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  • Tessel Veneboer — Penetration as Philosophy (Review of McKenzie Wark’s Philosophy for Spiders: on the Low Theory of Kathy Acker)

    Tessel Veneboer — Penetration as Philosophy (Review of McKenzie Wark’s Philosophy for Spiders: on the Low Theory of Kathy Acker)

    a review of McKenzie Wark’s Philosophy for Spiders: on the Low Theory of Kathy Acker (Duke University Press, 2021) 

    by Tessel Veneboer

    In Philosophy for Spiders McKenzie Wark reads the novels of the punk avant-garde writer Kathy Acker as philosophical texts, or as the title proposes: as “low theory.” Low theory rejects the privileged terms of “high theory” and likes to remind the reader that the philosopher has a body. This theory “from below” often talks about sex and makes theoretical thinking a bodily task. Wark also finds this kind of thinking in Kathy Acker’s literary experimentation. Acker’s “null philosophy” comes from below – from the body and self of the author – while undoing that same self.

    As scholar and writer, Wark has made significant contributions to the fields of media theory and cultural studies with Hacker Manifesto (2004), Molecular Red (2015) and Capital is Dead: is this something worse? (2019). More recently, she turned to gender theory and memoir writing with Reverse Cowgirl (2019) and now she has published this personal-critical reading of Acker’s experimental prose. Philosophy for Spiders comes with a content warning for “sex, violence, sexual violence and spiders” as well as a form warning: “this book has elements of memoir and criticism but is neither” (4). As the subtitle of the book suggests, Wark proposes to read Acker’s work as philosophy, more specifically as low theory, a term first used to describe the work of cultural theorist Stuart Hall and popularized by Jack Halberstam in The Queer Art of Failure (2011). Wark follows Acker in her view that perhaps she was not writing novels: “they’re big chunks of prose, but are they novels? More groups of stories. Some of them aren’t even that” (54). Rejecting a clear-cut division between the novel and a philosophical text allows Wark to read Acker’s prose as “philosophical treatises” (54). The reader might wonder what the low in low theory reacts to: is it the dominance of the “master discourse” of high theory, or does the complicated content of high theory make the genre inaccessible? Developing low theory as an aspirational genre, Wark longs for a kind of philosophy that emerges outside of a (patriarchal; and even matriarchal) tradition:

    It is a philosophy without fathers (or even mothers), and so no more of their Proper Names will be mentioned. This philosophy for spiders is not a philosophy in which gentlemen discourse on the nature of the beautiful, the good, and the true. It is philosophy for those who were nameless as they had to spend their time working for the money. A philosophy not by those who could arise from their place to announce it, because their place was to be on their knees, their mouths full of cock. A theory in which otherwise quite tractable bad girls and punk boys go off campus and conduct base experiments in making sense and nonsense out of situations. “Recruited due to our good intentions, V and I’ve instead learned a brutal philosophy: ignorance of all rational facts and concepts; raging for personal physical pleasure; may the whole Western intellectual world go to hell.” (81)

    Where Wark aims for a philosophy without “Proper Names” Acker turns to the literary and philosophical canon to think with and write through. Acker’s work refers to (but never cites) a wide range of canonical thinkers such as Jacques Lacan, Georges Bataille, Marquis de Sade, Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud who inspire her to question the primacy of rationality and the Cartesian subject. In one of her first novellas Kathy Acker writes: “I’m trying to get away from self-expression but not from personal life. I hate creativity” (Acker 1998, 86) and in her short story New York City in 1979 the character Janey “believes it is necessary to blast open her mind constantly and destroy every particle of memory that she likes” (Acker 1981, 6-7)  Acker’s work rejects the idea that an author should have an original voice, which for her is a bourgeois conception of literature that only serves to support the capitalist “cult” of individuality. For Acker there is no creativity involved in creation. As Wark asserts, “the bourgeois writer is an acquisitive animal. A creature of power, ownership, and control. What it writes, it owns; that which writes is the kind of being that can own. Kathy was a different beast – or beasts” (5). Acker’s interest in anti-creativity stimulates her appropriation of “found” material such as canonical texts, overheard conversations and dreams – for Acker they are all as “real” as any other event. Throughout her work Acker compulsively recounts and repeats events from her life; her mother’s death, painful romantic encounters, unrequited crushes, dreams, gossip, and jobs she did. At the same time, Acker consistently lies about all of those aspects of her life – to the extent that even her date of birth is contested.[1] Treating events of her own life in a similar manner to the texts she plagiarizes, everything is part of Acker’s “anti-creative” project. Her work is sometimes seen as aggressively opposing meaning-making – thanks to her oft-cited mantra of “Get rid of meaning. Now eat your mind.” But Acker’s ambitious rewriting of the literary canon is not simply a postmodern displacement of meaning. Her literary experiments are concerned with procedure, method, and memory.

    One of the ways Acker explored her interest in (and suspicion of) memory was writing “fake autobiography”: a rewriting of her life interwoven with found materials, like conversations she overheard and texts she copied. In her early text “Politics” (1972) for example, she collages conversations between her stripper-colleagues together with scripts she wrote for a live sex show on 42nd Street with (clearly fictional) incestuous lesbian fantasies. In her biography of Acker Chris Kraus suggests that Kathy Acker’s numerous lies must be seen as a fundamental part of both her life and work. She even goes as far as to propose that her consistent lying was a condition for writing:

    Because in a certain sense, Acker lied all the time. She was rich, she was poor, she was the mother of twins, she’d been a stripper for years, a guest editor of Film Comment magazine at the age of fourteen, a graduate student of Herbert Marcuse’s. She lied when it was clearly beneficial to her, and she lied even when it was not. […] But then again, didn’t she do what all writers must do? Create a position from which to write? (Kraus 2017, 14)

    In Wark’s recounting of their shared past (Wark and Acker met in Australia in 1995 and embarked on a short affair) she is fully aware of Acker’s self-mythologizing tendencies. Wark fictionalizes their meeting and points to the gaps in her own memory as well as Acker’s habit to treat her life and her literature the same:

    Not everything Kathy ever said to me was—strictly speaking—true. Particularly when we got to New York. It was as if we were inside a Kathy Acker book, written on flesh and city. […] I knew nothing about New York at the time. Anything Kathy told me could be true to me, was true to me. She showed me the New York of myth. We wandered from Central Park toward the East River, to Sutton Place. Sutton Place, she told me, was her childhood home. In the psychogeography of New York, it is certainly a place from which a Kathy Acker should hail. It is in countless movies, from How to Marry a Millionaire to Black Caesar. Lou Reed has a song that mentions not walking there. It’s in Catcher in the Rye; it’s in Great Expectations and My Life My Death by Pier Paolo Pasolini—by Kathy Acker—and some of her other books. (33)

    Considering all the ways in which Acker put herself on the line in her work, her body as a performer, autobiographical material, her creation of the persona, makes it possible for Wark to read Acker’s life and work as a spider web of narratives, identities, and concepts. In the early 1970s Acker started publishing her first appropriative texts under the pseudonym “The Black Tarantula” and copying from the Marquis de Sade and a book of portraits of female serial killers. In her work Acker often puts everything she copies in the first person but she did not only steal from other texts, she also stole from her own life. Wark’s construction of a spider web of Ackers takes its cue from Martino Scioliona’s suggestion that Acker’s auto-plagiarism becomes a narrative web in which “Acker always recounted her own life story as if it, too, was a stolen text” (in Wark 2021, 5).

    Weaving a web of Acker’s selves, Wark unwraps herself too, at least the selves that Acker made possible in their affair and in her texts. Wark met Acker in 1995 at a reading in Sydney. At the dinner after the reading the two writers connected and started a short affair. An email correspondence followed their meeting and was published in 2015 as I’m Very Into You: an intimate document of the flirty and intellectual emails they exchanged over a period of a few weeks. Both I’m Very Into You and the memoir part of Philosophy for Spiders reveal how Wark felt seen in her femininity in this meeting with Acker in the 1990s and how this might have informed her recent gender transition. In 1995 Wark wrote in an email to Acker: “There are reaches of me that I can only put in language as feminine, and those reaches exposed themselves to you, felt comfortable next to you sometimes. That doesn’t happen very often” and now in her Philosophy for Spiders Wark says she wanted to escape masculinity and that “reading Kathy again helped to transition” (7). Wark remembers: “who I was starting to be with Kathy. I was starting to be her girlfriend. That concept” (22). In search of more concepts, Wark (re)reads Acker’s complete body of work almost thirty years after their initial meeting in Australia. From Acker’s texts Wark assembles phrases and claims around different concepts like “love,” “capitalism” and “penetration.” In so doing Philosophy for Spiders sketches a web of Acker’s selves along with concepts Wark finds in Acker’s work, providing a glimpse into what might turn out to be a philosophical system.

    Wark rightly points out that Acker’s texts are “studded with philosophical questions” (56) and that these questions predominantly center around desire, subjectivity, form, and the failure of language. Her novel Great Expectations (1982) is exemplary for how Acker’s philosophical mode, if we can detect one, rejects the linearity of logical thinking:

    Stylistically: simultaneous contrasts, extravagancies, incoherences, half-formed misshapen thoughts, lousy spelling, what signifies what? What is the secret of this chaos? (Since there is no possibility, there’s play. Elegance and completely filthy sex fit together. Expectations that aren’t satiated.) Questioning is our mode.” (Acker 1982, 107)

    Acker’s philosophical mode questions hierarchies of knowledge by asking the “big” questions of philosophy as if they were dumb questions. Moreover, this questioning mode is inherently tied to the body, and thus to sex and gender. In her essay “Seeing Gender” (1997 [1995]) Acker reflects on her writing practice and directly responds to the work of “high theorists” like Judith Butler and Luce Irigaray. In the essay she looks back on her writing practice, the (gender) politics of plagiarism, and her ambition to find what she called “the languages of the body.” In a typical Ackerian manner, she takes the figure of the young girl ­­– in this essay she uses Alice from Alice in Wonderland –who has yet to discover the limits of her being and knowledge. As a child, the girl wanted to become a pirate – the only way to see the world – but since “I wasn’t a stupid child, I knew that I couldn’t.” Still, she knows what “the pirates know”, namely that in writing and being “I do not see, for there is no I to see” (Acker 1997, 159). Instead, “to see was to be an eye, not an I.” The essay progresses as a theoretical inquiry into gender and the body through Luce Irigaray’s This Sex Which Is Not One (1979) and Butler’s reading of that text in Bodies that Matter (1996). Acker’s ambitious quest for self-knowledge and knowledge of the world come together in her observation of the self: this conflation of the eye and the I, consistently destabilizing the second through the first. In Acker’s logic then, a feeling is a concept. This doesn’t mean that experiencing an emotion will directly lead to knowledge, but that to see is a way of knowing. Since Acker’s girls don’t have a language of their own, they can’t know themselves except through feelings. In Don Quixote (1986) Acker writes that “real teaching happens via feelings” (159) and “my feelings’re my brains” (17). Barred entrance to the world of knowledge, the “stupid” girl as philosopher can make sense of her own subjectivity through sensuality, not rationality. Quoting a letter from the Romantic poet John Keats from 1817, Acker reflects in Great Expectations:

    Only sensations. What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it exists materially or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty… The imagination may be compared to Adam’s dream – he awoke and found it truth. I am the more zealous in this affair, because I have never yet been able to perceive how anything can be known for truth by consecutive reasoning – and yet it must be. Can it be that even the greatest philosopher ever arrived at his goal without putting aside numerous objections? However it may be Oh, for a Life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts! (Acker 1982, 64)

    Acker rewrites Keats but keeps his opposing two notions of truth here: the reasoned truth of the philosopher and the truth of the artist which, for Keats, can only emerge through sensations and passions, through the imagination. As Wark’s Acker web suggests, Acker is not interested in a mastering feelings with language, rather the opposite: “I feel I feel I feel I have no language, any emotion for me is a prison” (Acker 1982, 24).

    Wark follows Acker in that she lets the intensity of their mutual crush precede the thinking. In the first chapters Wark serves the reader queer sex scenes before she turns to Acker’s philosophy. Both the story of their affair and Wark’s readings of Acker are tied to questions of gender and a dysphoric experience of the body. In “The City of Memory” Wark recalls:

    In our room at the Gramercy, sometimes I was Kathy’s girl. I wanted to watch her strap himself into her cocks. The leather harness was all black straps and shiny buckles. Its odor an appealing blend of leather, lube, and sweat. Kathy did not want my help with it, but she took her time. Choosing cocks. Inserting a cock in the harness, another in his cunt. Strapping on the harness without either falling back out again. Even after a few drinks Kathy was deft at this. I Just lay back and admired her technique, his presence. (35)

    Using this descriptive mode for a “phenomenology of the body” (81) allows Wark to narrate Acker’s genderqueerness too, underscored by the use of alternating he/she pronouns. Wark shows how remembering their encounter will always also be a rewriting of the meeting. Throughout the book Wark’s receptiveness and passivity are important–in bed but also in their shared thinking: “She had philosophical questions. I could only describe things” (22). In Philosophy for Spiders Wark connects Acker’s multiplication of the authorial self to gender and what she calls a “penetration theory” (92). Acker’s appropriative and autoplagiaristic writing becomes a practice of “selving: reproducing self-ness” (54). Wark shows how thinking about gender in terms of penetration destabilizes a coherent sense of the self as gendered. This is also a textual concern because reading and writing turn out to be processes of penetration too. In Reverse Cowgirl, Wark finds that “the great asymmetry of human being” is the division between the penetrators and the penetrated and this asymmetry allows for trans identifications:

    If I could not know who I was from the world touching me from the outside, prodding ‘til I felt a self; then I would become one by being touched from the inside. Edward’s cock would press my insides against their boundaries, pushing what would become, when pressed, against skin from the inside, a being I could call, a being I could call I. This coming into being, this inside out subjectivity, would change things between us. (Wark 2020, 53)

    Both the penetrator and the penetrated are “involuntary agents” but allow for different experiences of gender. In Reverse Cowgirl penetrative sex makes it possible for Wark to feel a “temporary non-masculinity” (Wark 2020, 176). In this space of “non-existence” the body comes first, negotiating power dynamics and identity through a relationality of being penetrated, penetrating and penetrable. Acker too was interested in penetration, particularly the penetrable body as a site of knowledge. In her experimentation Acker soughtliterary forms for “the languages of the body” (Acker 1997, 143) by way of masturbatory writing, bodybuilding and writing pornography. Foregrounding the body creates an articulation of gender as an asymmetry of sex rather than a binary position. This allows Wark to read the bodies in Acker’s work as “potentially trans:”

    Just as the eye and I, or sensation and desire, differ, so too the fucker and the fucked. This asymmetry of sex might be just one of the zones in which to think about gender, although in the Acker-text the asymmetries of sex acts can arise in all sorts of ways out of all sorts of bodies. There’s no essential diagram of gendered bodies. In that sense all Acker bodies are potentially trans. (90)

    Bodies are trans here to the extent that they are assumed as not-cis. Still, assuming that desire always destabilizes sexual difference doesn’t necessarily illuminate our understanding of what gender is, because as Wark writes in Reverse Cowgirl “there is never any symmetry to what wants” (26). To desire is to not know or understand that desire. Both in Reverse Cowgirl and in Philosophy for Spiders, Wark is interested in the way penetration potentiates a different experience of the body and self-consciousness: “being-penetrated creates a node around which every other difference— sensations, selves, genders—can disperse” (Wark 2021, 91).

    In Acker’s logic, penetration centers the self and makes thinking possible. In Wark’s words, to be penetrable and penetrated is “to have an axis for sensation in the world” as opposed to those who do the penetrating. They “act as subjects in the world but they don’t react, they don’t let the world in much” which leads Wark to claim that to penetrate is “just not that interesting” (92).  The question left unanswered here is: uninteresting for whom? And how are we expected to view Acker’s role of the penetrator in the sex scenes Wark describes? An obvious answer would be that switching positions allows access to both experiences but in this book being penetrated appears to be the privileged position because the penetrable body has access to a specific form of knowledge as it “comes to know itself, not its penetrator” (153).

    For Acker, the question of penetration is a problem of language. In her early text Breaking through memories into desire (2019 [1973]) Acker asks: “Language. How do I, fucked, use the language? I don’t want to be doing this writing” (381) and in My Mother: Demonology (1993) Acker writes that “the more I try to describe myself, the more I find a hole” (in Wark, 154). A temporary centralized subject emerges in the destabilizing encounter of sexual penetration. This is where Wark finds a first philosophical concept in Acker’s work: a phenomenology of the body or what she calls Acker’s “phenomenology without the subject” (54).

    Wark’s reading of Acker’s “languages of the body” as low theory raises the crucial question of how sex relates to knowledge.  To theorize through sex is to choose confusion over rationality, non-knowledge over knowledge and to problematize the subject’s relation to knowledge. Sexuality clearly interests Acker, not necessarily because it precedes patriarchal discourse or cannot translate the experience of sexuality to language, but because sex does not affirm a self or one’s personal pleasures. For Acker, sex is a crucial site of negativity: her texts reveal the failure of language to express identity and introduces sex as a question of the (incoherence) of subjecthood. Sex is the moment in which the self is destabilized, displaced once more, and thus where knowledge breaks down.[2]

    Acker’s recurring character Janey fails to be a sovereign subject in the patriarchal structures imposed on her. Her obsession with sex ruins her education as a proper young woman because rationalized knowledge is inaccessible to a “stupid” young girl like Janey. Her failure to know how to use language, how to behave properly, how to be, illustrates the typical young girl’s experience of inhabiting available structures of knowing and their limits. Stupidity in Acker’s work is not necessarily non-knowledge or absence of knowledge, it is more an investigation of the unknowability of the subject herself and the limits of her language. Avital Ronell has pointed out how Acker’s texts explore the emancipatory potential of stupidity.[3] Acker’s characters embrace stupidity in that they refuse knowledge in the form it is given to them. In her book Stupidity (2002) Ronell proposes to take stupidity seriously as a philosophical position because it does not “stand in the way of wisdom” (5) and asks how it can be turned into a productive category of thought and as a locus for the unmaking of language – one of Acker’s literary concerns too. Stupidity, Ronell writes, is a “political problem hailing from the father; it combines with conservative desires for stability, comfort, and authenticity, but it also opens up other spaces of knowing” (16). Wark makes a similar point:

    A philosophy of emotions, like a philosophy of language or sensations, has to start from doubt, uncertainly, confusion – with nonknowledge. “My emotional limbs stuck out as if they were broken and unfixable.” (GE 58) And: “I don’t think I’m crazy. There’s just no reality in my head and my emotions fly all over the place.” (63)

    The problem of the speaking subject in Acker’s work becomes a project of asking the “stupid” questions. This way, Acker’s project is concerned with a philosophical position from which to think “stupidly.” Reading Acker’s texts as philosophy should therefore not be a question of what ideological tendencies or feminist politics are being thought or taught, but a much narrower question: how to establish a thinking self without relying on the Cartesian model of the subject. Acker asks: “But what if I isn’t the subject, but the object?” (in Wark, 142).

    As her literary experiments started to take shape in the early 1970s, Acker sought words and ideas to understand what she was doing. Considering her radical decentralizing approach to identity, Acker found a home in the thinkers of poststructuralism. But any attempt to uncover intentionality in her work is tricky because she successfully mystified her own methods and theoretical influences in interviews. In an interview with her publisher Sylvère Lotringer, Acker claims she started to understand her experimental writings strategies when she got to know poststructuralist thought through Lotringer’s publishing house Semiotext(e). Interestingly, Acker places herself on the same level as the French philosophers she admired and was even surprised they didn’t know her work:

    I was like a death-dumb-and-blind person for years, I just did what I did but had no way of telling anyone about it, or talking about it. And then when I read ANTI-OEDIPUS and Foucault’s work, suddenly I had this whole language at my disposal. I could say, Hi! And that other people were doing the same thing. I remember thinking, why don’t they know me? I know exactly what they’re talking about. And I could go farther. (Acker 1991, 10)

    Whether Acker really was not aware of “French theory” before meeting Lotringer is disputed by Chris Kraus, but the typically poststructuralist concern with identity and desire through the fragmentation or decentralization of the “I” is present from her earliest published work in the 1970s. In 1975 Acker did take her place among the philosophers: at the “Schizo-culture” conference Lotringer organized with French thinkers like Michel Foucault, Gilles Deleuze and Jean-François Lyotard as well as American artists and writers like Richard Foreman, Philip Glass, and Acker’s literary idol William Burroughs. Lotringer’s introduction of the “then unknown radical philosophies of post-’68 France” (as MIT Press retroactively describes the event) to the American avant-garde marked a shift in how Acker relates to theory in her work. Acker’s poststructuralist tendencies were a perfect fit for the academic zeitgeist and appear to have contributed to the “meteoric rise of her academic reputation” (Punday 2003). Her texts proved popular among academics who aimed to lay bare the ways in which Acker engaged with theory: in her rewriting of film scripts, one might find a reflection of Baudrillard’s ideas; her wild science fiction novel Empire of the Senseless must be the result of reading Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari’s Anti-Oedipus. But as the Acker scholar Tyler Bradway recently pointed out, these theoretical readings of Acker “obscure her ultimate frustration with the way that these discourses, particularly deconstruction, made her writing too narrowly readable, rendering it ironically subordinate to and exemplary of an external master discourse” (Bradway 2017, 106). Still, Acker’s typically fragmented and “unreadable” texts continue to resist such theoretical interpretations – hence Wark’s interest in reading her as low theory.

    To render the text unreadable, to think non-intelligibly, writing stupidly, obviously implies a questioning of the distinction between false and true knowledge. Embracing stupidity as a philosophical mode blurs the line between true and false statements, but also informs Acker’s ambition to develop a non-authoritarian use of language. In 1984 Acker writes in Art Forum:

    I write. I want to write I want my writing to be meaningless I want my writing to be stupid. But the language I use isn’t what I want and make, it’s what’s given to me. Language is always a community. Language is what I know and is my cry.” (Acker 1984)

    Writing the immediacy of thought through a nontransparent use of language – language as a “cry” rather than expressive of an idea – leads to a “false clarity” (Harper 1987) and in Acker’s case results in a logic that sounds consciously contradictory and finds a ground in excessive affect. Acker’s writing of sex and romantic crushes seems personal and very intimate but the feelings she describes are not “hers” in the way that they belong to Kathy Acker, they are taken from or inspired by the texts she reads while writing. Wark proposes that in Acker’s work, “emotions, feelings, affect, might be keys to a certain kind of understanding that is subjective but not necessarily individuated” and that “feelings can become concepts” (63). The question of desire and self-reflection in narrative is crucial for Acker. In Great Expectations (1982) Acker writes that “narrative is an emotional moving” and in Eurydice in the Underworld (1997) that “as if reality was emotional, I perceived solely by feeling” (in Wark, 63). Acker works consistently against the idea that feeling opposes knowing. We can “know” our feelings but the feelings are not pieces of knowledge themselves, at least not in the kind of “high theory for whom Plato is daddy” (Wark, 54).

