist. I resist it because I have no ability to hope, or yearn; at least, not on good days when laughter, wisdom and cunning are with me. On those days, I have plans, intentions, and a happiness that cannot be suspended.

In some genres, like journalism, a mild form of suspense is created without effort on the writer’s part, as readers come out of sheer curiosity, already addicted to journalistic gossip, eager to escape from both ennui and the overwhelming question, forever hoping they will not be affected by the news, or find themselves in the news, or just the contrary.

Beyond the written word, suspense and hope are nearly omnipresent. Shopping is exciting because its faithful minions never know exactly what they’ll buy, or why they’ll buy it, and when they have it, they’re dying to see how it will improve their value in the eyes of others.

Hope is precisely what should be overcome, cast out of Pandora’s Box … and yes, out of the book, as “book” was derived from “box.”

But what would fiction look like if it were entirely stripped of suspense? How could it still be interesting? Let our hopes be directed here, towards hope’s “end.”

Buffet’s Toilet Paper

Months of reading about the financial crisis have led me to conclude that what has happened is simply a logical outcome of the use of money; and, that this is not a problem of capitalism but of a natural outcome of the foolishness that is the root of all monetary transactions.

Pretty seashells, precious metals, these were the first currencies—and by currencies I mean frauds, for fraud is the essence of money. The first uses of otherwise useless but pretty objects as stores of value may have originated with a childlike understanding of the value of pretty things. Nevertheless, whether value is ascribed to seashells or paper money, such object contain not only symbolic value but an assumed real value, or trusted value. For the creator/discoverer they permit a form of culturally sanctioned theft. The person who accepts the seashell in exchange for food does not think the seashell is a promise to pay something actually valuable in the future; no, the seashell is accepted as payment in full because it’s assumed that the same con can be played on someone else, so if we all con each other and everyone can find seashells the system will be fair. Perhaps, but today a few people control the creation and the origin of money. Today, money is “created” with lightning speed and dumped into banks, who profit from it by simply charging the innocent interest for its use. Consequently, the amount of money in the economy constantly increases, not because the economy becomes more valuable, but because more money is constantly loaned out and needed to pay the interest. This is half the reason for our obsession with growth: growth is necessary to pay debts. And, if all this isn’t enough, today people are gambling, or betting, on other betters. This means that today debts are considered valuable and people buy them—sometimes with loans—as derivatives, shadow shit and other hocus-pocus crap, so that money becomes even more worthless.

In short, today more than ever, we delude ourselves thinking that money is a trustworthy thing, has a noble origin, and has a reliable value.

And yet, even if money’s creation and distribution were regulated, why do we need it? Could we rid ourselves of this bad joke, this medium of our perpetually suspended disbelief, this tool of consensual theft? How can an economy comprised of thousands of specialized professionals manage without money? The old barter system would never do. The current system cannot survive without money.

Good. I have another system in mind. Economics, the market place, a culture obsessed with the pursuit of profit and technological development: these things have no value in the world I seek.

Life of Pi: A Fable

The Canada Council of the Arts has a long history of supporting “Canadian” work, but it may have been bamboozled by Yann Martel. Although Life of Pi, his 2001 novel, flatters the Canadian ego by presenting Canada as safe haven for refugees, which is a remarkable zoological fact, since no other animal species is known to have groups that welcome “foreigners.” Still, there is much irony here. Martel makes Canada a refuge from Ghandi’s noble experiment and, on the surface, has little to say about Canada.

Pi, or Piscine Molitor Patel, is the living embodiment of the liberal, new age belief that all religions are essentially the same goodness. Thus, Piscine practices and believes three religions simultaneously, without prejudice. Wow. How Canadian is that? In Canada, land of the multicultural dream, where different cultures are encouraged to co-exist, such feats almost seem possible, even while religious leaders make no effort to share temples, harmonize doctrine, integrate a bit and not be so damned territorial.