    To understand how Acker’s texts both work with and reject philosophy as high theory, it is worth considering her contribution to the Lotringer’s Schizo-culture conference, which was neither theoretical nor particularly literary. At the conference Acker presented translation exercises: Janey’s “Persian Poems” which would later become part of Janey’s education from age ten to fourteen in Blood and Guts in High School (1984). The translation exercise is short but unambiguous about Janey’s position as object: “to have Janey / to buy Janey / to want Janey / to see Janey / to come Janey / to beat up Janey” (1984, 84). In these evidently false translations Acker reaffirms her concern with how language constrains rather than liberates. The only possible agency for Acker’s recurring protagonist Janey is to surrender to the position of object. In these translation exercises and throughout Acker’s work, Janey is doomed to be the predicate of the sentence, the object to the subject. The first numbered lines are succeeded by a translated line that overflows, exceeding the initial format as it turns into a passionate address:

    5. The streets are black. You haven’t fucked for a long time. You forget how incredibly sensitive you are. You hurt. Hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt. You meet the nicest guy in the world and you fall in love with him you do and you manage to get into his house and you stand before him. A girl who puts herself out on a line. A girl who asks for trouble and forgets that she has feelings and doesn’t even remember what fucking’s about or how she’s supposed to go about it because she wasn’t fucked in so long and now she’s naïve and stupid. So like a dope she sticks herself in front of the guy: here I am; understood: do you want me? No, thank you. She did it. There she is. What does she do now? Where does she go? She was a stupid girl: she went and offered herself, awkwardly, to someone who didn’t want her. That’s not stupid. The biggest pain in the world is feeling but sharper is the pain of the self.

    6. Is there any fresh meat? (Acker 1984, 88-92)

    The turn from the interpellating “you” to the descriptive “a girl” signals a shift from an intimate address to a distant observation of the girl’s being as defined by rejection. The “there she is” is characteristic of the way the figure of the girl features as an ontological negation throughout Acker’s work; she momentarily comes into being through an encounter with lack, in this case simple and clear rejection, and thus when she starts questioning her own desires. These painful desires reveal how feelings are a problem for Acker’s subject: “the biggest pain in the world is feeling but sharper is the pain of the self.” In Wark’s reading the only agency Acker’s girls have is their “amorality and ability to exploit their own desirability” (151):

    Girls are, among other things, objects that power perceives as a thing to desire. As if they had no subjectivity. Rather than claiming to be subjects, girls in the Acker-web escape into unknowability, as far as power’s gaze is concerned. Their bodies may be penetrable, and that is the function assigned them as objects, but otherwise they can choose not to be known at all. The girl too is not an identity but an event, something produced by chance and fluid time. Lulu: “you can’t change me cause there’s nothing to change. I’ve never been.” (151)

    Acker’s radical determinism about the symbolic absence of woman in language and literature generated a wide range of feminist interpretations of her work, particularly as being exemplary of écriture féminine by studying Acker’s experimental literary form as a critique of the male canon (which it undoubtedly is) and her sex writing as expressive of a female voice. Even if Acker’s texts themselves appear to reject academic interpretations, Acker herself was a fanatic reader of philosophy, including “French feminists” like Luce Irigaray, Julia Kristeva and Helène Cixous. As she writes in “Seeing Gender”, philosophy pointed her towards knowledge she had experienced intuitively herself, namely that “woman” does not exist: “She has no essence, for all that comes into being, according to Plato, partakes of form. I knew this as a child, before I had ever read Plato, Irigaray, Butler. That, as a girl, I was outside the world. I wasn’t. I had no name. For me, language was being.” (Acker 1997, 161) Acker’s concern with the linguistic “I” as a being that always lacks, and thus must copy if she is to speak, also reveals the role that sex plays to understand the failure of language.

    Wark is not the first to suspect that Acker’s interest in the immediacy of language and sex can function as a form of theorizing. Martina Sciolino pointed out in 1990 that we might read Acker’s fiction as performative philosophy: “A writer of innovative narratives that converse with theorists as diverse in their constructions of desire as Georges Bataille and Andrea Dworkin, Acker creates fictions that are theories-in-performance” (Sciolino 1990, 438). Acker’s “theories-in-performance” reveal different ways in which lines can be drawn between the author and her theoretical material. To see how this kind of “performative philosophy” can function outside of an already established philosophical discourse, it might be helpful to turn to Chris Kraus again who reads the diaries of the French philosopher Simone Weil as philosophical investigations. For Kraus, the only condition for a text to be philosophical, to read these “personal” texts beyond memoir, is that the text must be concerned with rhetoric: “In Weil’s philosophy, just like in narrative or phone sex, it’s not the story that we’re really hearing, it is the fact and act of telling it” (Kraus 2004, 77).

    Considering the significant reception of Acker’s texts in the world of “high theory” and Wark’s reaction to these readings through the concept of low theory, the question of the intentionality of Acker’s project lingers. It is complicated because, for Acker, the subject always emerges as a being of language for whom no “genuine” agency is possible; in Acker’s world agency is limited to being a receptacle. To do is always a being done to. In this sense, it might not be particularly helpful to look at the influence of theory on Acker’s work because it assumes a text outside of, or a “before” reading theory, while Acker’s writing practice itself is a reading practice as much as it is a writing practice.

    Leslie Dick has observed how Acker’s writing functioned as an extension of her reading, that “her plagiarism was a way of reading, or re-reading, appropriating and customizing what she read, writing herself, so to speak, into the fabric of the original text” (Scholder et al. 2006, 1). Her writing consists of readings of texts that provoke her reaction, evoke a fantasy or stimulate her to rewrite the texts she is consuming. In this sense, her writing has always been a form of critical writing. In Learning for the Revolution (2011), Spencer Dew reads Acker’s work as instructive, labelling it a “pedagogical project,” and Martina Sciolino describes Acker’s work as “materially didactic” (437). Harper (1987) specifies Acker’s critical project further as “less a conscious political philosophy than a pursuit of the immediate the unregulated present” but argues that Acker “consciously participates in the poststructuralist project of the liberation of the signifier from fixed meaning” (47).  In Philosophy for Spiders, Wark smartly avoids the question of intentionality by emphasizing the inseparability of reading and writing and how that relation creates subjectivity in the text. Wark frames this as a relation of passivity and, again, penetration:

    The Acker-field is a sequence of books about—no, not about. They are not about anything. They don’t mean, they do. What do they do? Get rid of the self. Among other things. For writer but also reader. If you let them in. You have to want it to fuck you. It happens when there’s a hole. Rather than say one reads, one could say that one is booked. A body can be booked a bit like the way it can be fucked. A body uses its agency to give access to itself to another. A body lets go of its boundedness, its self, its selfishness, and through opening to sensation disappears into the turbulent real. (156)

    For Wark the reader as well as the writer is a hole, ready to be penetrated by other texts. Not that the author has no agency at all but in writing she is also being written. This is how Acker’s philosophy can be understood in terms of stupidity and unknowledge; it rejects the idea that anything we think we know or want is “ours.” Acker’s naïve lyrical I is also a displacement of the position of the philosopher.

    This penetrative relation between self and text is also what Wark scrutinizes with Acker’s words in Philosophy for Spiders. Wark’s reading of Acker is clearly this kind of “penetrated writing:” Wark herself does not emerge as a particularly original thinker here but instead lets Acker do the thinking. For Acker the impossibility to speak as an authentic self is at the center of her work and Wark’s proposition to let Acker talk to herself creates an interesting encounter of voices but is oftentimes awkward, especially when the reading lacks interpretative strength. Wark offers us Ackers on a plate but does not interpret this group of texts. The voices in Wark’s web of Ackers sometimes sound detached, as isolated sound bites. Wark appears to share the view of the artist Vanessa Place, who she cites early in the book: “citation is always castration: the author’s lack of authority made manifest by the phallus, presence of another authority” (7) but Wark does not really do the work of using the citations to create a different text. This makes it at times difficult to feel where Philosophy for Spiders is going with this mapping of concepts and raises the question what is exactly at stake in this low-theoretical reading of Acker. Is it to make way for other, more detailed, theoretical readings of Acker’s work, or for Wark to create a personal encounter with Acker’s texts? Both are of course possible and fair reasons to write the book, but the wide range of concepts and citations at times are puzzling when they are not brought together in a reading.

    The sex scenes in the book offer a way to read the book: Wark’s reading of Acker lets itself be penetrated by Acker. The meeting of texts as the meeting of bodies:

    Maybe gender is transitive in another sense. Between any two bodies is a difference. Maybe that difference is gender even when it is not, actually, gender. It’s what top and bottom imply, a difference. Maybe the genders could be transitive verbs, and can be applied in any situation where part of a person acts on another through that gender as an action: Kathy manned me. (29)

    This difference that is not sexual difference leads Wark to formulate an “asymmetrical” theory of penetration which can be mapped onto gendered bodies: “the body penetrating is often (but not always) male and the body penetrated is often (but not always) female” (93). Wark’s interest in penetration and penetrability sounds almost instructive when she tells us that “everyone ought to know how to top: ethics” (22). The lesson for the reader here seems to be that these dynamics in sex reveal “gender as an action” which in turn affirms the action of passive and active in terms of feminine and masculine – at least Wark herself when Acker “manned” her. Wark’s reading of Acker’s texts as making space for transness relies on this evocation of the “dysphoric body” and its needs and desires, “a category that maybe overlaps a lot with the trans body but is not ever identical to it” (178). Wark develops three “philosophies” of Acker in the book. The first is a “null philosophy” centered around the question of the self. Wark finds this philosophy in Acker’s questions around emotions, memory, and exteriority. The second philosophy is the encounter with the other, with sections ranging from “library” and “rape” to “fathers” and “death.” The third philosophy that Wark discerns is concerned with capitalism and Acker’s questions around sex work, the commercialization of art, and Acker’s fame.

    Acker’s legacy has had many faces. First as punk and transgressive in the NYC art and performance world, then the critical reception with poststructuralism in the 1980s and 1990s and today we are seeing another one of Acker’s afterlives in contemporary (auto)fiction, for which she functions as some sort of precursor, like in the works of Olivia Laing and Kate Zambreno.[4] Perhaps together with the publication of the emails I’m Very Into You these books stimulate the cultivation of Acker’s persona. In her blurb for Philosophy for Spiders, Sarah Schulman asserts that Wark’s “highly personal sex memoir evolves the growing ‘My Kathy’ genre in trans directions.”  One recent publication in this supposed ‘My Kathy’ genre is Olivia Laing’s novel Crudo (2018), whose fictional narrator is called “Kathy” and bears some characteristics of what we know of Acker’s life but at the same time functions as a placeholder for Laing to talk about developments in her own personal life: her approaching marriage to an older well-known poet during a summer holiday in an Italian villa. This kind of autobiographical writing would undoubtedly be the classic bourgeois novel form for Acker, despite the appropriation of the voice of “Kathy.”[5] In The Gentrification of the Mind: Witness to a Lost Imagination (2012) Schulman positions Acker as a central figure in an art scene that was “radically queer” and describes how Acker’s fiction “faded from view” due to gentrification: “[H]er context is gone. Not that she was a gay male icon, but rather that she was a founder and product of an oppositional class of artists, those who spoke back to the system rather than replicating its vanities” (Schulman 2012, 53). Even though Schulman is referring to a post-1980s gentrification, we might ask if the growing ‘My Kathy’ genre indicates a new kind of Acker reception. Now that Acker is no longer “fading from view” because of gentrification, might her renewed popularity point towards a new kind of gentrification? To see how Acker’s persona is being used today raises the question if she, as the typical transgressive and outcast writer, functions as some sort of token for radical literature in personal memoir and autofiction writing. And where can we situate Philosophy for Spiders in the web of Kathy Acker’s afterlives?

    In the afterword Wark claims that she wants to “push her back in the direction of a minor literature – trans lit: the writing of and by and for trans people” (170). Not to retroactively label Acker’s person as trans, but to think of her texts as a writing “among those for whom being cis gendered is not their state, their homeland, their family, their fantasy” (170). Wark wants to make space for Acker in a genre she calls “trans girl lit.” Wark’s own autofictional undertaking in Reverse Cowgirl might give us a clue as to how an author can be the “involuntary agent” of her own writing when Wark, high on shrooms, reflects on the narrative web she has created à la Acker: “Reverse Cowgirl made sense to me, finally, as a sort of autofiction account of someone who was trans all along and did not know it yet. In this case, even the writer didn’t know the shape of the web she made” (175). Like in Acker’s appropriative writing, other people’s texts have authorial agency and Wark’s own life is reframed as a web of unconscious narrative turns. Penetrating or penetrated, neither the life story nor the texts are in the author’s hands.

    Now that the reputation and position of Acker’s work is moving towards canonization and perhaps even gentrification, can we view Wark’s book indeed as a pushback against the canonization of Acker? Wark’s reading of Acker as “minor literature” provokes a shift in the reception of her work in two ways: to consider Acker as a theorist, which I’m sure will bring about various new Acker readings, as well as to pose the question of the “non-cisness” of Acker’s work.

    As such, Wark’s move does secure Acker’s radical work from being completely assimilated into a literary world where bourgeois story lines, plot development and stable subject-positions still reign – even if Wark does this work in the very contemporary self-reflective autofictional mode. On a more theoretical level, Wark’s reading of Acker is slightly opaque in a style we might call “after Kathy Acker,” namely dealing with (philosophical) knowledge as a question of subjectivation and sex. The knowledge in the text does not belong to the author-philosopher or the reader when the theorist refuses to engage with her material in a straightforward top-bottom relationship. Perhaps “theory” as a label is even outdated. Wark writes, with Acker:

    There’s no consistent and self-same subject that can be the author of theory from on high, and who could survey history, discover its hidden concept, and announce its destiny. “Since all acts, including expressive acts, are interdependent, paradise cannot be an absolute. Theory doesn’t work.” (138)

    As “switchy philosophers” Wark and Acker want to be topped and penetrated by the texts they encounter but in so doing they do not get rid of mastery completely. It cannot be denied that in the top/bottom difference Wark explores, the bottom has power too and can even be a form of mastery in itself,[6] especially in this case, when producing a new text. This is perhaps how the genre of low theory can function as a form of mastery as well. Even if we accept that low theory is accessible and not pretentious like classic high theory, it imposes a reading that is hard to object to. Whereas the critical reader can oppose high theory with arguments, low theory does not allow for a similar debate because it already preempts theoretical objections. Using the terms of penetration theory we might say that low theory works with the power of the bottom. A seduction that can hardly be countered – surely not with theoretical arguments. And this seems to be what Wark has learned from Acker and Philosophy for Spiders shows in a smart way: to think about and with the penetrable body as a site of power and (self)knowledge. In Kathy Acker’s texts the lyrical I as theorist emerges as an inarticulate subject who cries stupid phrases and expresses illogical desires: a girl. And even if “theory doesn’t work,” Acker’s girls and Wark’s web of Ackers remind us that as long as there is feeling, there will be thinking.

    _____

    Tessel Veneboer is a PhD candidate in English Literature at Ghent University. She specializes in queer theory and experimental literature. She is currently working on a dissertation on Kathy Acker (supported by the Research Foundation Flanders).

    Back to the essay

    _____

    Notes

    [1] Library of Congress gives her birth date as 1948 while most obituaries used 1944 as date of birth.

    [2] In her book What is Sex (2017), philosopher Alenka Zupančič takes psychoanalysis as a philosophical problem and proposes that sex is the missing link between epistemology and ontology: “sex is messy because it appears at the point of the breaking down of the signifying consistency, or logic (its point of impossibility), not because it is in itself illogical and messy: its messiness is the result of the attempt to invent a logic at the very point of the impasse of such logic. Its “irrationality” is the summit of its efforts to establish a sexual rationale” (What IS Sex, 43).

    [3] See “Kathy Goes to Hell: On the Irresolvable Stupidity of Acker’s Death” by Avital Ronell in Lust for Life: On the Writings of Kathy Acker (2006).

    [4] See Olivia Laing’s Crudo (2018) and Kate Zambreno’s Screen Tests (2019).

    [5] In an interview with Sylvère Lotringer Acker explains that she “always hated the bourgeois story-line because the real content of that novel is the property structure of reality. It’s about ownership. That isn’t my world-reality. My world isn’t about ownership. In my world people don’t even remember their names, they aren’t sure of their sexuality, they aren’t sure if they can define their genders.” (Acker 1991, 23).

    [6] In Homos (1995) Leo Bersani shows how S/M relations demonstrate the power of the bottom over the top and as such S/M practices have “helped to empower a position traditionally associated with female sexuality” (82). In light of Wark’s “penetration theory” this would mean that the position of the bottom is not necessarily female or powerless because for Bersani “the reversibility of roles in S/M does allow everyone to get his or her moment in the exalted position of Masculinity (and, if everyone can be a bottom, no one owns the top or dominant position), but this can be a relatively mild challenge to social hierarchies of power” (86).

    _____

    Works Cited

    • Acker, Kathy. Blood and Guts in High School. 1984. New York: Grove Press.
    • —. Bodies of Work: Essays. 1997. London: Serpent’s Tail.
    • —. Don Quixote. 1986. New York: Grove Press.
    • —. Great Expectations. 1982. New York: Grove Press.
    • —. Hannibal Lecter, My Father. 1991 New York: Semiotext(e).
    • —. “Models of our present.” Art Forum. February 1984.
    • —. My Mother: Demonology. 1993. New York: Grove Press.
    • —. Portrait of an Eye. 1982. New York: Grove Press.
    • Bersani, Leo. 1996. Homos. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
    • Bradway, Tyler. 2017. Queer Experimental Literature: The Affective Politics of Bad Reading. London: Palgrave Macmillan.
    • Gajoux, Justin. Ed. 2019. Acker 1971-1975. Paris: Editions Ismael.
    • Harper, Glenn A. 1987. “The Subversive Power of Sexual Difference in The Work of Kathy        Acker.” Substance 16, no. 3: 44-56.
    • Kraus, Chris. 2017. After Kathy Acker: A Biography. London: Allen Lane.
    • Punday, Daniel. 2003. Narrative After Deconstruction. Albany: State University of New York Press.
    • Ronell, Avital. 2002. Stupidity. Champaign: University of Illinois Press.
    • Scholder, Amy, Carla Harryman, Avital Ronell, eds. 2006. Lust for Life: On the Writings of Kathy Acker. London: Verso Books.
    • Schulman, Sarah. 2012. The Gentrification of the Mind. Berkely: California University Press.
    • Sciolino, Martina. 1990. “Kathy Acker and the Postmodern Subject of Feminism.” College English 52 (4), 437-445. http://aquila.usm.edu/fac_pubs/7342.
    • Scott, Gail, Robert Glück, Camille Roy, eds. 2000. Biting the Error: Writers Explore Narrative. Toronto: Coach House Books.
    • Wark, Mckenzie. 2020. Reverse Cowgirl. Los Angeles: Semiotext(e)
    • Wark, Mckenzie. 2021. Philosophy for Spiders: on the Low Theory of Kathy Acker. Durham: Duke University Press.

     

  • Amit R. Baishya — Passions of the Political (Review of Anustup Basu’s Hindutva as Political Monotheism)

    Amit R. Baishya — Passions of the Political (Review of Anustup Basu’s Hindutva as Political Monotheism)

    a review of Anustup Basu, Hindutva as Political Monotheism (Duke, 2020)

    by Amit R. Baishya

    This article was peer-reviewed by the boundary 2 Editorial Collective.

    “In studying its (Hindutva as political monotheism) long genesis, my objective is not to advance toward a prognostic reading of the present…My purpose will instead be to explore, with some degree of speculation, the ground of the present.”

    (Anustup Basu, Hindutva as Political Monotheism, 10)

    The sentences above are crucial for approaching the novelty of Anustup Basu’s approach in his monograph Hindutva as Political Monotheism. Studies of Hindutva usually focus on its historical geneses, its sociological impact, and its anthropological dimensions.[1] Basu’s monograph is a path-breaking attempt to trace its genealogy as a political monotheism. This effort, he says, is not “a presentist elaboration of what we are witnessing now, but a deep search of its (Hindutva’s) historical origins” (2). The key analytical optic he deploys to understand Hindutva as a political monotheism, as an ideology that seeks a “unifying ethnocultural consistency rather than a theological unity,” and as “a monotheme of religiosity rather than religion itself” are the works of the hard-right thinker and one-time Nazi jurist Carl Schmitt (5). Schmitt’s theses on the concept of the political assists Basu in drawing out a “tacit monotheistic imperative in European organic theories of religious and ethnocentric nationhood” that he explores in detail in his first chapter (5). This monotheistic impulse utilizes the colonial epistemological category of “Hinduism” to invent it as a “jealous” political and national identity that eventually colonizes the apparatus of the post-colonial state. In an introduction and four subsequent chapters, Basu traces the development of this monotheistic impulse as a literary and cultural project in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries to its eventual replacement by “Hindutva 2.0”—an advertised and informational experience of urban modernity—in the contemporary period. Basu does not conduct this inquiry by presenting a chronological narrative of the development of core Hindutva ideas; rather, the word “speculation” in the epigraph above signals his eclectic and creative juxtaposition of multiple primary sources to trace a genealogy of Hindutva as a political monotheism.

    Hindutva as Political Monotheism (henceforth Hindutva) locates the search for a fully developed political monotheism in India in relation to two dimensions of inquiry. The first is the colonial epistemological invention of “Hinduism,” the larger arcs of modernity in India, and the drafting and implementation of post-colonial India’s constitution in 1950. The second places the contemporary rise of Hindutva within the broader global crisis of liberalism and the concomitant rise of ethic-national chauvinisms. Two conceptual terms serve as touchstones in the four chapters. The first is axiomatic that is derived from William Connolly’s work on American evangelical-capitalism in Capitalism and Christianity, American Style (2008). The axiomatic, Basu writes, is a “singular religious passion that does not necessarily depend on theological consistency” (5). This observation connects with his argument broached earlier that Hindutva is more about religiosity than about religion per se. He further specifies that the axiomatic is “a techno-social regime of governmentality than simply a theologico-pastoral formation” (5). The second term is parabasis, which he draws from Gayatri Spivak’s Critique of Postcolonial Reason (1999). This term emerges from classical Greek theater and refers to the duration in the play when the actors leave the stage, and the chorus addresses the audience. Basu deploys parabasis to explore the “historical roots of a relatively recent voice of a wider urban consensus beyond usual suspects such as the ardent disciple of (M.S.) Golwalkar or the angry foot soldier of (Narendra) Modi” (9).[2] This urban consensual voice, while constituted by dissonant timbres, converges in crucial aspects to consolidate and sustain “the increasing metropolitan revision of regional eccentricities and the fervor for security and techno-financial growth” (10). The genealogical precedents and rise to prominence of this “electronic Hindu political monotheism,” which surpasses the older impasses of print capitalism, is the central knowledge-object Basu focuses on in Hindutva.

    Chapter One—“Questions Concerning the Hindu Political”—lays the theoretical foundations by elaborating some key concepts from Schmitt’s The Concept of the Political (2007) and Political Theology (2006). The key extension that he makes to Schmitt’s vitalistic conceptualization of the political as the realm defined by the friend-enemy antagonism is by reading it as a “fundamentally monotheistic calling” and not via the German thinker’s observation that all secular concepts are at their base sublimated religious ones (14). This austere notion of the political is a “mythopoetic automaton” that enables the imagination of a unified people and the state only after having “categorically distinguished the believer from the infidel” (14). This “passion” is monotheistic by “secular transposition, because it has to be a singular impelling of devotion to the nation and the state” (14). In the colonial/post-colonial Indian context, this monotheism is conceived by the Hindu right as constitutively Hindu, an axiomatic that is then opposed to rival monotheistic axiomatics like Islam and, to a lesser extent, Christianity. A fiction of a primordial, prepolitical Hindu India is, thus, disseminated which has supposedly survived and persisted despite Islamic, and later, British colonization of what is now a nation-state.

    Basu states that he isn’t interested in an “instrumental” reading of the Indian context in Schmittian terms (23). Schmitt’s theorizations are not used as a mechanical explanatory model applied to the Indian context; rather, his “sparse” invocation is useful in highlighting three important themes of particular pertinence to nation-thinking and imaginaries of sovereignty: “the modern understanding of religion, the romance of the past, and the concomitant monotheistic imperative of political theology” (14).  Basu is interested in mining the connection between Schmitt’s notion of the political and Hindutva for three specific reasons. First, there has been a consistent monotheistic impulse in the discursive invention of “Hinduism” from the nineteenth century onwards. The Abrahamic cast endowed to Hinduism from that period paves the way for its consolidation as a political and nationalist identity that desires the state form. Second, Hindu nationalism is thoroughly Eurocentric and Orientalist at its core, a fact underscored rather risibly, as reported in the news portal The Wire (2021), in a recent revision to the history curriculum of Delhi University where the Mughal emperor Babur’s entry into India is termed “invasion” while the East India Company’s rule is couched under the more benign term “territorial expansion.” Third, when Hindu nationalism became institutionalized as a political movement in the 1920s and 30s, it was directly influenced by European fascisms and Herderian romantic-organicist formulations (17). But what makes Schmitt particularly relevant to Basu’s project is his identification of the passion of “jealousy” as the core of the monotheistic distinction between friend and enemy in the realm of the political. This passion facilitates the imagination of a Hindu India as “an organic whole rather than an associational pact” and is often summoned to judge the contrarian pressures of regionalism or to condemn secularism and federalism in the Indian context (151).

    Let us tarry with some of the distinctive features of Basu’s reading of the passion of “jealousy” in Schmitt awhile. In The Concept of the Political, Schmitt argues that the friend-enemy distinction is the central antagonism in the political sphere. Given Basu’s focus on “grounds,” it is crucial to note the way he distinguishes Schmitt’s friend-enemy antagonism and its relation to sovereign decisionism from the Hobbesian model of decisionism. Hobbes begins from the contractualist fiction and not the primordial time-space that precedes the contract. In contrast, for Schmitt, this primordial is the settlement of the question of friend and enemy. Thus, the friend-enemy antagonism and its settlement prior to social contracts or associations constitutes the very grounds of the political. Basu writes:

    The political is decided by a primal pathology prior to self-conscious peopleness; it…has to be an already-there organic unity. It cannot be associational or contractual precisely because it must express a singular and undivided will before reason and talk can proceed. Schmitt’s political theology therefore necessarily defines the bearer of the political as a monotheistic congregation, jealous of any apostates, pagans or heretics in its midst. (18)

    The passion of jealousy points us towards the chilling imperative that a war for extermination between both parties is possible at any time. The purpose of the state is to respond to this fear at every step. When the juridical resources of the state cannot fulfil this expectation, a “secular miracle” is called for—the exception.[3] This sovereign decision can either be a war against “internal” enemies or a “perpetual civil war as an index of relentless determination or purification” (18). The chilling imperatives of Hindutva as political monotheism, which can be conducted both as a war on internal enemies and a permanent civil war, echo these Schmittian postulations.

    Chapter Two (“The Hindu Nation as Organism”) is the core of Hindutva. This chapter juxtaposes philosopher Bimal Krishna Matilal’s work on Indic “little traditions” with modern Hindutva’s organismic invented “grand” tradition that attempts to subsume a massive plurality of identities via a “unifying ethnocultural consistency rather than a theological unity” (5). Basu deploys Aamir Mufti’s Enlightenment in the Colony (2007) to caution that there is no “pristine truth of pluralism” to contrast with the pristine truth of monotheism—both desires are sullied by the colonial modern. They gesture to a lost excess beyond the organizing frames of colonial taxonomies. But what is missing, Basu writes, in Hindutva discourses is the “critical admission of irony and amnesiac mourning—an understanding of the bygone as necessary fiction with a phantom aspect…” (34). This differentiates Hindutva’s monotheistic search for lost origins from the double consciousness that marks scholars like Matilal, Mufti, and, indeed, works like Hindutva itself.

    In contrast to Hindutva’s modernist desire for a theistic unity and consistency in line with the Abrahamic traditions, Matilal’s works on “little traditions” show that while the numerous South Asian scriptural traditions have “involved themselves with logic and epistemology, religious duties and rituals, metaphysics and soteriology,” they have hardly ever “furnished a constitutive moral worldview” (38). This seeming lack of a constitutive, coherent moral worldview and a massive polyphony of voices within what is called the Hindu tradition has led many Western thinkers to posit that “Indian religion was inseparable from Indian mythology” (Hegel) or that there was “no concept of morality in Sanskrit” (Max Weber) (39-41). To make Hinduism “necessarily Brahminical and resolutely monolingual,” as Hindutva attempts to do, would involve the negation of the dynamic osmosis among the tremendous babble of “little traditions” into a “manufactured and jealous ‘Epic of Traditions’…in order to institute a masculine, Savarna national morality robbed of all errant and queering energies” (41). This is a project still in the making, but one which has become more prominent and public in recent times.

    The other insuperable bottleneck that Hindutva faces is that of caste. While Hindutva discourse insists on the “original Varna as a recognition of merit over birth,” the questions of Jati and Varna are always complicated by plural traditions that are “artisanal, ecological, and based on everyday customs and pieties” (44-6). The problem here lies in Hindutva’s uncritical adoption of the Western anthropological category of religion itself. As Basu says, quoting Matilal: “‘The social reality [called] religion did not exist in ancient or classical India’—at least in a core, etymological root sense of the word, as reliq, or that which binds and relegates” (47). Responding to this absence, Hinduism is invented as a monotheism and as resolutely monolingual by Hindutva. The valorization of Brahminical theodicy in this monolingual reformulation is a manifestation of the desperate desire of Hindutva historicism to respond to and rectify the purported lack posited by the Orientalizing gaze of the big colonizing Other.

    The tour de force in this chapter is Basu’s analysis of the “pieties” of Hindutva discourse and the problems it encounters in endowing the nation an organismic cast. For Hindutva thinkers like MS Golwalkar and Deen Dayal Upadhyay, the Hindu nation in its essence is paradoxically predicated on “terrestrial homogeneity as well as cosmogonic inequity” (32). Once this promised Hindu punyabhumi (consecrated land) is achieved via the revival of Hindu virtue:

    …this nation, in its perfection, will be marked by a balanced metabolism of natural caste patrimony and a principled docility of the lower orders. Citizenship shall be defined by selfless service and sacrifice, not by individual rights and interests. The state here can only be an organic expression of an originary Brahminical peace; it may not be a profane artifice to ward off a natural state of (caste) war. (32)

    This invocation of Brahminical peace and caste war leads directly to Basu’s fascinating consideration of Hindutva’s “primal origin myth” and evocation of “deep time” that he conducts via an elaboration of four themes: “Time and Origins,” “Race and Law,” “Territory, Imaginative Geography, Identity,” and “Language, Countermemory, and Culture.” I won’t go into the details of each theme but will explicate Basu’s theorization of Hindutva “deep time” through a contrast with an interesting moment in a well-known South Asian fictional text. Nirmal, a central character in Amitav Ghosh’s The Hungry Tide (2006), tries to explain how he will attempt to communicate the vastness of geological timescales to a group of rural children in Bengal:

    It’s not just the goddesses—there’s a lot more in common between myth and geology. Look at the size of their heroes, how immense they are—heavenly deities on the one hand, and on the other the titanic stirrings of the earth itself—both equally otherworldly, equally remote from us…And then, of course, there is the scale of time—yugas and epochs, Kaliyug and the Quaternary. And yet—mind this!—in both, these vast durations are telescoped in such a way as to permit the telling of a story. (150)

    Nirmal’s homology between myth and geology shows how the vastness of geological time is conceptualized by different epistemological formations in varied yet comparable ways. As the medievalist Jeffrey J. Cohen (2015) writes—“Every historical period works with the conceptual tools it inherits but is never bound by that heritage to the replication of that which is already known” (83). Nirmal seems to intuitively understand the connection between such different epistemological attempts at comprehending the vastness of temporal scales. He uses this understanding and tries to channel it creatively towards a pedagogical goal—how to make his students grasp the vastness of the temporal scales of geohistory.

    Is the Hindutva homology, or rather the erasure of the gap between myth and history the same as what Nirmal institutes between myth and geology? Time, as Basu says, in its Hindu-Aryan naissance “is geological” (49). Basu succinctly distinguishes imaginaries of temporal scale in Puranic cosmologies and the way Hindutva banalizes them for statist ends. Deep time in Puranic texts is not quantifiable in literal terms, and function as “pure magnitudes to invoke fear, shame and reverence…” (51). Such pure magnitudes create an “existential distance between humans of the present and the Dharmic exemplum” (52). Time-reckoning in the ancient era could simultaneously exist as cyclical in terms of cosmology and linear in terms of the moment of the here and now. The problem with Hindutva thinking lies in “making the two identical, and then vectorizing the whole thing in terms of statist mythography” (52). The complexities of the temporal imaginaries that so invigorate Nirmal to help his students encounter questions of geological scale is rerouted via colonial historiography by Hindutva discourse into “coarse positivisms of rise and fall” (53).  Invocations of deep time in Hindutva discourse is not a contention with different timescales, but a negation of timeliness and metric history, as for example in Golwalkar’s rhetorical flourish that Hindus ruled India for ten thousand years before a “foreigner” set foot in it (54-5). Metric time and history are conceptualized as a form of rupture. The original period of Hindu glory cannot be located within temporal frameworks; instead, history begins with a curving towards Kaliyuga (end times). Secular history is a fall from a myth of origins, while the myth of the golden Hindu past exists in a time before time.

    This conceptualization of deep time before historical time proper is also imagined as a period of Brahminical peace. The invocation of a mythic past in terms of Varna is necessary for Hindutva because it is predicated “in the form of a Jati revenge against Islam, not Jati parity within Hinduism” (56). The monotheme of a jealous Hindu identity ranged against rival axiomatics can only be consolidated by “foreclosing the emergence of countermemories and competing fictions of Jati identity” (56). Deploying Michel Foucault’s ideas on race war from Society must be Defended (2003), Basu argues that for this Hindu monotheme to emerge and to anticipate a possible future when this essence is restored, the link between history and caste-war must be actively denied or forgotten:

    No matter how far back one goes, profane historical knowledge does not present nature, right, order, or peace for Hindutva. Hindutva’s historicism is therefore founded on an idealism that knowledge and truth belong to the order of Brahminical peace; that they cannot belong to the side of violence, miscegenation, and relentless caste war. (62)

    Besides the potential extermination of the enemy and forgetting of caste war, this narrative of Hindu redemption is predicated on the concurrent remembering of an ideal Hindu subject that is “apparently different from the profane, modern one, yet one that is lost in an ever-receding past that in itself cannot be viewed other than through the prism of the modern” (86). This ideal Hindu subject, simultaneously ancient and modern, must be reinstated as sovereign among the plurality of identities in the subcontinent. This is one of the core elements of the Hindutva project.

    Chapter Three—“The Indian Monotheism”—moves away from Hindutva discourse to an analysis of “normative Hinduism,” a secularized, albeit Hinduized, sensus communis that has been the bedrock of the post-colonial nation-state. This discourse of “soft” Hinduness ranges across a spectrum from “benign to sharp.” It also oscillates between a patronizing benevolence towards Islam and a paranoid hauteur directed towards the jealous monotheism of Hindutva (124). In recent decades, Basu writes, this “apparently benign Hinduness has increased its powers as a psychological parabasis for a majoritarian nation” (88).  Chapter Three looks at “discursive antecedents” in the “broader nineteenth-century Indological identification of ‘Hinduism’ and the discourses of Hindu reform, Hindu anthropology, jurisprudence, and history” (7). This “benign” discursive trajectory of a Hindu monotheme has increasingly been replaced with “ritualized pathological expressions” (88). The fact that benign Hinduness and ritualized pathological Hindutva are often substitutable with each other reveal that they are secret sharers drawing from the same wellspring of the Hindu monotheme.

    In terms of specifics, “The Indian Monotheism” considers a broad “constellation of moments”—the Vedantic reform of Raja Rammohan Roy, the literary moment of Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay, Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan’s universalization of the caste question, and the “pacific paternalism” of M.K. Gandhi (146).  Crucial to this discursive project of a “monothematic Hindu becoming in anticipation of the nation-state” is the furnishing of “imagined communities and personages with a subjectivity and a historical agency pertinent to the overall invention of a Hindu past” (147). This occurred in several ways—the elevation of neo-Vedantic monism as a counter to the messy facts of polytheism in Hindu practices (evident, for instance, in the literary interventions of Roy), the institutionalization of the Bhagawad Gita as the holy book of the Hindu people (a reading very prominent in Bankim), and the portrayal of figures like Rama and Krishna as prophetic personages greater than Christ or the Buddha. In each case, the development of the Hindu monotheme necessitated arguments with colonial Reason and the subsumption of ambiguous and scattered elements within the ambit of “antiquarian or monumental” histories that corresponded to nationalistic desires (147). All these moments of argumentation had major differences with Hindutva—for instance, Rammohan Roy’s Hindu monism as universal religion bypassed the passion of jealousy altogether, while Radhakrishnan’s pragmatic defense of Varna differs from the theologico-cosmogonic cast that Hindutva ideologues like Golwalkar posited. What unites them though is the deep desire for a quintessentially Hindu-Indian axiomatic.

    The discussion of the trajectory from Roy to Radhakrishnan is bookended by Hegel’s philosophical critique of the Gita on the one hand and B.R. Ambedkar’s critique of Hinduism on the other. Hegel’s 1827 civilizational diagnosis that the “absence of a monotheistic esprit de corps” in the Gita compromises the nation’s “security in a world of lordship and bondage,” serves as a foil for the intellectual ripostes by Rammohan Roy and Bankim (101). Much more interesting though is Basu’s discussion of Ambedkar’s Jacobin critique of Hinduism. I will highlight one aspect of Ambedkar’s radical critique of Hindu monotheism through a contrast with Radhakrishnan. For Radhakrishnan, caste became a means to contain race conflict in India. The genius of the Indian caste system, for Radhakrishnan, was the prevention and containment of race war (which was supposedly common in all societies) via a process of harmonization rather than the alternatives of enslavement or extermination (129). Caste, thus, is presented as not ontologically unique to Indian society. According to Radhakrishnan, it is a feature of all societies. It is just that it happened to be a practical and harmonious way to stave off race war perfected in the Indian context.  This universalization of the caste question and its specific flowering in Indian climes produced a “democracy of spirit,” although it was not amenable to the accumulation of wealth or political power (129).

    Ambedkar, Basu says, rejects the “naturalistic, race-based exoneration” of caste in the Gandhi-Radhakrishnan trajectory of Hindu reformism. The caste imaginary’s strict adherence to notions of purity and endogamous marriage went against a phenomenology of biological race—a fair-skinned lower caste person would still be ostracized while a dark-skinned Brahmin would not (136). From a political economic perspective, caste was not division of labor, but “a calibrated division of laborers” that could not be encompassed by economism alone (137). The essence of caste does not depend on a naturalistic explanation but is a “sublimation in time” (137). It shifts and mutates in a historical field “pertaining to shifts in custom, culture, production, theology, or the aesthetics of self-making” (137). Caste discrimination was a disciplinary framework that combines “a libidinal economy of desire with a political one of interest” (140). This notion of disciplining the caste other is fundamentally inimical to the idea of democracy that Ambedkar draws from his teacher John Dewey—“…a mode of associated living, of conjoint communicated experience” (142). The problem with Indian nationalism, suffused by reformism of the Gandhi-Radhakrishnan type, is that it short-circuited social revolution in favor of a political one (143). In doing so, “soft” Hinduism suffused with the “lure of temperate Brahminism” became the raison d’etre of the post-colonial state. This constituted the “parabasis of the new Hindu normal” whose affective power rendered the “Indian constitutional revolution passive by foreclosing a constitutional morality” (145). Hegemonic Indian nationalism viewed the spiritual work of the nation as already complete millennia ago—all that was necessary was reform and revival (149). Rare exceptions like Ambedkar and Rabindranath Tagore, whom Basu considers briefly at the end of this chapter, went against the grain of this Hindu-normative common sense.

    Chapter Four—“Hindutva 2.0 as Advertised Monotheism”—considers Hindutva monotheism from the other end of the temporal spectrum: “in terms of millennial mutations in the era of information and globalization” (7). This chapter is a return to familiar turf for readers familiar with Basu’s earlier work on film and media cultures. The two key conceptual terms in this chapter—“Hindutva 2.0” and “advertised modernization”—fuses the analysis of contemporary media ecologies with considerations of affect. Thus, the assemblage of Hindutva 2.0 presumes a “neuropolis of populations” and sustains itself on “industrialized instincts of jealousy and anxiety” (166). As a mediatized phenomenon, predicated on the rapid proliferation of cellphones, the internet and digital technology, it does not depend on some of the established avenues of modernity like newspapers, books or university spaces. It is not dependent on “traditional” orders like shakhas or temples either. Instead, it works “primarily by way of loose, fungible distributions of affect, spectacle and…the substance of the advertised” (158). In an age of Whatsapp forwards, or what is colloquially called the “Whatsapp University,” it hollows out historical consciousness and reduces it to the syncopated form of a meme or a short message that can be forwarded virally. Hindutva 2.0 also establishes new synergies between “being Hindu and neoliberalism, one taking place on a plane of marketable desires and terrors” (158). In doing so, it spreads both soft and hard versions of the Hindu normal across the entire digital spectrum.

    The other key term—advertised modernization—draws on trajectories of affect studies that point towards “a neuropolitics of the twenty-first century in which multidirectional stimulations, attention spans, diversions, ennui, or boredom become potent political factors” (180). “Advertised” is a conceptual metaphor which goes beyond questions of truth and falsehood; instead, it renders “an innocuous ‘take away,’ a ‘feel good’ sensation, or in some cases, a consumable fear” (180). In such an advertised scenario, which is also necessarily majoritarian, there is “no narrative obligation to truth or closure”; rather, it is the affect it evokes and the sense of belonging it creates to a particular brand that counts (180). Probably its most well-known global manifestation in recent times is the “pure gesture” of the Trumpian lie. As is obvious, most of what Trump (or Modi) utter in public can be debunked with minimal fact-checking; yet, for the devout Trump or Modi follower, they operate as “pure gestures advertising a new covenant between tradition and modernity, rather than as dialectical matters of an Aristotleian politics aimed at virtue…” (181). The Trumpian statement itself may be outrageously false, but it comes straight from the heart for legions of acolytes.

    The Trump-Modi performatives also thrive in a changed scenario of the advertisement. The older model of the fifteen to thirty second advertisement emerging from “vertical models of mass culture” is passé. What has taken its place is an “order of convergence marked by nondirectional flows between platforms, instant audience migrations, and corporate cooperation” (181). In this changed scenario, political campaigning itself becomes interactive and is constituted by feedback loops and the processing of data that occur 24/7—consider here, for instance, the use of holograms and selfies during Modi’s 2014 campaign. The political personality becomes a brand that proliferates across a wide mediaverse circumnavigating a multidirectional circuit of affect. Branding, in Basu’s words, “becomes a matter of controlled chaos, leveraged in order to achieve critical densities of affect, recall value, or regularities of reference” (182). In this altered mediascape, the monotheme of Hindutva does not operate through a straightforward invocation of jealousy against the infidel; instead, congregations of believers coalesce in “virtual affinity spaces” that cut across older divides of city and country.

    Basu also provides a contrast between two different historical constellations to outline the specificity of Hindutva 2.0. This contrast is set up through his discussion of the journalist Akshaya Mukul’s book Gita Press and the Making of Hindu India (2015) at the beginning of the chapter. Mukul’s fascinating book received a fillip when he came across the “Poddar papers,” a massive archive of correspondence, pamphlets and manuscripts by, on or written to Hanuman Prasad Poddar, who along with Jaydayal Goyandka founded the Gita Press in Gorakhpur in 1923. Mukul writes:

    As Gita Press stands within striking distance of a century, the only organization that may be said to parallel its success is the Bible Society. No other publishing house in India has marketed religion so successfully. (430)

    Through cheap editions of Hindu religious texts in multiple languages, its Hindi monthly Kalyan (first published in 1927) and its English avatar Kalyana-Kalpataru (first published in 1934), Gita Press made deep inroads throughout India, even into Hindu homes that wouldn’t identify necessarily with Hindutva. Espousing conservative upper caste-Hindu values and functioning as a foot-soldier of the Sangh Parivar, despite its claims that it maintains a safe distance from politics, Gita Press also managed to get a wide spectrum of notable figures of varying ideological proclivities, ranging from Golwalkar to Gandhi, to write for Kalyan. The notable absentee unsurprisingly was Ambedkar, a figure Kalyan was scathingly critical of.  Often deploying what Basu calls a “paranoid style” (155), Gita Press at various times has also effectively deployed the language of hate and insular religious identity.