In the multicultural experiment, baboons, zebras, hyenas and tigers co-exist with humans. Actually, that’s not quite true. While various cultures do exist in Canada, it’s largely as décor; the real substance of Canada’s culture is cannibalism—I mean the dog-eat-dog market place of the capitalist system. Anyone who can’t handle it can jump onto the social safety net—i.e. the raft, and feed on Norwegian biscuits (Norway is a rather socialist country).

We have about as much chance of turning our minds into havens for the peaceful co-existence of three distinct religions as we have in co-existing with a Bengal tiger on a lifeboat.

We are all animals. Even in Canada, we have yet to evolve a distinctly human social-political structure. We are still unable to live with alpha leaders and territorialism. Our Prime Minister is our Supreme Circus Director, or a kind of French cook who oversees the devouring of our mother, I mean the Earth. The corporate clan leaders are so many hyenas, or, wait, so many animal tamers who control their willing employees by rationing out token wages.

The Author’s Note warns readers that Life of Pi is “a story that will make you believe in God,” but that was a fine joke. Consider what happens to Piscine’s religious fever? It peaks, regresses into medievalism and obsessive praying as his physical condition deteriorates and as soon as his condition improves, he is miraculously cured, and God gets no thanks from him for his rescue. For that he has already thanked Reason and the imagination that entertained us.

The sinking of the Tsimtsum does not bode well for religion or mysticism, as a good Kabbalist—I mean terminologist—should recognize.

Has Yann Martel pulled the wool over our eyes? Thrown a lemon-pie-fable at our politicians? He’s written a courageous book with many parallels to great literature, jokes for philosophers and a fabulous fable the conflict between religion and zoology, reason and imagination, reality and fantasy … conflicts with no proffered resolution, and where Canada, refuge of machines and bricks, is an illusion.

 

 

King Solomon’s Wisdom

Was King Suleiman (excuse my spelling) wise? If you know what being wise entails, you will know that it does not permit one to live with hundreds of wives. Such an arrangement is more suitable to a honeybee. So, to be wise, either Suleiman must neglect all his wives or fail in the pursuit and maintenance of wisdom. Yet people believe it’s possible to do both. Well, the Bible is not above testing our gullibility; indeed, the Bible may be the largest and most intricate of such tests.

Significantly, the Bible’s compilers did not include more stories about Suleiman’s wisdom, though more existed in Jewish folklore and mystical literature. For example, in extant literature Suleiman’s wisdom is tested by the Queen of Sheba in a test he passes by using his knowledge of the relationship between flowers and bees. It’s a charming story that testifies to the king’s knowledge of nature; consequently, it was excluded by the Bible’s compilers, for they took great pains to represent nature as a curse.

The Bible does include a story that has no precedent in Jewish folklore: the story of Suleiman mediating between the two women fighting for possession of a single child. Surely a man capable of “managing” 700 wives can keep two women happy? Consider his solution: he threatens to cut the child in two on the assumption that the true mother will be the first to cry out against this, as if a cunning thief would not guess his intent from the outset. Of course, according to the text, his test worked, the risk paid off, and few ask the overwhelming question.

Let us consider Suleiman’s solution and apply it to the situation in Palestine/Israel. Here we have two nations arguing for possession of the “Holy Land.” The two nations attend United Nations meetings and nothing is resolved and many, many people suffer. Well, perhaps it’s time we identified the land’s rightful owners by threatening to drop an atomic bomb on Palestine/Israel if the two nations don’t stop fighting.

The problem with this kind of “final solution” approach is that it doesn’t address the underlying problem that both land and children are seen as property, property that cannot be shared for mutual benefit because brotherhood is lacking and motherhood is still mired in animal instincts, where the family is determined by biological descent, and the spiritual notion of family is absent.