    While Gita Press is still influential, Basu extensively discusses Mukul’s book to show how Hindutva 2.0 is a massive shift in amplitude in the era of new media forms and the neoliberal order. This is especially evident with the rise of Narendra Modi as a media phenomenon—a process that demonstrated “the advertised realignment of tradition and modernity” for a “virtual Hindu congregation” (182). In this new distributional matrix of information, the divergent energies constituting the virtual Hindu congregation could touch the “Brahminical sensible” [a term Basu reworks from Jacques Ranciere’s idea of the distribution of the sensible from Dissensus (2015)] at various points without being subsumed within a monolingual Hindutva discourse. Basu concretizes the difference between Hindutva 2.0 and the older model of print capitalism thus:

    That older revivalist discourse, as have seen in the case of Gita Press…struggled to subsume the modern disciplines and the physical sciences into an apex Hindu vision. It had to world the caste question afresh in an altered universe of rights, freedoms and irreverent democratic tempers. It attempted, at every turn, to reconcile mythology with history, science and realism, or theodicy with justice. Such discursive efforts—rarely sublime, often ludicrous—have had a long history and continue to this day. However, in this new ecology, they acquire fresh powers of particularization and shooting through. (183)

    The neuropolitical dimension in this new informational ecology enables the collapse of traditional distinctions between city and country and epistemologies like Vedic cosmogony and astrophysics. The public this ecology subsumes can react in a variety of ways within the frame of this Hindu normativity—ranging from indulgence to outright dismissal, from neurosis to humor. But the key difference between this moment and the “traditional” print capitalist one, as Basu says, is that “it can bravely ‘touch upon,’ without obligation, many matters that traditional Hindu nationalist discourse has either avoided or approached gingerly” (183).

    In a broader spectrum of culture, advertised modernity is also evident in the shifts in the fantasy machine of Bollywood in the era of neoliberalization. Basu’s earlier work on the “geo-televisual aesthetic” (2010) is particularly relevant here in mapping these shifts.[4] On the one hand, post-1990 Bollywood films are marked by the gradual disappearance of the rural sphere, the poor, Dalit or Muslim character, and an obliteration of what film scholar Ranjani Mazumdar (2007) calls, the presence of the street; on the other hand, we notice the gradual rise to prominence of what Mazumdar calls the “lifestyle mythology” of the urban elite (143). Basu argues in Hindutva that advertised modernization operates at “the level of colors, saturations, textures, magical transportations, luminosities, and sonorous resonances” by which the “new, urban Hindu elite…[presents]…its life and aspirations as artwork” (191-2).  Vedic and Puranic cosmologies exist side by side with a muscular patriotism and an open (and opulent) celebration of right-wing mythologies as in Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s controversial film Padmavat (2018).

    The underside of this glossy normative Hindu advertised fantasy is the proliferation of gritty, stylish films usually about Bombay’s underbelly. The “encounter” film—which revels in vigilante justice and extrajudicial killing meted out to characters from the underworld—has become a sub-genre in its own right. Basu reads it as a symptom of a persisting fascination with sovereign decisionism and of vigilante violence (especially against Muslims and Dalits, phenomena that spill from reel to real life) in the Indian context. A good example here would be Shimit Amin’s 2004 noir film Ab Tak Chappan (Till Now Fifty-six), which valorizes the life of the “encounter specialist” of the Mumbai Police Force, Daya Nayak. The title refers to the “encounter score” of fifty-six extrajudicial killings that Nayak purportedly participated in.

    This acceptance of extrajudicial violence, of course, is not a new phenomenon in Indian public life as the long and controversial histories of legal instruments like the AFSPA (Armed Forces Special Powers Act) and TADA (Terrorist and Disruptive Activities Act) easily illustrates. What the contemporary “encounter” film does though is to stage the majoritarian desire for sovereign decisionism with a “cool” dressing of the gritty, seductive style of noir. At the level of cultural fantasy, the proliferation of such films signals two things. First, it “presents a metropolitan caste Hindu existence as the only form of life worth living” (199). Islam enters this cultural fantasy only when assimilated into “an overall civic religiosity of the (Hinduized) market” as in the celebration of figures like former President APJ Abdul Kalam or the three superstar Khans—Shahrukh, Aamir and Salman—of Bollywood (199). Otherwise, the Muslim is completely othered. Second, such fantasies also present the “urban caste Hindu existence as the only secure form of life worth living” (200). In this variation of the fantasy, the Muslim becomes the security threat against which society must be defended. As Basu writes, this “perception of Islam as an absolutist ethics is important for the cult of the encounter because it authorizes the state to respond with fearful symmetry and an instant theodicy of its own” (200). The bleed between reel and real could not be more chilling than this.

    No account of the urban Indian fascination with sovereign decisionism can be complete without reference to the current Prime Minister Narendra Modi. In one respect, Modi represents the open vocalization of certain desires that lay immanent before 2014: the fascination with a strong leader, alternative history scenarios where Vallabhbhai Patel or Subhash Chandra Bose led India instead of the “soft” Nehru, and the long-standing admiration for Hitler’s works in many middle-class Indian homes. Basu’s focus, however, is only incrementally with the personality of Modi and more with the images projected of Modi as a media phenomenon. What interests Basu is how the new “congregational plane” of advertised modernization “animated by instantaneous and wide dissemination” effectively negated an old truism about India as a coalition at the altar of Modi’s charismatic aura. At another level, this proliferating form of advertised modernization also brought together two elite urban population categories that had hitherto remained apart. Basu calls these two population subsets the Gentoo (the colonial term for “Hindu” that draws on the Portuguese gentio—pagan) and the Dehat (the Hindi term for rustic). The Gentoo is the technocratic elite enamored with neoliberal development. Within this category there is a spectrum of possibilities: the Gentoo wedded to hard Hindutva, the Gentoo who imagined the metropolitan good life as indistinguishable from Hinduness, and finally, the secular-neoliberal who conditionally supported Modi’s economic “reform” persona without going the whole hog with his cultural nationalist project. The Dehat, on the other hand, was the vernacular elite that emerged from the rich farming and privileged caste groups.

    Before 2014, at best only a provisional and uneasy Gentoo-Dehat coalition could be imagined. The media phenomenon that Modi became from around 2006 onwards with the celebration of the mythologized “Gujarat model of development” brought these two subsets together on the congregational plane. For the Gentoo especially, “Modi was a Dehat who could talk the talk of the Chicago boys and talk it well” (173). The public personality of Modi that was projected coalesced the images of the neoliberal messiah who would turbocharge the Gentoo model of development, the “strong” and decisive Hindu leader who would not compromise on national security against internal and external enemies, and the “saintly” man of sewa (service) who rose above petty politicking and remained untouched by the profanity of corruption. This could not have happened without the new media ecology that was “marked by speedy informational flows and feedback loops independent of traditional institutions of news and veracity” and where “one could freely disperse affects and expressions without disciplinary enunciation or narrative form” (170). In short, Hindutva 2.0 as advertised monotheism.

    Hindutva is an eclectic and multidimensional work that makes major interventions in multiple knowledge-fields like media and cinema studies, religious studies, postcolonial studies, South Asian studies, studies of nationalism and affect studies. Readers of Carl Schmitt can also deploy Basu’s reading of “jealousy” to read the mutation of the German thinker’s later work such as his theorization of the “absolute enemy” in The Theory of the Partisan (2007). Schmitt’s work, written in the wake of guerrilla movements and anticolonial revolutions during the Cold War period, prefigures how the contemporary juridical category of the “terrorist” envisaged as a figure relegated outside the sphere of the law, follows the tracks of earlier legal categorizations like “pirate” or “guerrilla.” Schmitt’s underlying argument that the contemporary partisan (or “terrorist”) is no longer an enemy, but a “satanic pursuer” who attempts to create ex nihilo (quoted in Ulmen 2007, xviii), would be useful to analyze via Basu’s categories of the passion of jealousy and its relation to the primordial settlement of the political.

    Moreover, while anchored strongly in the Indian context, Hindutva also has global relevance. While analyses of phenomena like the Trumpian lie clearly illustrates the broad reach of Basu’s work, his conclusion clearly shows how the insights of Hindutva can be utilized to contend with our current global conjuncture. I highlight one passage from the conclusion as an illustration:

    In a world dominated by a cartel of international banks, a transnational plutocracy, and North Atlantic military powers and their constable states, the nation is no longer the seat of those two immense themes of the liberal tradition: self-determination and the rights of the people. Yet paradoxically, and perhaps precisely because of this, the nation has to be defined as a progressively more insular cosmology of justice. It has to be relentlessly purified and made to close in upon itself; the country has to be at once achieved and repeatedly taken back. (206)

    This paradoxical movement of simultaneous achievement and the repeated taking back of the spectral nation is not limited to Hindutva 2.0 and the rise of Narendra Modi alone. With proper contextualization, these insights can also apply to Trumpian America, Bolsonaro’s Brazil, Duterte’s Philippines, Orban’s Hungary, Putin’s Russia and Erdogan’s Turkey among others. Indeed, as Basu writes, twenty-first century “fascism is about focalizing…intense localisms and threading them into a nationalist politics of rage and revenge banks” (206). The strongman (and it is usually a man, with Marine Le Pen one of the exceptions) is he who cuts through the patina of incessant talk (what Schmitt in an earlier Fascist conjuncture criticized about procedural liberalism) by monopolizing widespread public skepticism about corruption and about information culture. He promises to replenish the masculinity of the nation by simplifying discourse and identifying the enemy clearly.

    That said, I advance one critique of Hindutva from my own location as a scholar of the borderland region of Northeast India. While I grant that Northeast India isn’t the focus of Hindutva, there is a missed opportunity here for framing a more complicated account of the political in the South Asian context. In the first chapter, Basu writes that the specter of the concentration camp “hovers around the National Register of Citizens (NRC) project that the present Hindu nationalist government in India has reactivated in the Indian northeastern state of Assam” (19). I do not disagree that the ruling BJP (Bharatiya Janata Party) has weaponized the NRC as a pan-Indian phenomenon, and that detention centers are a grim reality in Assam today. But the word “reactivated” above, to use Basu’s own terms against himself, seems to make Hindutva the only player in town in Assam (204). The BJP is a relative late entrant into the NRC process. The genealogy of the NRC predates the BJP becoming a major player in this borderland state and has to be located in the complex politics of what the political essayist Sanjib Baruah in In the Name of the Nation (2020) calls a “settlement frontier” of the erstwhile colonial state (47-75). As Ornit Shani (2018) writes in her book on the creation of independent India’s first set of electoral rolls:

    In Assam…ethno nationalist attitudes manifested particularly towards the non-Assamese ‘floating population,’ many of whom are Bengali speaking Hindus from East Pakistan. Local authorities expressed a view of membership from a state that was defined by a descent group and delimited to ‘children of the soil,’ who were eligible to have full rights. Thus, ethno nationalist conceptions were not necessarily on the basis of religion. (72)

    This long history shapes the institutionalization of the NRC as a discriminatory citizenship regime. These facts show that the grounds of the political in such borderland contexts are not exclusively determined by religious binaries and its attendant passion of jealousy familiar to scholars of mainland South Asia.

    To be sure, there have been synergies between ethnonationalism and Hindutva in recent times. But the completion of the NRC process also reveals the faultlines between Hindutva and ethnonationalist politics. When the NRC was published in 2019, for instance, the BJP was disappointed that many Hindus were included in the list. They have recently promised a new, updated NRC. This faultline between Hindutva and ethnonationalism has hardened with the implementation of the CAA (Citizenship Amendment Act) in December 2019 which proposes to give citizenship to Hindu refugees, even though the BJP went on to win a majority in the state elections in 2021. None of these complexities are however mentioned in Basu’s account. In fact, in footnote twenty-five of Chapter One, the only source Basu cites about the NRC is an NPR report. He also writes in that same footnote that after “lying dormant for decades, it (the NRC) became politically relevant once more after Modi came to power” (213). Anyone familiar with Assam’s political scenario would be quick to point out that this discourse has not been dormant in the region at all, and that while Modi’s coming to power may have made it visible to mainstream Indian political discourse, the Northeastern borderlands have long been wrestling with this issue prior to 2014. In comparison to the eclectic historical and theoretical sketch of Hindutva, one is left wishing for a more complex rendering of the political in a borderland space such as Assam in this portion of Basu’s book.

    By way of a conclusion and drawing further from my own location in Northeast Indian studies, I initiate a brief conversation between Basu’s book and another major book on Hindutva that was published recently: Arkotong Longkumer’s ethnographic study The Greater India Experiment (2021). Hindutva is essentially correct, I think, in drawing a genealogy of an urban Hindu normativity. But what about Hindutva’s spread in locales beyond the Gentoo-Dehat urbanscape, especially in places that have been to a large extent inimical to the idea of India such as the borderland Northeastern region?  In his fascinating discussion of Hindutva worldings in the Northeastern region, Longkumer shows how within the larger monotheme of Hindu religiosity that Basu identifies, actual Hindutva practices are defined by shape-shifting and flexible positionalities as it tries to draw the divergent cosmologies of “tribal” religions within its fold. Of particular interest here is how Hindutva actors in Northeast India deploy the language of global indigeneity, polytheism and paganism to show connections between indigenous religions in the region and Hinduism. For instance, Longkumer writes that a 2005 BJP party document titled “Evolution of the BJP,” draws on the works of anthropologists on local and global aspects of indigeneity to argue that:

    …paganism relates, crucially, to local gods and ancestors of the land based on ideas of polytheism…In summing up the basic overlap between paganism and Hinduism, the BJP text says: ‘In a sense at the basic level Hinduism is a pagan religion. As Paganism allows for evolution Hinduism too allows for evolution. Since Paganism is belief in many Gods there is generally no fight over Gods. This is the greatest virtue of Polytheism…Once Hinduism is expressed along these lines, then, it has the potential to relate with other native traditions that are intimately connected to land. (115-16)

    While Hindutva proselytization in Northeast India is still an ongoing and contested process, such sentiments about polytheism are often invoked by Hindutva activists on the field to contest the animosity that monotheistic faiths like Christianity display against “pagan” and animist belief systems. An urban Hindu monotheme that has become dominant with advertised modernity and a flexible deployment of polytheism as a proselytizing strategy in the borderlands—these are two torn halves that do not constitute a whole, but gesture towards a larger and still developing story of why Hindutva has become the dominant political discourse in India today.

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    Amit R. Baishya is Associate Professor of English at the University of Oklahoma. He is the author of Contemporary Literature from Northeast India: Deathworlds, Terror and Survival (Routledge, 2018) and the co-editor of Northeast India: A Place of Relations (Cambridge University Press, 2017), Postcolonial Animalities (Routledge, 2019), and a special issue of the journal Postcolonial Studies titled “Planetary Solidarities: Postcolonial Theory, the Anthropocene and the Nonhuman” (2021-22).

    Back to the essay

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    Notes

    [1] For examples, see Jaffrelot (1995); Hansen (1999); Vanaik (2017).

    [2] M.S. Golwalkar (1906-73) was a prominent early ideologue of the RSS (Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh), the apex body in what is called the “Sangh Parivar.”

    [3] Schmitt’s views on the connection between exception and miracles comes out most clearly in his reading of Chapter 37 of Hobbes’ Leviathan in The Leviathan in the State Theory of Thomas Hobbes (1996). Schmitt says—“A miracle is what the sovereign state authority commands its subjects to believe to be a miracle; but also—and here the irony is especially acute—the reverse: Miracles cease when the state forbids them” (55).

    [4] Basu defines the geo-televisual as a cinematic idiom that emerged from the mid-90s onwards and which cannibalized and combined heterogenous elements (MTV, video games, international travel, spiritualism et al) in a “fungible yet sensuous style—one that begins to operate at the level of the tissue and the nerve” (7). We notice an early intimation of the neuropolitical here.

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    Works Cited

    • Amin, Shimit. 2004. Ab Tak Chappan. Mumbai: K Sera Sera, Varma Productions.
    • Baruah, Sanjib. 2020. In the Name of the Nation: India and its Northeast. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press.
    • Basu, Anustup. 2010. Bollywood in the Age of New Media: The Geo-Televisual Aesthetic. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.
    • Bhansali, Sanjay Leela. 2018. Padmaavat. Mumbai: Viacom 18 Motion Pictures.
    • Cohen, Jeffrey J. 2015. Stone: An Ecology of the Inhuman. Minneapolis: University of      Minnesota Press.
    • Connolly, William E. 2008. Christianity and Capitalism, American Style. Durham: Duke University Press.
    • Foucault, Michel. 2003. Society Must be Defended: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1975-76. Translated David Macey. New York: Picador.
    • Author. 2010. “Title” In Editor, ed. Title. Volume: Issue (Month). Place: Publisher. Pages.
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    • Hansen, Thomas Blom. 1999. The Saffron Wave: Democracy and Hindu Nationalism in Modern India. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press.
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    • Jaffrelot, Christophe. 1995. The Hindu Nationalist Movement in India. New York: Columbia University Press.
    • Longkumer, Arkotong. 2021. The Greater India Experiment: Hindutva and the Northeast. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press.
    • Mazumdar, Ranjani. 2007. Bombay Cinema: An Archive of the City. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
    • Mufti, Aamir R. 2007. Enlightenment in the Colony: The Jewish Question and the Crisis of Postcolonial Culture. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press.
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  • Gavin Steingo — Learning from Alexis (Review of Alexis Pauline Gumbs’s Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals)

    Gavin Steingo — Learning from Alexis (Review of Alexis Pauline Gumbs’s Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals)

    by Gavin Steingo

    Review of Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals (Chico, CA: AK Press, 2020)

    The recent documentary, My Octopus Teacher, is a sequence of clichés and banalities punctuated by the effervescent, astonishing world of an octopus.[i] The film documents the relationship between Craig Foster, a white South African diver and filmmaker, with a cephalopod in a kelp forest near Cape Town in South Africa’s Western Cape province. Around 2010, Foster began free diving—that is, diving unaided by the scuba technology of an oxygen tank—and he encountered a curious octopus whose reticence among humans seemed to be mitigated only by the bareness of Foster’s body in the water. Foster visited the creature almost daily for a year, during which time he earned the octopus’ trust; unusually for a cephalopod, this one comes into contact with Foster, and the viewer witnesses scenes of intimacy between the two beings.

    The film works on two distinct and only occasionally overlapping registers. On the one hand, the viewer is treated to quite exquisite cinematography: we see the octopus curled into a ball, walking on two legs, propelling itself through its aquatic environment, camouflaging itself by virtue of its incredible amorphous body, conjuring sculptural figures from black ink, shape shifting. This is, to us, an incredible creature, almost our opposite.[ii] The second trajectory of the film centers itself on what we hold in common with the octopus. Indeed, despite its radical corporeal alterity, octopuses seem to possess “advanced” cognitive capacities. (I omit the complexities and pitfalls of this kind of language.)[iii] Unfortunately, on this register—at least to my eye and ear­—Foster undoes and undermines everything that might be interesting about his experience and about the film. Somewhat late in the documentary, we hear sketchy and hastily delivered information about Foster’s personal crises—how he was overworked, under pressure from various quarters, and so on. The narrative arc of the film then jettisons everything that is incredible and terrifying about the octopus, landing instead on the creature’s resilience. After losing a leg in an attack by a shark, Foster’s octopus “teacher” nurses herself back to health and ultimately gives birth to many baby octopuses. Foster is so moved by her tenacity that he founds an environmentally focused NGO. He waxes lyrical about how the octopus taught him to be a better person, a better husband, and a better father. His unmediated, “free” dives into the ocean, in other words, ultimately lead to his personal redemption.[iv]

    The backdrop of the film—which is never addressed, or even really hinted at—is the settler colonial context of contemporary South Africa. Anyone who has ever been to the region of South Africa in which the film takes place will know that it is hardly postcolonial, or even neocolonial, but rather looks like an actual, full-blown European colony from some previous era. The wealth gap is staggering: Whites own almost all the extremely expensive beachfront property, while Black people are pushed to the vast shantytowns that sprawl on either side of the region’s highways. None of this is visible in My Octopus Teacher. The film ends with Foster and his son diving into the ocean in the octopus-protected area outside their glamorous home. This is the idyllic landscape of a white heteropatriarchal nightmare. What then, did Foster learn from his octopus teacher other than white middle-class family values—don’t work too hard, spend time with your kids, and so on—values that affirm and enshrine every form of oppressive normativity on offer in the twenty-first century?

    It’s worth noting that at one point in the film Foster attributes his understanding of “Nature” to previous work with San animal trackers—as depicted, for example, in his film The Great Dance: A Hunter’s Story (2000). This is perhaps the only moment in the film where Foster opens an opportunity to examine his relationship to Africa, but the moment is short-lived, and the region of the Cape where My Octopus Teacher is filmed is presented as if unpeopled. If indeed Foster learned how to learn from an octopus from a San hunter, then “learning from” is a double gesture in the film. But in neither instance does Foster see these lessons as ways of helping him become someone other than who he already is. (Or if he becomes something else, it is just a more relaxed, more successful version of his former self.) This is not a case, in other words, of “becoming octopus,” or, to use Antjie Krog’s perspicacious phrase, of white South Africans dealing with their colonial history by “begging to be Black.”[v]

    Two months after the release of My Octopus Teacher, Alexis Pauline Gumbs published Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals. On the face of it, the two cultural products have a lot in common, and indeed they both concern what we, as humans, can learn from the beings with whom we share the earth. But, in my view, Gumbs’ book is everything that Foster’s film is not. For, unlike Foster, Gumbs invites us to unlearn rather than shore up middle-class, white capitalist values. She invites us to think and feel otherwise.

    In recent years, “learning from…” has proliferated as a way of combatting ecological and social crises. In many cases, the results are underwhelming, or even quite problematic, as was the case, for example, with the 2017 Documenta exhibition, which had the title “Learning from the South” (and which resulted, in the view of many, at least, in wealthy German art dealers landing in Athens during a moment of political turmoil and acting entirely irresponsibly—in other words, they learned nothing at all). “Learning from…” is often a hazardous exercise, especially in cases where a person or institution from a position of power claims to learn something from a vulnerable “other,” and especially in cases where the person or institution claiming to learn something, or claiming to want to learn something, can inflict suffering on the thing from which it claims to want to learn. (My Octopus Teacher is a textbook problematic example.) Gumbs’ book, which has the subtitle Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals, faces exactly this political and ethical challenge. But she largely (perhaps entirely) avoids the pitfalls that others fall into, and this review presents some thoughts on how and why.

    Gumbs is an idiosyncratic writer. Steeped in traditions of Black feminism,[vi] she works adjacent to but not fully within academia. This book, too, is at once intellectually challenging and rigorous, but also accessible to non-academics and especially to activists and teachers of all varieties (high school teachers and students will likely get much from this book as well). Perhaps most urgently, the book does something that animal studies often fails to, namely, make the connection between forms of animal and human oppression[vii]—in this sense, it is important to Gumbs that we share a world, and not only a physical planet with dolphins, walruses, and seals. The book begins with a powerful preface in which Gumbs introduces the concept of undrowning by marking the ocean as a tremendous space of death and survival for Black people on both sides of the Atlantic. The opposite of drowning, of course, is breath, and breath is a major concern of this book, of Gumbs’ other work,[viii] and, of course, of much recent Black critical thought and activism. Nothing can substitute for Gumbs’ own words:

    I am saying that those who survived in the underbellies of boats, under each other under unbreathable circumstances are the undrowned, and their breathing is not separate from the drowning of their kin and fellow captives, their breathing is not separate from the breathing of the ocean,[ix] their breathing is not separate from the sharp exhale of hunted whales, their kindred also. Their breathing did not make them individual survivors. It made a context. The context of undrowning. Breathing in unbreathable circumstances is what we do every day in the chokehold of racial gendered ableist capitalism. We are still undrowning. (pp. 1-2)

    Like other contemporary theorists, Gumbs thinks about breath as both an essential biological function (one that depends upon delicate ecosystems), and in terms of what Achille Mbembe recently described as “breathing beyond its purely biological aspect, and instead as that which we hold in-common, that which, by definition, eludes all calculation.”[x] In this sense, I am reminded, too, of Frank Wilderson’s comment, made in the conclusion to his “unflinching paradigmatic analysis” in Red, White, & Black, that looking anti-Black violence directly in the face means refraining from offering a “roadmap so extensive it would free us from the epistemic air we breathe. To say that we must be free of air, while admitting to knowing no other source of breath, is what I have tried to do here.”[xi] Undrowned, too, is about epistemic air—and real air, which all mammals depend on for their (and our) survival. Theorizing these two registers of air together is a central preoccupation of the book. And if Undrowned also refrains from providing a roadmap to some time-space beyond the extreme violence of the present and ongoing “environment,” it does offer many subtle forms of intervention. In other words, this is not a utopian book that directly presents or “imagines” a world beyond the paradigm of anti-Blackness, an imagining that may be strictly speaking impossible.[xii] Rather, the book acts as a forceful and urgent critique of “racial gendered ableist capitalism” as a constellation that holds the world together in a murderous, suffocating embrace.

    A particularly compelling aspect of Gumbs’ work is how widely stimulating it is for fields outside of its direct purview. To provide just one example: by beginning from a totally different perspective to most environmental historians, Gumbs offers new and trenchant insights on the topic of whale song. (This is a topic of particular interest to me as a musicologist.) The conventional narrative has it that song played an important role in “saving” the whales. It is true that several species of whale were well on their way to extinction before Roger Payne and Scott McVay discovered whale song, or rather, before Payne and McVay taught the American public to hear whale phonation as song. Despite the protestations and cringing of long-time marine mammal researchers, when it came time to make a case against the whaling industry, the gentle bellowing of a single male humpback some two thousand meters below the ocean surface proved far more effective than careful argumentation. Payne produced the recording Songs of the Humpback Whale in 1970, and together with McVay published the groundbreaking article “Songs of Humpback Whales” the following year.[xiii] When NASA opted to include an excerpt of whale song on the famous Voyager album that was sent into space, the president of the National Geographic Society, Gilbert Grosvenor, declared that “the whale has become a way of thinking about our planet and its creatures.”[xiv] Looking back on that period, scientist and whale song researcher Katharine Payne made this point explicitly: “There was a burst of realization that the world could change its relation to wildlife. The reaction people had to hearing these sounds made whaling obsolete!”[xv]

    There is certainly some truth to this narrative, but Gumbs asks us to put pressure on aspects that many have accepted too easily. In an earlier book, written in a more experimental and poetic style (sometimes coming close, I think, to spoken word poetry or “toasting”), she writes:

    between you and me, we knew it would never work. just because the singing of the whales had caused bumper stickers and rallies and international bans on their murder and the criminalization of the exploding harpoon (you know. that thing that got under their skin and destroyed them from the inside) didn’t mean it would work for us. i mean how long had we, black women, been singing.

    when they decided the whale was an intelligent creature, nuanced, descriptive, they decided that the people who killed them were greedy, were savage, were less evolved. isn’t that interesting. the same people who forced the whaling indigenous into sale instead of ceremony now spoke of evolution. spoke of the humane and didn’t choke. this is why we didn’t have much hope. our intelligence and the multiple forms of proof required did not inspire the world to disentangle its hooks from our looks and our attitude.

    we assert that it was not the song of the whales that saved them. if singing could save we’d be god. it was the fact of other sources of oil to move into, other deep black resources to extract. it was a fact. they could only save the whales once they knew they didn’t need them. it was a simple as that. and they haven’t found a way yet to say it. their needles in our skin, targeting us where we breathe. which is everyone we love. trapping us below and yet detracting us above. chasing us across oceans. they risk their very souls. they know it though. they need us more than gold.[xvi]

    For Gumbs, then, the question of marine mammals and “us” is primarily one of value, of who and what matters enough to be secured within a political community in any given moment. Gumbs doubts that the success of the anti-whaling movement can be attributable to the discovery of whale song. She suggests, moreover, that the continued ensnarement of, and infliction of pain upon, Black women—despite the vaunted musical capacities of successive generations of Black women singers—may well be attributable to the fact that white supremacy depends on the survival and suffering of Black women for its continued existence.[xvii] This kind of critique compels a serious reevaluation of much marine environmental history. And later in this review I will comment in greater detail about her extended analysis of whale song in Undrowned.

    It’s also possible to read Gumbs on a more general level, and in a way that connects directly to my own ongoing work.[xviii] In that work, I am interested in how the current political moment follows on the heels of what several writers, most notably Freud, have understood as progressive assaults on human narcissism. The first assault, argued Freud, was the Copernican revolution, which displaced Man from his position at the center of the cosmos. Second was the Darwinian revolution, which placed the human firmly in the domain of the biological animal. The third blow is more controversial; Freud names the blow of psychoanalysis, which decentered consciousness.[xix] Donna Haraway raises an eyebrow at Freud’s claim regarding the third blow but seems to concede the point. She postulates a fourth moment, namely the decentering of the human through technology, including, but not limited to cyborgic manifestations.[xx] Personally, I am not persuaded by Freud’s third periodization (the displacement of consciousness by the unconscious seems, to me, categorically different to the planetary and biological revolutions), nor am I persuaded by Haraway’s fourth (I would argue that the evolution of humanity, starting at least a quarter of a million years ago, has been thoroughly technologically constituted).

    Rather, the most recent paradigm shift seems to be one of value. Until the twenty-first century, all forms of (Western) misanthropy were paradoxically and essentially optimistic. From Molière to Jonathan Swift, misanthropy has been the critique of particular societies with the implicit assumption that we, as humans, can be better. The twenty-first century is different. For the first and only time in history, many people are resolutely misanthropic: a misanthropy without redemption.[xxi] This new, full-blown misanthropy takes many forms and seems to have no political compass; it is as prevalent on the political Left as it is on the Right, where eco-fascism is a major if not dominant stream. Today, many people feel and openly express that the world would be a better place without humans. And in this light, it is possible to argue that the third major blow to human narcissism is a question of humanity’s “right” to a place on Earth.

    Consider, for example, and by contrast, that Johannes Kepler remained certain about the ontological centrality of humanity, despite his famous contributions to post-Copernican science.[xxii] Nearly three centuries later, Alfred Russell Wallace (to whom the theory of natural selection is often attributed along with Darwin) continued to espouse the ontological centrality of the human even in the scientific paradigm of natural selection.[xxiii] The twenty-first century, by contrast, marks a moment in which even those certain of humanity’s “intellectual” superiority (and sometimes, in fact, because of it) doubt its ontological centrality as well as its value, and question whether the human deserves to survive as a species.

    Although not stated in these terms, I read Gumbs’ book as a response to a world in which humanity’s stunning scientific and technological achievements are often dislocated from or even at odds with values. Fully recognizing the scale of destruction, Gumbs places emphasis not on the human qua species, but on structures (capitalism, the afterlives of slavery, and oppressive gender structures are key in her account). From that perspective, she uncovers what is profound about marine mammal life in terms of social arrangement, reproduction, and the way that various animals dwell in complexly entangled ecosystems. The wonder of nature is to be found in how different body plans and forms of relation coevolved with each other in ingenious ways. It makes sense that we who struggle with the fact of having bodies, we who struggle with elementary forms of being in common, might stand to learn something from animals who have been around for a lot longer than we have, and who have survived even in the face of our destructive tendencies. Bearing this in mind, it’s also possible to situate the book within a growing theoretical movement that understands the ocean not simply as a body of water “between” continents—as some kind of blank slate—but rather as a richly populated living system, and one long entangled with the traffic of goods, animals, and people.[xxiv]

    Gumbs describes her book as a “guide,” writing that “this guide to undrowning listens to marine mammals specifically as a form of life that has much to teach us about the vulnerability, collaboration, and adaptation we need in order to be with change at this time, especially since one of the major changes we are living through, causing, and shaping in this climate crisis is the rising of the ocean” (p. 7). Gumbs does not view her work as a critique of science, and she uses what we have learned from scientists about marine mammals to pursue a form of “apprenticeship” (p. 9). But she does foreground a few aspects of scientific knowledge production that critical readers would do well to pay attention to.

    To provide one set of examples: Gumbs notes throughout the book that marine mammal science is plagued by lacunae. This is fine as it goes, but scientists frequently rush to explanations in the absence of grounding or proof. For instance, attracting mates of the opposite sex is a default explanation for many as yet unexplained behaviors. About this, Gumbs writes: “Scientists make their own fictions. They say that the sound [of seals] is about mating, but [the male seal] doesn’t even mate until his life is half over” (p. 78). Or consider: “Walruses of any sex assignment can have tusks as long as a meter. The dominant theory is that the main use of these tusks is male struggles for dominance. But I am not convinced. Especially since tusks are not sex specific. And walruses regularly use their extended front teeth performing miracles, by pulling their up to 4,200 pound bodies onto ice” (p. 155). In a manner redolent of the Deleuze and Guattari of Capitalism and Schizophrenia—that two-part book which explodes the Freudian patriarchal structure in favor of wolf packs, rodent affinities, and so on—Gumbs’ displacement of simplistic scientistic explanations opens space for understanding wondrous animal maneuvers.

    A second aspect of scientific inquiry that Gumbs responds to throughout the book is the will to knowledge. She emphasizes the reasons that some marine mammals are much better known than others. For instance, why do we know so much about the humpback whale? Gumbs suggests: “One thing that helps, when those who are studying you are capitalists, is that humpback whales are easy to identify as individuals because of the markings on their tails” (p. 71). On the other hand, many aspects about walruses are little known (hence the shoddy interpretation about their tremendous tusks). Walrus breeding patterns in particular have been little documented because of the difficulty accessing their living environs (which allows scientists to dubiously attribute whatever they want to walruses’ sexual practices).  And yet, the warming of the polar ice caps makes these creatures easier to study, to know, and to bring into our orbit.  For all of these reasons, Gumbs affirms those unknown, or only partly known creatures, those who have succeeded, against all odds, to at least partially avoid surveillance, capture, experimentation, torture, and death.

    Undrowned, importantly, is not written in the kind of sentimental, fable-like manner of My Octopus Teacher, whose message is essentially “the octopus is resilient, and we should be, too.” To my own eyes and ears, the most trenchant and moving moments of the Undrowned are those where Gumbs moves between marine mammals and us in a somewhat elliptical manner that requires something of a stretch, a bit of mental gymnastics to fully appreciate. Returning, for example, to the seal—after providing a reason for why we should doubt the reductionist explanation of seal sounds, she writes: “They say it must be about [mating and] territory. But there is no one here but you. And us. Spread out across the whole bottom of Earth” (p. 78).  At such moments, the observation of a seal acts as a critique of scientific positivism, but also opens out onto a politics of the commons. In contrasting “there is no one here but you” with “and us… spread across…the Earth,” we sense Gumbs’ tenderness in writing to and for these animals, whose lives we are spatially disconnected from yet radically in contact with.

    Such moments give value to aspects of marine life that are not intelligible to those working with the grammar of crass optimalization. Consider, for example, that a 2016 report on the relatively frequent practice of adoptive parenting among marine mammals ends in bewilderment. The authors of the report puzzle over the “costly” caregiving activities of Indo-Pacific dolphins, especially their frequent “allomaternal behavior” (what in human terms would be called adoption or foster parenting); the authors conclude that it is “unclear why an animal would invest its resources in this manner” (pp. 161-2).[xxv] For Gumbs, who has long been interested in practices of nonbiological, revolutionary mothering, such reasoning is myopic at best.[xxvi] “Who has not been mothered by someone genetically and socially distant from your birth situation, at some necessary time?” she asks.  “And if you have ever shared something, taught someone, shared responsibility for someone’s wellness for even a part of their journey, how would you measure what you gained from that potentially ‘costly behavior?’ We call it love” (p. 162).

    Love is a leitmotif in Undrowned. Returning to the question of whale song (that, I admit, initially drew me to Gumbs’ work), she asks what happens when we think of other creatures “beyond the characteristics [singing, for example] most palatable to predatory ‘allies’” (p. 71). What happens, Gumbs queries, after we—and here the “we” shifts ambiguously to Black women, but also to any being at some point deemed intellectually inferior in the eyes of racial gendered ableist capitalism—what happens “after we finish proving we are smart and capable of feeling to those who somehow think that it is wise to boil the world…?” (ibid.). These kinds of pronoun shifts act as forms of identification and are placed strategically throughout the book. Addressing the humpback whale directly, she writes: “I love the parts of you that no one thinks are particularly special. I love the basic you of you unmarketable and everyday. I love to be around you because the round around you thrills me. And let’s get together again soon” (ibid.).

    While never explicitly suggested by its author, Undrowned is a book almost crying out to be read aloud. The book is very much about breath, certainly, but the way the text unfolds across the page also seems to couple with breath, that is, with the corporeal rhythm of the voice. That this is the case should not be surprising, especially considering that Gumbs is a renowned orator as well as writer, whose work is in perennial dialogue with Black Southern spiritual practices and Caribbean oral performance traditions (the latter is most clearly articulated in her 2020 book, Dub). In this sense, it would be interesting to think about Gumbs’ work in relation to other histories of poetics, as well—for, example Charles Olson’s landmark “Projective Verse” (1950) manifesto, in which he advocates breath (rather than meter or rhyme, for example) as the structuring element of poetry. Gumbs would certainly be open to such relations, as she is to creative, performance-based versions of her work.[xxvii]

    Very much in this spirit, Undrowned ends with a series of activities cultivating approaches to life based on sustainable forms of living and being together. From guided listening and American Sign Language (ASL) activities, to breathing and memory strategies based on insights garnered from the author’s “apprenticeship” with marine mammals, the final chapter of the book offers exercises that would be wonderful to perform in various settings, including, but not limited to, the college classroom. The exercises are redolent of those found in Tutorial Diversions (Bill Dietz), Sonic Meditations (Pauline Oliveros), Contra-Sexual Manifesto (Paul B. Preciado), Perceptual Education Tools (Ben Patterson), and Artificial Life (Maryanne Amacher): all of these texts, like Undrowned, can be used as guides for profound intervention into the quotidian. Refreshingly, Gumbs shows little interest in either advanced scuba-diving or the romance of free diving. Literally going into the water to meet the animals she writes about is beside the point, or even somewhat contrary to her aims. She is acutely aware of the resources required for direct interaction (think of Foster and his ocean-front property), the grotesqueness of animal captivity at places like Sea World (which she writes about brilliantly), and—while she does not address it explicitly—the proximity of much scientific experimentation to torture (I think of recent experiments trying to determine whether certain animals feel pain by maiming and dismembering them). All of the activities in the final chapter of Undrowned can take place in simple settings, and many are easily doable in the COVID era of social distancing and online interaction. Marine mammals are not mere metaphors in the work of Alexis Pauline Gumbs. But to honor, and indeed, to love dolphins, seals, whales, and walruses, does not mean touching them, experiencing them, or knowing them in their every detail. On the contrary, recognizing our “individual bond with life” (Mbembe) means a careful consideration of when and how to care and know.

    Compassionate, inventive, and politically astute, Undrowned offers a new kind of critical praxis equal to the complexities of our time.

    I am grateful to Helen H.Y. Kim and Roger Mathew Grant for first talking this review through with me and encouraging me to write it. Many thanks also to Arne De Boever and Paul Bové for thoughtful feedback on the piece.

    Gavin Steingo is a South African musicologist and composer. He currently teaches at Princeton University.

    [i] For what it is worth, the film recently won an Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature.

    [ii] Flusser’s book on precisely this topic remains a compelling read. See Vilém Flusser, Vampyroteuthis Infernalis: A Treatise, with a Report by the Institut Scientifique de Recherche Paranaturaliste, translated by Valentine A. Pakis (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012); originally published in 1987.

    [iii] As I write this, the cuttlefish (a relative of the octopus) passed a version of the “marshmallow test,” which supposedly proves the animal’s ability to delay gratification, that is, to exert deliberate self-control. See Alexandra K. Schnell, Markus Boeckle, Micaela Rivera, Nicola S. Clayton, and Roger T. Hanlon, “Cuttlefish Exert Self-Control in a Delay of Gratification Task,” Proceedings of the Royal Society B, 288(2021): 2882020316120203161. On octopus intelligence more generally, see Peter Godfrey-Smith, Other Minds: The Octopus, the Sea, and the Deep Origins of Consciousness (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2016).

    [iv] It is interesting to ponder which of the two registers led to its being awarded an Oscar.

    [v] See Krog, Begging to be Black (Cape Town: Struik, 2009).

    [vi] Prior to Undrowned, Gumbs penned a theoretical-poetic trilogy for Duke University Press, with each book in the trilogy serving as a direct, if somewhat elliptical, engagement with a single writer: Spill: Scenes of Black Feminist Fugitivity (Durham: Duke University Press, 2017)—Hortense Spillers; M Archive: After the End of the World (Durham: Duke University Press, 2018)—M. Jacqui Alexander; Dub: Finding Ceremony (Durham: Duke University Press, 2020)—Sylvia Wynter.

    [vii] This is perhaps too reductive a way to say it, since of course much important work at this very intersection exists. Of particular note is the work of Colin Dayan; see, for example, The Law is a White Dog: How Legal Rituals Make and Unmake Persons (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017).

    [viii] I think especially of M Archive, although Dub is also relevant in this regard.

    [ix] This is not meant metaphorically; as she writes elsewhere in the book: “Researchers say, if whales returned to their pre-commercial whaling numbers, their gigantic breathing would store as much carbon as 110,000 hectares of forest, or forest the size of Rocky Mountain National Park.” See Undrowned, p. 24.

    [x] Achille Mbembe, “The Universal Right to Breathe,” In the Moment, 13 April, 2020, https://critinq.wordpress.com/2020/04/13/the-universal-right-to-breathe/

    [xii] On the topic of utopian thinking in relation to Blackness, see Linette Park’s recent and excellent, “Fantasies of Utopia: On the Property of Black Suffering (Review of Alex Zamalin’s Black Utopia: The History of an Idea from Black Nationalism to Afrofuturism),” boundary 2 review, 25 March, 2021, https://www.boundary2.org/2021/03/linette-park-fantasies-of-utopia-on-the-property-of-black-suffering-review-of-alex-zamalins-black-utopia-the-history-of-an-idea-from-black-nationalism-to-afrofuturism/

    [xiii] Roger S. Payne and Scott McVay, “Songs of Humpback Whales,” Science 173.3997(1971): 585-597.

    [xiv] As quoted in D. Graham Burnett, Sounding of the Whale: Science and Cetaceans in the Twentieth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press), p. 530.

    [xv] As quoted in Thousand Mile Song: Whale Music in a Sea of Sound (New York: Basic Books, 2008), p. 45.

    [xvi] Dub: Finding Ceremony (Durham: Duke University Press, 2020), p. 18.

    [xvii] Frank Wilderson has made this exact argument with crushing rigor in a number of publications, including, most recently, Afropessimism (New York: Liveright Publishing, 2020).

    [xviii] I am at work on a book tentatively titled, Splendid Universe: Music and Interspecies Communication.

    [xix] See Sigmund Freud, A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis, translated by Joan Riviere (New York: Permabooks, 1958).

    [xx] Donna Haraway, When Species Meet (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2007).

    [xxi] Examples of this new misanthropy range from a popular T-shirt design that states, “Dogs: Because People Suck,” to the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement which proposes that, “Phasing out the human race by voluntarily ceasing to breed will allow Earth’s biosphere to return to good health” (http://www.vhemt.org/, accessed on July 24, 2019). The form of misanthropy I refer to is indeed unprecedented, as a recent and very useful book by Andrew Gibson (Misanthropy: The Critique of Humanity [London: Bloomsbury, 2017]) confirms.

    [xxii] On Kepler, see Michael J. Crowe, The Extraterrestrial Life Debate, 1750-1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986). Copernicus seems not to have interested himself much with these kinds of metaphysical questions.

    [xxiii] Wallace states this explicitly in several places, for example, in Darwinism (London: Macmillan, 1889). On this aspect of Wallace’s thinking, see Steven J. Dick, The Biological Universe: The Twentieth Century Extraterrestrial Life Debate and the Limits of Science (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999).

    [xxiv] See, for example, Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being (Durham: Duke University Press, 2016); and a personal favorite: Jessica Schwartz, “How the Sea is Sounded: Remapping Indigenous Soundings in the Marshallese Diaspora,” in Remapping Sound Studies, edited by Gavin Steingo and Jim Sykes, (Durham: Duke University Press, 2019), 77-105. Of course, there is a precedent to the recent explosion of literature on this topic, such as Marcus Rediker’s pioneering work. See, for example, his early Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: Merchant Seamen, Pirates, and the Anglo-American Maritime World, 1700-1750 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1989).

    [xxv] M. Sakai, Y. Kita, K. Kogi, et al., “A Wild Indo-Pacific Bottlenose Dolphin Adopts a Socially and Genetically Distant Neonate,” Scientific Reports 6(2016), https://www.nature.com/articles/srep23902; as cited in Undrowned, pp. pp. 161-2, footnote 50.

    [xxvi] See Revolutionary Mothering: Love on the Front Lines, edited by Alexis Pauline Gumbs, China Martens, and Mai’a Williams (Oakland, CA: PM Press, 2016).