Ironically, the Bible sets a good spiritual example on this subject. It is not a pure book created by a single person and belongs to two peoples, Jews and Christians, and not only to them. In fact, the story of The True Mother was largely stolen, I mean borrowed, from a Tibetan folktale about a man who resolves a dispute over a child between two his two wives. The man gives each woman one of the child’s arms and asks them to pull, which they do even though it threatens to tear the child in two. Well, the child goes to the woman who lost courage first, and so she is assumed to be the true mother, as if it never happens that a biological mother can be cruel and abusive to her child. Thus goes the prejudice in all folklore, and the Bible, too. However, blood is no guarantee of love.

The land, or soil, is also a living thing, perhaps more like a mother than a child, and today the fight for her possession is between those who actually want to destroy her, who love her only as tourists and artists, and those who are ready to live and die with her.

Elie Wiesel’s Night

Elie Wiesel’s Night is a poignant cry in the night, a record of a nightmare, and, ultimately, a work of historical fiction. After all, who could remember the words of so many strangers under such horrible conditions? Body and spirit were nearly ground to dust. Moreover, Night, like every testimony of history, is first and foremost a testimony of the author’s state of mind at the moment of writing.

Is Night literature? It is an artistic reflection on the Holocaust, but can any amount of art turn a disaster into something healthy? Why healthy? At least, we can expect literature to be healthy. But Night is more likely to spawn nightmares and stain and corrupt the word “night” so much so that the word will have to be replaced with a new word.

One does not overcome history by turning back to reflect on it, as Lot’s wife did when she turned back to look at the fires of Sodom, for in doing so she turned into a pillar of salt—a synechdoche, perhaps, for tears. Nor does one overcome history through ignorance.

In Ulysses Stephen Daedalus says he is trying to escape the nightmare of history, and he fails, but in Finnegan’s Wake he succeeds, he succeeds by vanishing from a narrative that is not a narrative, a narrative that cannot accommodate human beings, at least, not the illusion of persons who exist as unchanging identities. And that movement may well be Stephen’s promised moral for humanity: destroy the illusion of stasis, of identity, of unchanging phenomena.

The “hero” of Night, Elie Wiesel, is transformed by the Holocaust experience. He loses his faith and seems to grow stronger because of it. Unfortunately, the Holocaust hardly provides the conditions necessary for human beings to grow strong enough to grow healthy and whole and free of illusions. For that one must have ideal conditions: schools, at least teachers and an atmosphere largely free of stress.

Ironically, the pivotal moment in Elie’s loss of faith, i.e. in his loss of illusions, is his hallucination/vision of the Angel of Death. Why does this angel come during the Holocaust? Plenty of Jews and others lose their faith under much more humane circumstances. I lost my own freely, under conditions of plenty. The truth is that the very Jewish Angel of Death (excuse the personification) is always waiting for us, waiting to be confronted and understood. And perhaps it is precisely our refusal to own up to Death, a Death freed of religious trappings that prevents us from understanding the universal, that prevents us from changing and paradoxically brings upon us the deadly, mortifying Revenge of Psyche wherever humanity destroys itself.

I am not suggesting that we forget the Holocaust; I am suggesting that we strip it of its historical dressings so that we can better understand the universal, the kernel. Only in the shallowest sense does that mean we forget the Holocaust.

In his Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech, Elie Wiesel identified Israel as “the only nation in the world whose existence is threatened.” How dated that claim sounds in the age of global warming, rising oceans and … well, meteors. In arguing for the preservation of any nation, Elie Wiesel does us no favors. Nations have always served the forces of division and borders are largely the products of empire building. Nationhood itself will one day be a dated concept, replaced, pehraps, by a nobler construct, something more flexible, rational and humane, something born not from greed, or, in Israel’s case—desperation…

Some peoples do not even have “nations” – I speak of the world’s coming artists, comedians, philosophers and all children of joy… They too are being liquidated, aborted, every day, by the forces of the world, since the beginning of civilization. Who will speak for them?