    [xxvii] The fact that readers often respond to Gumbs’ work in creative ways (by making “dance works, installation work, paintings, processionals, divination practices, operas, quilts and more”) is a major point of pride, and one that she mentions often. The quoted list of creative responses in parentheses here is from her website: https://www.alexispauline.com/about. See also Undrowned, pp. 6-7.

     

  • Linette Park — Fantasies of Utopia: On the Property of Black Suffering (Review of Alex Zamalin’s Black Utopia: The History of an Idea from Black Nationalism to Afrofuturism)

    Linette Park — Fantasies of Utopia: On the Property of Black Suffering (Review of Alex Zamalin’s Black Utopia: The History of an Idea from Black Nationalism to Afrofuturism)

    This review has been peer-reviewed by the b2o editorial board.

    Review of Alex Zamalin, Black Utopia: The History of an Idea from Black Nationalism to Afrofuturism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2018)

    by Linette Park

    Split between the injuries of the past and the possibilities of the future, black political thought has always emerged from inequalities of power that avow a property of suffering. Whether this suffering is conceived in relation to the systematic and repressive forces of the nation-state that fortify structural inequality, or in relation to the limits of the reason and laws of the state, the split between the terms of the past and the contours of the future has led black political thought to scrutinize the ineffable conditions that allow black suffering in the name of the political. The notion of the political has held up well, presenting a mirage of politics that hinges on a structure of anti-blackness. This structure of anti-blackness is most sharply indexed by the unprecedented intensification of black murder at the hands of law enforcement and the growing carceral archipelago in the United States and globally.

    On this score, the property and conditions of black suffering in the United States in relation to Western political thought have rightly, in the words of Saidiya Hartman and Frank B. Wilderson III, remained fundamentally unthought.[i] Black suffering, in other words, remains absent in the theorization of the political in spite of the monumental history of racial slavery’s violence, which gives rise to the political, social, and economic orders of modernity in the Americas and the relations that conceive them. More simply put, such an absence constitutes and sustains the relation between political thought and possibility. In the face of deep-seated insecurities (and an even deeper and axiomatic incommensurability of anti-blackness in Western political thought), Black Studies, to this ever unfolding (and enfolding) split, has engaged with questions of the imagination, freedom and rights, sovereignty, and matter(ing) of black life. In this broadest sense, black political thought—whether it be formulated via Afro-pessimism, Black optimism, or Afro-futurism or by taking up their internal theoretical differentiations—is necessarily critical of the political and the conditioning of thought that avers the plural and intersubjective character of political formations all whilst excluding the question of blackness. Positing these varying movements of thought just now is not to say that they are all one and the same. For, indeed, the debates at the fore of Black Studies—the political movements and praxes of black thought—are contiguous in their critiques and take form on different sides of this constellation.[ii] The intellectual history of black political thought binds invention to the ontological question of blackness, which is dispositioned as a disinheritance from civil society.[iii] For slavery always preceded (and inadvertently enabled) “the empty space of power” in which people could lay claim to the possibility and property of the commons.[iv] Within this history, the turn to hope has been figured as probability, object of critique, and course of action with utopia as its horizon.[v]

    Alex Zamalin’s Black Utopia: The History of an Idea from Black Nationalism to Afrofuturism is in high pursuit of utopia as a horizon for political thought, with fantasies of its possibilities as its engine. In the book, Zamalin, author and scholar of several books on political thought and African American freedom struggle in the US, confronts the split between past injuries and future possibilities. At the outset of the book, he writes:

    Utopia’s landscapes are unfamiliar because they bring into life familiar fantasies. Utopia is like religion not because of the dogmatic theology or secular truths it postulates, but because it conjures powerful, irrepressible, sometimes ecstatic feelings: of salvation, of being at home in the world, and of reconciliation with strife. For this reason, utopia is as fruitful a site from which to test the value of our extant political formulations as it is a horizon toward which we might look to improve our lives (6).

    Zamalin premises Black Utopia on this feeling of hope driven by the familiarity of fantasy through which, accordingly, a transcendent culture and politics emerge in spite of the subjugation of black life in the long and present history of enslavement and imprisonment. Alluding to the iconography of Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, and Martin Luther King Jr., Zamalin is the first to point out that such a trajectory of hope and utopia has been evident in African American political thought, yet nonetheless he puts forth the concept of utopia as the neglected site in the American cultural and political imagination. For Zamalin, something is lost in contemporary American political thought—and utopia, as conceived in Black Utopia, is able to retrieve this loss while also advancing its way forward in the African American political and literary tradition and its praxis. In this schema, however, one might argue that black utopia can only spring from a recuperative gesture which has been internal and external to, which is also to say that it does not depart different from, the liberal repressive mechanisms of the nation-state that perpetuate the structural and systematic exclusion of black life in civil society and politics in the US. Zamalin submits that the methodological approach to the book is not “analytical” but “more concerned with politics” in its excavation of black utopia as an untheorized site for political thought (17). He writes, “Black Utopia’s intellectual ambition is to texture and restore its proper place a neglected site of the black American political and cultural imagination; and it is to offer a critical interpretation of the idea of utopia” (18). Further, Zamalin claims that the goal of the book is “as much to understand the boundaries of the black political and cultural imagination as it is to see what lessons it has for contemporary political life. It is to assess which elements of black utopian and antiutopian thought ought to be reclaimed or abandoned” (18, emphasis added).

    Zamalin’s invitation to center the black American political and cultural thought to the center is admirable and reflects his own sustained commitment to the multiplicity within African American literary and political traditions over the years. Yet, because Zamalin separates the “analytical” from “the political”—the structural from the theoretical field and the terms within it which mark an absence and assume the demand to be reclaimed or abandoned—utopia, too, becomes both an ambiguous yet ostensibly malleable concept for Zamalin that allows for a recuperative reading of and for politics. With this, both black utopic and dystopic thought—which appear interchangeable at times in the book—and the boundaries of their imagination, gesture to a politics and ethics that have yet to be realized in the political present but, nonetheless, can be retrieved from black utopic thought. Hope becomes the operative tour de force to acquiesce an (un)imagined and unattained politics that has yet to arrive. But what remains unclear: if “utopia” is as fungible as it is imagined to be restorative for politics, why black utopic and dystopic thought? Why not simply black thought as a meditation on the movement of thinking and imagination that remains veiled in the common political and theoretical fields and in what is proper to politics?

    To posit the landscapes of utopia as “unfamiliar,” given their capacity to “bring into life familiar fantasies,” Zamalin designates a particular model of politics and an intrusive mode of enjoyment (disguised as fantasy) as the decisive representations of hope. I would argue, however, that the question as concerns black political thought—what and how it may throw light on contemporary political life—lies not in the exceptional space of fantasy, but rather in the exceptional place in fantasy where the most burdened and buried components of the imaginary reside and are illicit from the conditions of hope. To centralize the space of fantasy as the possible site of liberation for and of black politics sets up a mechanism through which a politics can be reclaimed over and over again while eliding the ethical and structural problematic of how blackness occupies a position in the American psyche and has yet to be truly liberated. This reclaiming is neither politics nor political, but is an insistence on a method of finding a representative of black political thought that represses the originality of a resistance within that which is unnamable in the symbolic practices and politics of culture.[vi] What underlies Zamalin’s book is a structural problematic: how is the imagination of the free black in a post-emancipation context conceived and re-inscribed through language at the level of imagination and collective fantasy? In other words, whose fantasy of utopia is this and whom is it for? The reinscription of the black imagination as a politics—full stop—and the reading of that imagination as reducible to fantasy would seem to disavow the privilege in reading and rewriting the other’s dreams of freedom as an emancipatory world. This might be evident in Zamalin’s use of the phrase “utopia in black” as interchangeable with “black utopia” throughout the book.[vii] Indeed, the book never articulates this important distinction between whose fantasy it is and who is subject to it. Such a distinction would not only provide a reorientation that gives view to a horizon of utopia undercut and projected by an imagined “we,” but it also would signal more explicitly how the configurations of fantasy at the expense of blackness authorize the subjects of political thought—utopic or otherwise.

    Zamalin’s Black Utopia ambitiously draws an intellectual and literary history of utopia and dystopia in African American cultural production, focusing on particular works by Martin Delany, W.E.B. Du Bois, George Schuyler, Richard Wright, Sun Ra, Samuel Delaney, Octavia Butler, and others. Reading this set of texts symptomatically as a restaging of the drama of and for hope, Zamalin attempts to substantiate his claim that the utopic image of hope offers a vision of “untapped possibilities already embedded within society—unconditional freedom, equality, interracial intimacy, solidarity, and social democracy” (10). These symptomatic readings  perform a structure of “affirming the affirmation…of utopia,”[viii] and in doing so, they bypass the question of how these very terms—freedom, equality, interracial intimacy, solidarity, democracy—scaffold the illusions of political promise without interrogating the grammar of the political itself or the radical site of difference in which black aesthetics has been constituted. In this sense, Zamalin’s discussion throughout the book of the sight of black cultural production as an interventional force relies on utopia as a primary conceptual device to marshal the explanatory power of black inequality in the history of politics and the societal makeup of anti-blackness. Utopia is a placeholder; conceptually, as Zamalin figures it, it functions to suspend the struggle that calls it forth as a space.

    Zamalin traces the utopic characteristics of the “black radical imagination”—a concept he positions in conversation with major African American scholars, notably Robin D.G. Kelley, author of Freedom Dreams: The Black Radical Imagination, and Cedric Robinson, author of Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition—through a selection of African American texts. While he acknowledges in his footnotes the contributions made by scholars such as Kelley and Robinson to the history of black radicalism, he ultimately claims that his exploration departs from this history, in which Kelley and Robinson “consider the links between class and race.” Instead, Black Utopia intends to focus on a “vision of utopia within black communities” that is “left open-ended and not specified” in the vein of Marx (148). Following this view, Zamalin’s “utopia in black” might be better understood as appropriating utopia with and within representations of blackness and as pursuing a selective reading of German idealism and French philosophy. This gesture contains a contradiction that undergirds Zamalin’s desire for visions of black utopic thought “on its own terms” that could also be productive for Western political thought. While for Zamalin the ostensibly utopic (and dystopic) ruptures signal a teleology for theorizing the political, black political thinkers and black feminists have long asked about the very viability of a teleological turn which, in turn, has reflected on the conditions and terms that a black radical tradition may signify.[ix]

    Let us turn to his reading of Martin Robison Delany, which commences the book. For Zamalin, Delany, an African American abolitionist and emigrationist, is emblematic of “[extending] to black citizens a vision missing from the nineteenth-century utopian communitarian energy being spread throughout the United States” (21). Accordingly, Zamalin writes about Delany: “his work imagined what history couldn’t: black liberation on black terms” allowing for “Black escape to a new world was the first idea of black utopia” (21). Centralizing Delany’s fictional work, Blake; or the Huts of America (1859), rather than his previous substantive work, The Condition, Elevation, Emigration, and Destiny of the Colored People of the United States (1852), Zamalin takes great interest in the ways in which Delany offers “a story” about race, interracial intimacy, black citizenship, and sovereignty at the height of the long nineteenth century. With Delany’s fiction, “race became a story that required a beginning, middle, and end” (31). While, as Zamalin makes clear, the often contradictory views on race and politics staged by Delany set up an uneven gender politics, Zamalin distinguishes Delany as “nonetheless [providing] the very architecture for how to articulate a radical black imagination beyond the possible and to defend black utopia” (33). Even across contradictions, Zamalin maintains that Delany’s politics were utopic, turning “blackness into a force for resistance against arbitrary power” (25). As Zamalin writes, “Delany found equality, dignity, and freedom in black lives. He said no to white supremacy, exposed the drama of political contingency, and told of power’s vulnerability. This was the vision Delany modeled to inspire resistance to reach black utopia abroad. But it wasn’t extended to a defense of gender equality, popular rule, and economic freedom” (33). The utopic imperative here rests on the disavowal of a racialized gendered politics in several aspects: escape (into an imagined and pure homeland), what Zamalin describes as sovereign mind, and interracial desire—all read through the genre of fiction or story. These aspects are not fully interrogated yet are industrialized under and for the banner of utopia and this raises the question: can or is a politics, (or aesthetics) of utopia be compromised in relation to other registers of difference? This question returns us implicitly to our previous one: who is this fantasy for and who is authorizing this fantasy? If the above  are the objects of politics—escape to a pure homeland of Africa, sovereignty, interracial intimacy—why have these dimensions been legislated as prohibitions in the first instance and cast off as forbidden pleasures of freedom? This question echoes the problem of the relation between law and the renunciation of black desire theorized by David Marriott: “It is because [blackness] is deprived of being and forced to renounce desire that the black experiences the whiteness of the law in terms of what both allows and commands his rebellious servility.”[x] The inextricable relation between the whiteness of law and the renunciation of black desire that Marriott identifies raises questions about how to consider black self-governance in a utopia that has yet to come.  For Zamalin, the illusion of utopia that has yet to arrive requires politics to have a narrative arc that assumes racial self-governance as its vitalization or at the very least a form of agency. That said, a story of race that requires a teleology and an order to politics underscores precisely how black agency and desire are veiled and subordinated by the whiteness of law and its vision of race. Put otherwise, the story of race—the one “with a beginning, middle, and end”— reproduces the prohibition of black desire that Zamalin believes to be unveiled through utopia. The separation of issues of gender and sexuality from race, and the idea that they can be compromised in and for a utopic vision underscores the negation of black desire in this schema.

    In my reading of Zamalin, interracial relationships return as an object of politics and thus are the consolation of a pure politics of desire and a pure desire of politics—a perverse representation of how desire has been desexualized and deracialized in its articulation.[xi] In the third chapter, “W.E.B. Du Bois’s World of Utopian Intimacy,” Zamalin pursues the idea of interracial relationships further in his idea of a harmonious society of relationships. Following an attempt to recuperate a black feminist politics in the previous chapter, Zamalin finds promise in the respective visions of “an unknown postracist community” in Du Bois’s “The Comet,” Darkwater, and Dark Princess (53). According to Zamalin, Du Bois’s depictions of a postracist society stem from his ability to reverse practices such as dominant forms of knowledge production, namely that which finds value in scientific notions of racial hierarchy. However, Zamalin does not consider here the ways in which Du Bois explicitly questions race as a teleological concept in the making of the modern subject. In construing Du Bois’s own narrativization as a “postracist ethics,” Zamalin misses the nuance of Du Bois’s reformulation of narrative, which, as Nahum Chandler argues, provides a necessary and critical “desedimentation” of a “privileged orientation toward the very texts and historiographical subjects that are themselves the products of social hegemony.”[xii]  Instead, Zamalin finds a “postracist ethics” in Du Bois’s fictionalization of another world wherein there is a future of possibility outside of normative constructions that deem interracial intimacy as socially and morally objectionable. After attempting to translate Du Bois to critics who characterized his work as racial essentialism, Zamalin peculiarly endeavors to advance his claims of a “postracist ethics” by describing Du Bois’s approach to “[dismantling] knowledge based on utopian scientific rationality, that everything could be measured, known, tested, fully understood.” He writes about Du Bois: “Values instead came from the failure to fully recognize social meaning and, instead, a sensitivity to human expressiveness—the different gestures, tones of voice, and textures of speech—that provides cues for responding to an engaging with the person who appears before them” (53). Zamalin’s project of finding value in human expressiveness rather than questioning the signs of race that culture and politics prescribe, sets up in Du Bois’s work a utopian intimacy wherein “the suffering, pain, violence, and marginalization associated with ‘darkness’ are as apparent as the light—the reflection of beauty and resilience in the ocean of a reimagined blackness” (61, emphasis added). And yet, within this reflection, Zamalin cannot see how he mirrors a necessary reimagining of race that reinscribes the very problem at the heart of Du Bois’s work, the “problem of the color-line,” organized “around an axis of denial… with regard to the ensemble of practices and concept-metaphors organized around the sign of race.”[xiii] Chandler stresses this in his rigorous theoretical and archival account of Du Bois’s oeuvre, that “from the turn to the twentieth century Du Bois had already offered a narrativization of the formation of a new organization of hierarchy, a new global order, as ‘the problem’ of that century.”[xiv] The distinction between the concept of race and what organizes that concept is critical to understanding the remaining problem of the color-line.

    For the achievement of utopian intimacy and postracial ethics then, one must shed both sexuality and race from the very nature of difference—an onto-political rupture in and of itself. To be clear, this exfoliation engenders a postracial politics premised on barring the intermingling of sexuality and race. Zamalin’s suspension of the ontological via this separation allows for the reimagining not only of a harmonious society but of blackness as something other than one’s own being. Zamalin does not explore these ontological distinctions, or the debates raised within Black Studies about the status of blackness and being. Rather, he moves away from the problematization of what constitutes racial distinction at a crucial point in his argument in order to imagine the parameters of a new ethics. In this move, he elides the issues of deracination and the tendency of blackness to be exploited by politics and the political. And while Zamalin’s objectives may not concern the current debates around ontology and blackness, Black Utopia’s endeavors to conceptualize the current status and state of the field of black political thought would benefit from these discussions that emphasize that blackness can neither be reduced to identity nor politics. That is to say, these critical discussions signal that blackness is more than identity and politics and elicits an inhabitation for political thought in its multiplicity and without term.[xv]

    In Black Utopia, the most utopic form of intimacy is imagined to coalesce around an antagonism between race and sexuality rather than to seek out the incommensurable conflict between anti-blackness and civil society, which projects a necessary segregation between differences (of race, gender, and sexuality). Zamalin reimagines blackness in the light of the “darkness,” failing to see the violence that accompanies segregating a miscegenation of desire. In doing so, he unwittingly allows for the disposability of blackness itself, along with the queering of gender and sexuality, and stages (white) desire in an even more particular (hetero)normative way. Utopic intimacy performs a transgression against the myth of interracial desire: it makes representable the becoming and intermingling of race and sexuality, but only in principle by emptying the radical difference of blackness and sexuality from their uncertainty rather than by addressing their existing entwinement in identity, culture, and society.  As Jared Sexton writes, “racism is not an obstacle to interracial intimacy but its condition of possibility.”[xvi] Following Sexton’s argument, we can then also assume that the post- in postracial inhabits a curious and cruel arrangement of temporality and historicity wherein utopia must necessarily bracket blackness as something other than being. Utopia is therefore forced to follow an identity politics of multiracialism, imprisoning itself within the language and signs produced synonymously with a utopic politics.

    It is not surprising that Zamalin cannot see this dialectical imprisonment between blackness and the signs of culture in his reading of Richard Wright’s formidable work, Black Power. In this chapter, Zamalin makes utopia interchangeable with dystopia while leveraging the utopic/dystopic as a way of reading the possibilities for black social and political life. The irony to this approach is strikingly clear in his misuse of the word “unconscious” to describe Wright’s engagement with Ghanaian citizens, culture, and political life during his visit to Africa. Zamalin writes, “Wright lost sight of the way Black Power was itself an unconscious catalogue. It was something of a waking daydream, of how to accomplish this differently in a way that created a postcolonial society unmoored from the political theory of Western colonialism” (83, emphasis added). He goes on: “Dreams, for (Wright), were the apolitical ream of fantasy, immaturity, and unconscious desire. Reality, in contrast, was that of strategy, rule and government. But this very opposition was betrayed by Wright’s unconscious investment in psychoanalysis” (84, emphasis added). Throughout the chapter, Zamalin positions Wright as if without the self-awareness to realize his “American” views eclipsed the ways in which traditional political art was celebrated in the Gold Coast’s revolutionary movement for independence. As a result, Zamalin argues that Wright “mistakenly denigrat[ed] the nonrational elements of traditional culture” and therefore “couldn’t appreciate the way its symbolism contained a philosophy that challenged the orthodoxy of Western systems that promoted inequality” (92). Ultimately, this is what leads Wright, according to Zamalin, to develop his anti-utopian critique in Black Power. But who is performing their unconscious? Could it be that the unconscious cataloguing that Zamalin reads in Wright’s own meditation—which one might also call a conscious study of the way in which censorship, political desire, and blackness intersect—is his own racial anxiety and guilt for a more African black than a black African American? Could this be why Zamalin finds that Wright cannot supposedly see the utopic transcendence in traditional Ghanaian song and dance? Is it this idea of blackness that Zamalin refers to in the introduction when he writes utopia in black?

    Nearly twenty years before Zamalin’s reflections on Wright’s Black Power, David Marriott wrote about the importance of Wright’s meditations on the Gold Coast in his path-breaking book, On Black Men, a reference that is surprisingly absent given Zamalin’s assessment that Black Power has been left more or less unexplored.[xvii] Marriott’s elaborations on Wright’s Black Power are, in fact, short, but serve as a compelling and incisive provocation to questions of political thought, dreams, and blackness, implicitly returning us to the function of the unconscious in the projection of utopia or hope. Marriott begins with a scene in which Wright reflects on a projection of blackness that is always already thrown in an alienating crisis of one’s identity and psychic life in public: the cinema. Explaining a scene in which Wright attends a movie house in northwestern Africa, Marriott writes:

    … for Wright the spectacle of African spectators reacting to cinematic images, advertisements and stories throws him into disarray. It is as if Africans are not credulous enough, unable to surrender to the fascination of dream and illusion which cinema (and storytelling) represents. They cannot dream because they cannot project themselves into that trance of relinquishment which true dreaming and true spectatorship warrant. In fact, throughout Black Power, Africa and Africans remain, for Wright, an underdeveloped film negative, a censored dream: ‘Though the African’s whole life was a kind of religious dream, the African scorned the word ‘dream’…. The African takes his religion, which is really a waking dream, for reality, and all other dreams are barred, are taboo.’[xviii]

    Marriott importantly highlights Wright’s critical investment and investigation into the world of collective fantasy and takes seriously Wright’s own question about what it means to have one’s (black) dreams barred. In contrast to Zamalin, who perceives Wright to be writing as if in “a waking daydream” (83), Marriott points to how signs of culture produce substitutive images as “waking dreams for reality” for one’s black existence.[xix] The difference is crucial: Zamalin portrays white fantasies of how blacks dream, whereas Marriott  underscores Wright’s ongoing observation about how dreams are necessarily always already blackened out of existence—leaving one’s unconscious “to live with hatred as our most intimate possession [to become], then, the truly difficult task of our dreams.”[xx] While Zamalin disavows the projection of his own desires for identification leaving unquestioned how such identifications are not separate from, and in fact work with, the fantasies of culture to typecast how blackness should be, Marriott addresses the relations of  culture, image, fantasy, and projection (as it were) structurally untenable. Ultimately, these are the structural political and ethical questions that go unattended in Black Utopia.

    Zamalin’s explicit engagements with the notion of Afrofuturism in the remainder of the book do little other than reproduce a teleological narrative of redemption upon which Black Utopia relies heavily. Although Zamalin makes efforts to move away from this point—for example, on Samuel Delany he writes that “the science fiction writer brings into a relief a future that is not driven by the demands of the present, but explodes its commons sense” (112)—an  Afrofuturistic utopia remains an eschatological concept, a final destination for black liberation. Zamalin finds this emancipatory politics in the utopic/dystopic depiction of social transformation in the works of Sun Ra, Samuel Delaney, and Octavia Butler. Afrofuturism in these works is linked with postracialism, destabilizing gender binaries, and “taking seriously radical hope in the face of the unknown without messianic deliverance” (140).[xxi] Throughout the book, utopia has been the end point of a destination that has yet to be reached and the future, a vision “from which to rethink the present” (108). In the futures imagined by Ra, Delany, and Butler, “subjecting power to immanent critique would forget a society in which freedom became more of a reality for most. And it would create a world where what seemed fixed became overturned” (113). Here, Zamalin alludes to the structural inequalities coextensive with settler-colonialism, housing crises, as well as trans-, gender, and racial violence addressed by the authors. But assuredly for Zamalin, “Black utopian and antiutopian work chastens contemporary American faith in postracialism—that good intentions and better laws could solve the problem of racism, as if it can be remedied through better civic education or harsher penalties for bad deeds” (140). This faith in postracialism or a postracial moment can only be further secured by “better” law, though there is little reference to the profane system of belief and commandment that composes America’s existing juridical order and cannot be separated from anti-blackness. It is the moralistic undertone and the peculiar (and perverse) pairing of political reform and black futurity with which Black Utopia ends that may leave some readers dissatisfied with the book’s promise to provide serious engagement with black political thought. But if this is the case, it is not because something like Afrofuturism or current questions of black futurity do not engage with the political. Rather, it is because Black Utopia oddly partitions off a vast constellation of black political thought that engages with such questions in its intellectual history and in the very present. In her own brilliant explorations of Sun Ra and Octavia Butler’s work, Kara Keeling elucidates the difficult formulation and double bind from which these works labor to imagine a world outside of the preconditions of anti-blackness. Keeling writes on Sun Ra’s Space Is the Place:

    Sun Ra’s solution in Space Is the Place to the violence and humiliation of US race relations is to give Black folks a world they can own. Sun Ra seems unconcerned about the specter of African American and Black complicity in a settler colonial project when he advocates for a spatio-temporal rupture in Black consciousness sparked by his musical vibrations and profound enough to transport Black people to another planet. Afrofuturist narratives that advocate for colonizing another planet raise (and less often consider, and/or offer, speculative strategies and solutions to) the ethico-political issues that have attended anti-Black settler colonial societies.[xxii]

    Keeling’s attention to how black world-making opposes the act of (white heteronormative) reproduction can be extended to include its opposition to the specters of anti-blackness that qualify an understanding of the ethical and political conditions that structure the modern world. It is worth concluding that hope for a black future is never simply utopic nor dystopic. An aesthetic of black futurity, of what has yet to be from the world as one knows it, cannot be retrieved simply by way of revolutionary instruction. It is in this way that blackness (re-)invents thought, which, in spite of its uncertainty, its contested meaning, or non-meaning, is political. To conclude with Keeling then: “From within the logics of existing possible worlds and the range of possible trajectories into the future that they currently make perceptible, a Black future looks like no future at all.”[xxiii] Otherwise put, the end is not the beginning.

     

    Linette Park is the Thurgood Marshall Postdoctoral Fellow in the African and African American Studies Program at Dartmouth College. She is currently preparing her first book monograph, At the Edge of Abolition: Violence and Imagination in the History of California Lynch Law, which examines the present day “lynching arrests” by interrogating the historical, political, and psychosocial formations of violence that inextricably bind these arrests to the afterlife of racial slavery, lynching, and segregation in the United States. She has published in Theory and Event, Haunt: Journal of Art, and has forthcoming work in the peer-reviewed journals: Black Scholar: Journal of Black Studies and Research, Souls: A Critical Journal of Black Politics, Culture, and Society, and Political Theology.

     

    [i] See Saidiya Hartman and Frank B. Wilderson III, “The Position of the Unthought.” Qui Parle, vol. 13, no. 2, Spring/ Summer 2003, pp. 183-201.

    [ii] At the time of writing this, Black Studies celebrates its fiftieth anniversary. The first Black Studies program was established at San Francisco State University in 1970 due to the relentless labor of students who went on strike and fought for the program and for the formation of Ethnic Studies (1968). This historical fact is important because the set of literary and historical references in the study of hope and utopia (and the study of that study) in Black Utopia is somewhat peculiar and problematic given that utopia has been an object of extensive exploration and critique in Black Studies. See forthcoming special issues in the journals on the fiftieth anniversary of Black Studies, “Inheriting Black Studies” with Souls: A Critical Journal of Black Politics, Culture and Society and “What Was Black Studies?” in Black Scholar: Journal of Black Studies and Research (2020).

    [iii] Most notably, perhaps, Frantz Fanon has written on the notion of invention in Black Skin, White Masks, translated by Charles Lam Markmann, London, Pluto Press, 1952. The notion of “invention” has also been powerfully taken up in contemporary scholarship by David Marriott in his book, Whither Fanon?: Studies in the Blackness of Being, Stanford University Press, 2018. I take up the notion of disinheritance and anti-blackness as a structural condition of political life in “Whence Disinheritance Holds: On Ida B. Wells and America’s ‘Unwritten Law,” Souls, forthcoming, 2020.

    [iv] See Claude Lefort, Democracy and Political Theory, translated by David Macey, Polity, 1991.

    [v] For a compelling critique on the politics of hope, humanism, and the political in relation to blackness, see Calvin Warren’s “Black Nihilism and the Politics of Hope.” CR: The New Centennial Review, vol. 15, no. 1, Spring 2015, pp. 215-248.

    [vi] Frank Wilderson, Red, White, and Black: Cinema and the Structure of U.S. Antagonisms, Duke University Press, 2010, p. 57.

    [vii] For example, he writes: “Utopia in black became much more critical and infused by a sense of tragedy. It became defined by unfinished conversations, unresolved debates, critical problematics which resisted easy resolution.” He writes immediately thereafter: “In black utopia, a sense of committed struggle in the face of the unknown was coupled with a realistic sense of subversion and collapse” (12).

    [viii] See David Marriott’s critique of José Muñoz’s Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity, “Black Cultural Studies.” This Year’s Work in Critical and Cultural Theory, vol. 19, 2011.

    [ix] There are several thinkers on this topic that are explored chiefly in the works of Afro-pessimism. See Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks; Zakiyyah Iman Jackson, “Losing Manhood: Animality and Plasticity in the (Neo)Slave Narrative.” Qui Parle: Critical Humanities and Social Sciences, vol. 25, no. 1-2, 1 Dec. 2016, pp. 95-136; Jared Sexton, “People-of-Color Blindness: Notes on the Afterlife of Slavery.” Social Text, vol. 28, no. 2, summer 2010; Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being. Duke University Press, 2016; Frank Wilderson. Red, White, and Black: Cinema and the Structure of U.S. Antagonism; and Sylvia Wynter, “Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/ Power/ Truth/ Freedom: Towards the Human, After Man, Its Overrepresentation—An Argument,” CR: The New Centennial Review, vol. 3, no. 3, 2003), pp. 257-337. David Scott directly contends with the question of the political and a black radical tradition. He writes: “Similarly, radical is an idea no less complex, no less ambiguous (“radical” as opposed to what?), if also no less important to the story of the modern black subject. But in the constrained aftermaths of the various black nationalisms, black Marxism, the Cold War, and so on, what idea of politics does radical signify or organize? It is not easy to say with any certainty. And finally, what idea of a “tradition” does the idea of a black radical tradition depend upon? Tradition is a term with a complex and contested genealogy. Indeed, some would argue that the tradition does not belong in the same semantic universe as radical, appearing as it does to be the very reverse of subversion or transgression. What relation between past, present, and future does a tradition comprehend?… And yet, curiously, however contested, there seems a persisting demand for some notion of a tradition that is black and radical (implicit or explicit, marginal or central) in organizing the strategies of criticism within the discursive area of black intellectual life, some stubborn grain against which to position our dissent, a recognition perhaps that even in our attempts to disengage from the claims of tradition we are nevertheless oriented by it” (2). See David Scott, “On the Very Idea of a Black Radical Tradition.” Small Axe, vol. 17, no. 1, 2013, pp. 1-6.

    [x] David Marriott, Haunted Life: Visual Culture and Black Modernity. Rutgers University Press, 2007, p. 102.

    [xi] See Jared Sexton. Amalgamation Schemes: Antiblackness and the Critique of Multiculturalism. University of Minnesota Press, 2008.

    [xii] Nahum Chandler. X—The Problem of the Negro as a Problem for Thought. Fordham University Press, 2014, p. 137.

    [xiii] Chandler, p. 73.

    [xiv] Chandler, p. 133.

    [xv] See Jared Sexton. “The Social Life of Social Death: On Afro-Pessimism and Black Optimism.” InTensions Journal, Issue 5, Fall/ Winter 2011, pp. 1-47.

    [xvi] Sexton, Amalgamation Schemes, p. 175.

    [xvii] On this note, it is also worth exploring Dorothy Stringer’s essay, “Psychology and Black Liberation in Richard Wright’s Black Power (1953),” which explains Wright’s attention to the quotidian violence and economic control of post-colonial rule. Stringer also offers an eloquent assessment on Wright’s use of classical psychoanalytic concepts while also departing from Freudian thought to revise his own notion of black identity. Dorothy Stringer, “Psychology and Black Liberation in Richard Wright’s Black Power (1954).” Journal of Modern Literature. vol. 32, no. 4, Summer 2009, pp. 105-124.

    [xviii] David Marriott, On Black Men. Columbia University Press, 2000. p. x.

    [xix] Marriott, On Black Men, p. xiii.

    [xx] Marriott, On Black Men, p. xv.

    [xxi] In contradistinction to Zamalin’s use of the messianic here, Marriott, following Fanon, incisively points out that  any liberatory possibility of the future is one that is “radically unwriteable” and that “the revolution, insofar as it always timely in its untimeliness and not just the teleological outcome of what went before, brings neither redemption, nor erasure, but the messianic promise of a new écriture.” See Whither Fanon? p. 25. With this, one could argue that a transformation in the way in which one imagines a black future (or Afrofuturism) is political not because a postracial moment that has yet to arrive delivers a reconciliation with the profound injuries of anti-black racism, but because such a transformation of and from the future presents a “historical awareness of the present as necessarily self-interrupting” unto one’s black being as a radical difference (29).

    [xxii] Kara Keeling, Queer Times, Black Futures. New York University Press, 2018, p. 67.

    [xxiii] Keeling, p. 67.

  • Zachary Loeb — Does Facebook Have Politics? (Review of Langdon Winner, The Whale and the Reactor, second edition)

    Zachary Loeb — Does Facebook Have Politics? (Review of Langdon Winner, The Whale and the Reactor, second edition)

    a review of Langdon Winner, The Whale and the Reactor: A Search for Limits in an Age of High Technology, second edition (University of Chicago Press, 2020)

    by Zachary Loeb

    ~

    The announcement that Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan would be donating $300 million to help address some of the challenges COVID-19 poses for the 2020 elections was met with a great deal of derision. The scorn was not directed at the effort to recruit poll workers, or purchase PPE for them, but at the source from whence these funds were coming. Having profited massively from allowing COVID-19 misinformation to run rampant over Facebook, and having shirked responsibility as the platform exacerbated political tensions, the funding announcement came across not only as too little too late, but as a desperate publicity stunt. The incident was but another installment in Facebook’s tumult as the company (alongside its CEO/founder) continually finds itself cast as a villain. Facebook can take some solace in knowing that other tech companies—Google, Amazon, Uber—are also receiving increasingly negative attention, and yet it seems that for every one critical story about Amazon there are five harsh pieces about Facebook.

    Where Facebook, and Zuckerberg, had once enjoyed laudatory coverage, with the platform being hailed as an ally of democracy, by 2020 it has become increasingly common to see Facebook (and Zuckerberg) treated as democracy’s gravediggers. Indeed, much of the animus found in the increasingly barbed responses to Facebook seem to be animated by a sense of betrayal. Many people, including more than a few journalists and scholars, had initially been taken in by Facebook’s promises of a more open and connected world, even if they are loathe to admit that they had ever fallen for that ruse now. Certainly, or so the shift in sentiment conveys, Facebook and Zuckerberg deserve to be angrily upbraided and treated with withering skepticism now… but who could have seen this coming?

    “Technologies are not merely aids to human activity, but also powerful forces acting to reshape that activity and its meaning” (6). When those words were first published, in 1986, Mark Zuckerberg was around two years old, and yet those words provide a more concise explanation of Facebook than any Facebook press release or defensive public speech given by Zuckerberg. Granted, those words were not written specifically about Facebook (how could they have been?), but in order to express a key insight about the ways in which technologies impact the societies in which they are deployed. The point being not only to consider how technologies can have political implications, but to emphasize that technologies are themselves political. Or to put it slightly differently, Langdon Winner was warning about Facebook before there was a Facebook to warn about.

    More than thirty years after its initial publication, The University of Chicago Press has released a new edition of Langdon Winner’s The Whale and the Reactor. Considering the frequency with which this book, particularly its second chapter “Do Artifacts Have Politics?,” is still cited today, it is hard to suggest that Winner’s book has been forgotten by scholars. And beyond the academy, those who have spent even a small amount of time reading some of the prominent recent STS or media studies works will have likely come across his name. Therefore, the publication of the this second edition—equipped with a new preface, afterword, an additional chapter, and a spiffy red cover—represents an important opportunity to revisit Winner’s work. While its citational staying power suggests that The Whale and the Reactor has become something of an essential touchstone for works on the politics of technological systems, the larger concerns coursing through the book have not lost any of their weight in the years since the book was published.

    For at its core The Whale and the Reactor is not about the types of technologies we are making, but about the type of society we are making.

    Divided into three sections, The Whale and the Reactor wastes no time in laying out its central intervention. Noting that technology had rarely been treated as a serious topic for philosophical inquiry, Winner sets about arguing that an examined life must examine the technological systems that sustain that life. That technology has so often been relegated to the background has given rise to a sort of “technological somnambulism” whereby many “willingly sleepwalk” as the world is technologically reconfigured around them (10). Moving forward in this dreamy state, the sleepers may have some vague awareness of the extent to which these technological systems are becoming interwoven into their daily lives, but by the time they awaken (supposing they ever do awaken) these systems have accumulated sufficient momentum as to make it seemingly impossible to turn them off at all. Though The Whale and the Reactor is not a treatise on somnambulism, this characterization is significant insofar as a sleepwalker is one who staggers through the world in a state of unawareness, and thus cannot be held truly responsible. Contrary to such fecklessness, the argument presented by Winner is that responsibility for the world being remade by technology is shared by all those who live in that world. Sleepwalking is not an acceptable excuse.

    In what is almost certainly the best-known section of the book, Winner considers whether or not artifacts have politics—answering this question strongly in the affirmative. Couching his commentary in a recognition that “Scarcely a new invention comes along that someone doesn’t proclaim it as the salvation of a free society” (20), Winner highlights that social and economic forces leave clear markers on technologies, but he notes that the process works in the opposite direction as well. Two primary ways in which “artifacts can contain political priorities” (22) are explored: firstly, situations wherein a certain artifact is designed in such a way as to settle a particular larger issue; and secondly, technologies that are designed to function within, and reinforce, a certain variety of political organization. As an example of the first variety, Winner gives an example of mechanization at a nineteenth century reaper manufacturing plant, wherein the process of mechanization was pursued not to produce higher quality or less expensive products, but for the purposes of breaking the power of the factory’s union. While an example of the second sort of politics can be seen in the case of atomic weaponry (and nuclear power) wherein the very existence of these technologies necessitates complex organizations of control and secrecy. Though, of the two arguments, Winner frames the first example as presenting clearer proof, technologies of the latter case make a significant impact insofar as they tend to make “moral reasons other than those of practical necessity appear increasingly obsolete” (36) for the political governance of technological systems.

    Inquiring as to the politics of a particular technology provides a means by which to ask questions about the broader society, specifically: what kind of social order gets reified by this technology? One of freedom and equality? One of control and disenfranchisement? Or one that distracts from the maintenance of the status quo by providing the majority with a share in technological abundance? It is easy to avoid answering such questions when you are sleepwalking, and as a result, “without anyone having explicitly chosen it, dependency upon highly centralized organizations has gradually become a dominant social form” (47). That this has not been “explicitly chosen” is partially a result of the dominance of a technologically optimistic viewpoint that has held to “a conviction that all technology—whatever its size, shape, or complexion—is inherently liberating” (50). Though this bright-eyed outlook is periodically challenged by an awareness of the ways that some technologies can create or exacerbate hazards, these dangers wind up being treated largely as hurdles that will be overcome by further technological progress. When all technologies are seen as “inherently liberating” a situation arises wherein “liberation” comes to be seen only in terms of what can be technologically delivered. Thus, the challenge is to ask “What forms of technology are compatible with the kind of society we want to build?” (52) rather than simply assume that we will be content in whatever world we sleepily wander into. Rather than trust that technology will be “inherently liberating,” Winner emphasizes that it is necessary to ask what kinds of technology will be “compatible with freedom, social justice, and other key political ends” (55), and to pursue those technologies.

    Importantly, a variety of people and groups have been aware of the need to push for artifacts that more closely align with their political ideals, though these response have taken on a range of forms. Instead of seeing technology as deeply intertwined with political matters, some groups saw technology as a way of getting around political issues: why waste time organizing for political change when microcomputers and geodesic domes can allow you to build that alternative world here and now? In contrast to this consumeristic, individualistically oriented attitude (exemplified by works such as the Whole Earth Catalog), there were also efforts to ask broader political questions about the nature of technological systems such as the “appropriate technology” movement (which grew up around E.F. Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful). Yet such attempts appear already in the past, rearguard actions that were trying to meekly resist the increasing dominance of complex technical systems. As the long seventies shifted into the 1980s and increasing technological centralization became evident, such movements appear as romantic gestures towards the dream of decentralization. And though the longing for escape from centralized control persists, the direction  “technological ‘progress’ has followed” is one in which “people find themselves dependent upon a great many large, complex systems whose centers are, for all practical purposes, beyond their power to influence” (94).

    Perhaps no technology simultaneously demonstrates the tension between the dream of decentralization and growth of control quite like the computer. Written in the midst of what was being hailed as “the computer revolution” or the “information revolution” (98), The Whale and the Reactor bore witness to the exuberance with which the computer was greeted even as this revolution remained “conspicuously silent about its own ends” (102). Though it was not entirely clear what problem the computer was the solution to, there was still a clear sentiment that the computer had to be the solution to most problems. “Mythinformation” is the term Winner deploys to capture this “almost religious conviction that a widespread adoption of computers and communications systems along with easy access to electronic information will automatically produce a better world for human living” (105). Yet “mythinformation” performs technological politics in inverse order: instead of deciding on political goals and then seeking out the right technological forms for achieving those goals, it takes a technology (the computer) and then seeks to rearrange political problems in such a way as to make them appear as though they can be addressed by that technology. Thus, “computer romantics” hold to the view that “increasing access to information enhances democracy and equalizes social power” (108), less as a reflection of the way that political power works and more as a response to the fact that “increasing access to information” is one of the things that computers do well. Despite the equalizing hopes, earnest though they may have been, that were popular amongst the “computer romantics” the trends that were visible early in “the computer revolution” gave ample reason to believe that the main result would be “an increase in power by those who already had a great deal of power” (107). Indeed, contrary to the liberatory hopes that were pinned on “the computer revolution” the end result might be one wherein “confronted with omnipresent, all-seeing data banks, the populace may find passivity and compliance the safest route, avoiding activities that once represented political liberty” (115).

    Considering the overwhelming social forces working in favor of unimpeded technological progress, there are nevertheless a few factors that have been legitimated as reasons for arguing for limits. While there is a long trajectory of theorists and thinkers who have mulled over the matter of ecological despoilment, and while environmental degradation is a serious concern, “the state of nature” represents a fraught way to consider technological matters. For some, the environment has become little more than standing reserve to be exploited, while others have formed an almost mystical attachment to an imagination of pristine nature; in this context “ideas about things natural must be examined and criticized” as well (137). Related to environmental matters are concerns that take as their catchword “risk,” and which attempt to reframe the discussion away from hopes and towards potential dangers. Yet, in addition to cultural norms that praise certain kinds of “risk-taking,” a focus on risk assessment tends to frame situations in terms of tradeoffs wherein one must balance dangers against potential benefits—with the result being that the recontextualized benefit is generally perceived as being worth it. If the environment and risk are unsatisfactory ways to push for limits, so too has become the very notion of “human values” which “acts like a lawn mower that cuts flat whole fields of meaning and leaves them characterless” (158).

    In what had originally been The Whale and the Reactor’s last chapter, Winner brought himself fully into the discussion—recalling how it was that he came to be fascinated with these issues, and commenting on the unsettling juxtaposition he felt while seeing a whale swimming not far from the nuclear reactor at Diablo Canyon. It is a chapter that critiques the attitude towards technology, that Winner saw in many of his fellow citizens, as being one of people having “gotten used to having the benefits of technological conveniences without expecting to pay the costs” (171). This sentiment is still fully on display more than thirty years later, as Winner shifts his commentary (in a new chapter for this second edition) to the age of Facebook and the Trump Presidency. Treating the techno-utopian promises that had surrounded the early Internet as another instance of technology being seen as “inherently liberating,” Winner does not seem particularly surprised by the way that the Internet and social media are revealing that they “could become a seedbed for concentrated, ultimately authoritarian power” (189). In response to the “abuses of online power,” and beneath all of the glitz and liberating terminology that is affixed to the Internet, “it is still the concerns of consumerism and techno-narcissism that are emphasized above all” (195). Though the Internet had been hailed as a breakthrough, it has wound up leading primarily to breakdown.

    Near the book’s outset, Winner observes how “In debates about technology, society, and the environment, an extremely narrow range of concepts typically defines the realm of acceptable discussion” (xii), and it is those concepts that he wrestles with over the course of The Whale and the Reactor. And the point that Winner returns to throughout the volume is that technological choices—whether they are the result of active choice or a result of our “technological somnambulism”—are not just about technology. Rather, “What appear to be merely instrumental choices are better seen as choices about the form of social and political life a society builds, choices about the kinds of people we want to become” (52).

    Or, to put it a slightly different way, if we are going to talk about the type of technology we want, we first need to talk about the type of society we want, whether the year is 1986 or 2020.

    *

    Langdon Winner began his foreword to the 2010 edition of Lewis Mumford’s Technics and Civilization with the comment that “Anyone who studies the human dimensions of technological change must eventually come to terms with Lewis Mumford.” And it may be fair to note, in a similar vein, that anyone who studies the political dimensions of technological change must eventually come to terms with Langdon Winner. The staying power of The Whale and the Reactor is something which Winner acknowledges with a note of slightly self-deprecating humor, in the foreword to the book’s second edition, where he comments “At times, it seems my once bizarre heresy has finally become a weary truism” (vii).

    Indeed, to claim in 2020 that artifacts have politics is not to make a particularly radical statement. That statement has been affirmed enough times as to hardly make it a question that needs to be relitigated. Yet the second edition of The Whale and the Reactor is not a victory lap wherein Winner crows that he was right, nor is it the ashen lamentation of a Cassandra glumly observing that what they feared has transpired. Insofar as The Whale and the Reactor deserves this second edition, and to be clear it absolutely deserves this second edition, it is because the central concerns animating the book remain just as vital today.

    While the second edition contains a smattering of new material, the vast majority of the book remains as it originally was. As a result the book undergoes that strange kind of alchemy whereby a secondary source slowly transforms into a primary source—insofar as The Whale and the Reactor can now be treated as a document showing how, at least some, scholars were making sense of “the computer revolution” while in the midst of it. The book’s first third, which contains the “Do Artifacts Have Politics?” chapter, has certainly aged the best and the expansiveness with which Winner addresses the question of politics and technology makes it clear why those early chapters remain so widely read, while ensuring that these chapters have a certain timeless quality to them. However, as the book shifts into its exploration of “Technology: Reform and Revolution” the book does reveal its age. Read today, the commentary on “appropriate technology” comes across more as a reminder of a historical curio than as an exploration of the shortcomings of an experiment that recently failed. It feels somewhat odd to read Winner’s comments on “the state of nature,” bereft as they are of any real mention of climate change. And though Winner could have written in 1986 that technology was frequently overlooked as a topic deserving of philosophical scrutiny, today there are many works responding to that earlier lack (and many of those works even cite Winner). While Winner certainly cannot be faulted for not seeing the future, what makes some of these chapters feel particularly dated is that in many other places Winner excelled so remarkably at seeing the future.

    The chapter on “Mythinformation” stands as an excellent critical snapshot of the mid-80s enthusiasm that surrounded “the computer revolution,” with Winner skillfully noting how the utopian hopes surrounding computers were just the latest in the well-worn pattern wherein every new technology is seen as “inherently liberating.” In writing on computers, Winner does important work in separating the basics of what these machines literally can do, from the sorts of far-flung hopes that their advocates attached to them. After questioning whether the issues facing society are genuinely ones that boil down to access to information, Winner noted that it was more than likely that the real impact of computers would be to help those in control stay in control. As he puts it, “if there is to be a computer revolution, the best guess is that it will have a distinctively conservative character” (107) .In 1986, it may have been necessary to speak of this in terms of a “best guess,” and such comments may have met with angry responses from a host of directions, but in 2020 it seems fairly clear that Winner’s sense of what the impact of computers would be was not wrong.

    Considering the directions that widespread computerization would push societies, Winner hypothesized that it could lead to a breakdown in certain kinds of in-person contact and make it so that people would “become even more susceptible to the influence of employers, news media, advertisers, and national political leaders” (116). And moving to the present, in the second edition’s new chapter, Winner observes that despite the shiny toys of the Internet the result has been one wherein people “yield unthinkingly to various kinds of encoded manipulation (especially political manipulation), varieties of misinformation, computational propaganda, and political malware” (187). It is not that The Whale and the Reactor comes out to openly declare “don’t tell me that you weren’t warned,” but there is something about the second edition being published now, that feels like a pointed reminder. As former techno-optimists rebrand as techno-skeptics, the second edition is a reminder that some people knew to be wary from the beginning. Some may anxiously bristle as the CEOs of tech giants testify before Congress, some may feel a deep sense of disappointment every time they see yet another story about Facebook’s malfeasance, but The Whale and the Reactor is a reminder that these problems could have been anticipated. If we are unwilling to truly confront the politics of technologies when those technologies are new, we may find ourselves struggling to deal with the political impacts of those technologies once they have wreaked havoc.

    Beyond its classic posing of the important “do artifacts have politics?” question, the present collision between technology and politics helps draw attention to a deeper matter running through The Whale and the Reactor. Namely, that the book keeps coming back to the idea of democracy. Indeed, The Whale and the Reactor shows a refreshingly stubborn commitment to this idea. Technology clearly matters in the book, and technologies are taken very seriously throughout the book, but Winner keeps returning to democracy. In commenting on the ways in which artifacts have politics, the examples that Winner explores are largely ones wherein technological systems are put in place that entrench the political authority of a powerful minority, or which require the development of regimes that exceed democratic control. For Winner, democracy (and being a participant in a democracy) is an active process, one that cannot be replaced by “passive monitoring of electronic news and information” which “allows citizens to feel involved while dampening the desire to take an active part” (111). Insofar as “the vitality of democratic politics depends upon people’s willingness to act together in pursuit of their common ends” (111), a host of technological systems have been put in place that seem to have simultaneously sapped “people’s willingness” while also breaking down a sense of “common ends.” And though the Internet may trigger some nostalgic memory of active democracy, it is only a “pseudopublic realm” wherein the absence of the real conditions of democracy “helps generate wave after wave of toxic discourse along with distressing patterns of oligarchical rule, incipient authoritarianism, and governance by phonies and confidence men” (192).

    Those who remain committed to arguing for the liberatory potential of computers and the Internet, a group which includes individuals from a range of perspectives, might justifiably push back against Winner by critiquing the vision of democracy he celebrates. After all, there is something rather romantic about  Winner’s evocations of New England townhall meetings  and his comments on the virtues of face-to-face encounters. Do all participants in such encounters truly get to participate equally? Are such situations even set up so that all people can participate equally? What sorts of people and what modes of participation are privileged by such a model of democracy? Is a New England townhall meeting really a model for twenty-first century democracy? Here it is easy to picture Winner responding that what such questions reveal is the need to create technologies that will address those problems—and where a split may then open up is around the question of whether or not computers and the Internet represent such tools. That “technologies are not merely aids to human activity, but also powerful forces acting to reshape that activity and its meaning” (6) opens up a space in which different technologies can be built, even as other technologies can be dismantled, but such a recognition forces us to look critically at our technologies and truly confront the type of world that we are making and reinforcing for each other. And, in terms of computers and the Internet, the question that The Whale and the Reactor forces to the fore is one of: which are we putting first, computers or democracy?

    Winner warned his readers of the dangers of “technological somnambulism,” but it unfortunately seems that his call was not sufficient to wake up the sleepers in his midst in the 1980s. Alas, that The Whale and the Reactor remains so strikingly relevant is partially a testament to the persistence of the sleepwalkers’ continual slouch into the future. And though there may be some hopeful signs of late that more and more people are groggily stirring and rubbing the slumber from their eyes—the resistance to facial recognition is certainly a hopeful sign—a danger persists that many will conclude that since they have reached this spot that they must figure out some way to justify being here. After all, few want to admit that they have been sleepwalking. What makes The Whale and the Reactor worth revisiting today is not only that Winner asks the question “do artifacts have politics?” but the way in which, in responding to this question, he is willing to note that there are some artifacts that have bad politics. That there are some artifacts that do not align with our political goals and values. And what’s more, that when we are confronted with such artifacts, we do not need to pretend that they are our friends just because they have rearranged our society in such a way that we have no choice but to use them.

    In the foreword to the first edition of The Whale and the Reactor, Winner noted “In an age in which the inexhaustible power of scientific technology makes all things possible, it remains to be seen where we will draw the line, where we will be able to say, here are the possibilities that wisdom suggests we avoid” (xiii). For better, or quite likely for worse, that still remains to be seen today.

    _____

    Zachary Loeb earned his MSIS from the University of Texas at Austin, an MA from the Media, Culture, and Communications department at NYU, and is currently a PhD candidate in the History and Sociology of Science department at the University of Pennsylvania. Loeb works at the intersection of the history of technology and disaster studies, and his research focusses on the ways that complex technological systems amplify risk, as well as the history of technological doom-saying. He is working on a dissertation on Y2K. Loeb writes at the blog Librarianshipwreck, and is a frequent contributor to The b2 Review Digital Studies section.

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  • Efe Khayyat and Ariel Salzmann — On the Perils of Thinking Globally while Writing Ottoman History: God’s Shadow and Academia’s Self-Appointed Sultans

    Efe Khayyat and Ariel Salzmann — On the Perils of Thinking Globally while Writing Ottoman History: God’s Shadow and Academia’s Self-Appointed Sultans

    a response to reviews of Alan Mikhail, God’s Shadow: Sultan Selim, His Ottoman Empire, and the Making of the Modern World (Norton, 2020)

    by Efe Khayyat and Ariel Salzmann

    ~

    One of the more curious academic controversies to emerge during the pandemic revolves around the recent publication and positive reception of Alan Mikhail’s God’s Shadow: Sultan Selim, His Ottoman Empire, and the Making of the Modern World. Although it is Ottoman Sultan Süleyman I (r. 1520-66) who has received the lion’s share of publicity beyond the Middle East—thanks, most recently, to a popular Turkish soap opera with fans across the world, from Ukraine to Mexico—it is actually his father, Selim I (r. 1512-20), who died 500 years ago that marks the true inflection point for world history. Selim’s lifetime spanned a period that witnessed the re-peopling of the newly conquered City of Constantinople, the welcoming of Jewish refugees from Spain in the Ottoman Balkans and the Aegean, and the first Iberian voyages toward the Caribbean and the Indian Ocean. His relatively short reign overlapped with that of Moctezuma II, the ninth tlatoani of the Aztec Empire; Babur (Zahīr ud-Dīn Muhammad) who sent his armies from Afghanistan and founded the Mughal dynasty in India; the Ming dynasts in China; and the drafting of the 95 Theses by an otherwise obscure German Priest by the name of Martin Luther. Moreover, it was this sultan’s conquests that greatly expanded Ottoman hegemony across the Southern and Eastern Mediterranean, as well as into the Red Sea, leaving the empire in a commanding position that Selim’s neighbors to the east and west could ignore only at their peril.

    Given the number of endowed chairs in Ottoman and Turkish Studies at major research universities in the United States and the proliferation of scholars in Ottoman Studies at post-secondary North American institutions large and small, we Ottomanists should be better at inviting a wider audience to our field. And yet, almost singularly among historical fields, we have been unable to translate our research for nonspecialists and popular audiences. There are, of course, some noteworthy recent exceptions: popular works in German and English by the indefatigable Suraiya Faroqhi, Caroline Finkel’s synthetic overview, chapters on the Ottoman Empire in Elizabeth F. Thompson’s Justice Interrupted, Eugene Rogan’s timely book on the fall of the Ottoman Empire, and Leslie Peirce’s work on Roxelana.[1]

    Given the paucity of efforts to bridge the divide between the academia and popular readership, one might assume that Ottoman historians would welcome a work in Ottoman history which has garnered attention from The Wall Street Journal, The New Yorker, The New York Times, and The Washington Post. And yet quite the opposite has occurred: for some reason this book has provoked an intensely hostile reaction by some of the most prominent scholars in the field. Under the guise of a critical and purely academic assessment, Mikhail’s book has recently been subjected to an unfortunate attack by Cornell Fleischer, Cemal Kafadar, and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, published in English in an Italian online journal and then quickly translated into Turkish and other languages. It should be noted that only two of these scholars are Ottoman historians, while the third is an internationally known scholar specializing in the history of South Asia and the Indian Ocean. The very title of their screed, “How to Write Fake Global History,” portents ominously, borrowing from both the terminology and tone of the current occupant of the White House’s assaults on the press. Not only does their tract misrepresent and mischaracterize the aims and methods of God’s Shadow, but its vitriol launches a further broadside attack on other examples of global and popular history and has fueled a social media frenzy attacking the author and his book in Turkey as well as United States.

    We will leave aside the rather bizarre aspects of Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam’s text—the repeated ad hominem attacks; the immature disparaging of Mikhail; the abject ignorance of genre; the willful distortion of the methods and feigned naiveté about the nature of contemporary trade publishing; the suggestion of a conspiracy by Mikhail and his “agents and admirers;” and even the badgering of the editors of The Washington Post who refused to grant these critics a podium. Skipping these elements, we would like to declare in advance what their text truly is: an attempt by senior male scholars in a particular branch of American academy to flex institutional, professional, and cultural muscle within and abroad, particularly in Turkey, to defame and denigrate honest efforts to write Ottoman history and in doing so reinforce their own seemingly hegemonic and certainly outdated idea of what constitutes true history writing.

    A few examples should suffice to illustrate the disingenuousness Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam employ to make their case. Let’s take the Ottoman role in disseminating coffee and coffee drinking (two pages in Mikhail’s 450-page book). Citing page 318 of the book, they claim that Mikhail says that “it was Selim’s military that first discovered” coffee. In fact, he does not say that, but rather explains that it was “the intercontinental unity Selim achieved” that allowed coffee to become a global phenomenon, one the Ottomans would monopolize for centuries. In another instance, they point to Mikhail’s supposed overreliance on a book by Fatih Akçe as evidence of insufficient scrutiny of and attention to Ottoman Turkish and other sources, a point they pirate from a sober and scholarly review by Caroline Finkel. Thirty-one citations is hardly a lot in a book with over 1,300 total citations. To take the example of the section about the caliphate (one page) that seems particularly irksome to them, Mikhail cites Akçe once there, not as the sole source but alongside seven other sources. The main primary source is the eyewitness account of the Egyptian chronicler Ibn Iyās, and Mikhail footnotes the historiographical debate about the caliphate, including a citation to Finkel herself. Mikhail does not rely on Akçe for any substantive part of his argument.

    As for their conceptual objections, they rest their case on two principle lines. The first is that this book is nothing more than navel-gazing “great man” history, an interesting tactic given that at least two of these historians have published usefully on major (and male) historical figures. As if to reduce the book to its title, the three authors continually term Selim “Mikhail’s hero.” This is laughable. No honest reading of the book could conclude that Mikhail seeks the celebration (or destruction) of Selim. God’s Shadow is not a monument to Selim. If anything, in fact, Selim comes off as violent and conniving. And though Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam say Mikhail neglects Selim’s massacre of thousands of his own Alevi (Shiite) subjects, Mikhail does reference this event on pages 258-59 and then on page 402 and then in the book’s chronology.

    The rather obvious point Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam miss or ignore is that Mikhail uses the figure of this single and singular historical subject to show how an appropriately narrow scholarly focus can “shed light in a radiating fashion” on a world historical moment.[2] This method of picking the right “tangible hook” for traversing our vast and intricate cultural past has long been advocated by humanists since its pioneer, Erich Auerbach, taught us how to practice cultural criticism and interpret historical “figures.”

    The second major complaint the trio lodge against Mikhail may seem at odds with the first—that he grossly overstates the place of the Ottomans on the world stage. It is only the most limited understanding of the contingent nature of history that could prevent one from grasping how in the absence of concrete evidence of the concrete presence of the Ottomans in Mexico, or say a letter from an Ottoman to an Aztec, there could be any, in their words, “real connection of the conquest of Mexico to the Ottomans.” Here they slyly splice together sentences some 130 pages apart in God’s Shadow combined with a phrase from The Washington Post to suggest that Mikhail claims that Selim and Cortés were somehow in touch. There is no such claim in the book.

    Mikhail’s approach offers something far more sophisticated—an analysis of how the faculty of imagination shaped historical actions, decisions, ideas, and emotions. He takes us from the Middle East to Mexico to demonstrate the extent to which the terrible and fabulous Turk marked the European-Christian mind in the sixteenth century. In God’s Shadow, one of the great fears of Spanish merchants and colonial authorities on Mexico’s Pacific shore in the sixteenth century turns out to have been imaginary “Turks or Moors,” possibly plotting with Native Americans to attack Christians. We know that this is absurd—that no vassal of the “Grand Turk” or his spies made it to Mexico, let alone plotted with Native Americans. Yet Mikhail demonstrates that upon sighting a fearsome fleet of vessels, the first thing the Spaniards could think of remained their Old-World enemy. We will never know with exact certitude in what ways this fear and the association of Native Americans with the Grand Turk affected the actions and decisions of the colonizers. Yet we know that the Christian mind and imagination of the era was deeply marked by the Ottomans (and other Muslims)—that the state of mind of Spanish merchants and colonial authorities reflected a significant influence of the imaginary Turk. We know that Columbus considered his own adventures and even the crossing of the Atlantic to be merely a part of the Reconquista and the Crusades against Muslims, which had already expelled Jews and Muslims from Spain in 1492.The attempt by Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam to make it seem as though Mikhail is unaware of “real” history serves to excise a vast amount of evidence of vital early modern global connections: the papal bull issued in the immediate aftermath of the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople that licensed Iberian princes to conquer and enslave peoples to the west, including in Africa, or the keen Ottoman interest in reports and documents concerning the lands across the Atlantic as evidenced by the map of South America reproduced by the Ottoman admiral Piri Reis. Mikhail’s work here is akin to Carina L. Johnson’s research situating both the Ottomans and Aztecs in the mental map of the Habsburg world, a major contribution to understanding the lingering image of the Terrible Turk in western literature and cultural memory.[3]

    Focusing on Sultan Selim’s Ottoman Empire against the background of the world historical moment of the conquests, conflicts, and voyages of the sixteenth century, God’s Shadow makes a case for the centrality of the at once “real” and imagined, at once terrible and fabulous Turk in the making of our global cultural universe. On the one hand, this book of world history asks American readers to view Ottoman history as “a branch of world history à part entière.”[4] Yet it also allows anyone interested in Ottoman studies to view the Ottoman past with an eye on its intended and unintended implications for the world beyond the Ottoman cultural universe.

    Both interventions have significant consequences for world history and Ottoman history alike. The centrality of the figure of Selim to Mikhail’s world history seems almost conventional at first, yet it draws new boundaries for the globe by merely expanding them a little. Mikhail’s choice to zoom in on the “figure” of Sultan Selim while writing world history provides a synthetic view of a global historical moment without compromising historical and philological scrutiny. The new world that Mikhail’s gentle rhetorical move makes visible hardly resembles the image of anything we have seen before. That Mikhail’s “Ottoman” figure is not easily recognizable from an “Ottoman” or modern “Turkish” perspective is refreshing. Mikhail’s figure of Selim is not some self-sufficient, self-same, homogenous entity but one that was molded by multiple Western and non-Western rivals warring, trading, competing, and sharing, and in the process literally sculpting one another. This type of intellectual intervention is exactly what one expects from not only good history, but also the burgeoning disciplines of world literature and art, or comparative religions and all the other—impossibly—global perspectives on the past that the contemporary critical humanities pursue today. That Selim’s indelible mark on the world and world consciousness remained unaccounted for—as historical reality and as part of a historically real “fiction”—with all its implications for our cultural and political past, until the publication of God’s Shadow only makes the case for how urgent Mikhail’s intervention has been all along, especially for American readers.

    Mikhail does not only take the faculty of imagination seriously. He takes religion and its history seriously as well. Both gestures mean that the sort of history Mikhail writes is a service to disciplines beyond disciplinary history, from cultural criticism to literary and art history. Moreover, his argument is based on the simple and undeniable fact that the religion and culture of Christianity had a significant role to play in the making of our modern world. What Mikhail does with this fact is to turn the tables to remind us that the history of Christianity did not take shape in a vacuum. Islam had a hand in the making of Christianity. This is a simple and obvious fact that should be clear to any reader and that no competent and ethical student of history can possibly overestimate.

    It is both a perfectly reasonable objection and an objective fact that such a global scope can pose a challenge to the nuanced views of the past that we owe to scholarly specialization. Mikhail’s pioneering work in environmental history displays impeccable historical scrutiny and empirical depth. If the goal of God’s Shadow is to write Ottoman history against a global background, this obviously requires that he paint with broad strokes at times. Writing any sort of complete global history is obviously impossible, yet it is also imperative in our day and age to write world history. The goals of commensurability and comparison across all the fields of the humanities seeking world historical perspectives demand such impossible yet imperative tasks, not merely for the sake of writing and, in some cases, rewriting more inclusive histories, but also to account for the ways in which the reality of our radically intertwined contemporary world took shape despite very old and persistent claims to exceptionality and homogeneity, whether national, religious, ethnic, or otherwise.

    One must ask why this particular text and its author has generated such controversy. It is well known that coffee arrived in Europe via Ottoman connections and that the pressure from the Ottoman Empire prevented Catholic kings and emperors from repressing the “heresy” of Protestantism. What then is the real, not fake, reason for the energy behind this seemingly orchestrated campaign in the United States and Turkey against this book? Those outside the field of Ottoman history read this as “pique” by a trio of holders of major chairs at pinnacle institutions at the remarkable success of a younger, highly productive scholar. Pamela Kyle Crossley adds that the controversy serves as an opportunity and excuse for the three to paper over their “genteel misogyny” by feigning to enlarge the scope of historical interpretation by leveling a charge of “fake global history.” For students and established scholars in the field of Ottoman Studies, the transparent animus motivating this attack on the author and his work replay a politics of policing and gatekeeping that is by now as predictable as it is debasing to the field. The attendant social media mobbing of Mikhail and God’s Shadow in the US and Turkey demonstrates how this power flexing operates. In surrendering their intellectual autonomy, acolytes and former students signal their fealty to their hocas, for they know they must fear this type of public pillorying by chairs in Ottoman and Turkish studies who exert inordinate influence on appointments, publication possibilities, and tenure and promotion in our field.

    Although no field is free from such controversies, Ottoman historians in the United States should regard this episode with a degree of sadness and considerable embarrassment. To be clear—we see this tempest as an intellectual problem that underscores increasingly entrenched tendencies in our field that stymie development and renewal. Over the last decade the loss of highly productive and institution building senior scholars, the late Donald Quataert (1941-2011) in particular,[5] has left a critical vacuum in Ottoman Studies in the United States. Now to think big and comparatively and to raise large questions that affect the way we interpret entire periods of global history, or even parallel regional developments within what seem to be universal patterns, seem to detract from the increasing provincialism and the preciousness of mainstream Ottoman history in the United States, a historiography that seems to have moved only slightly beyond the cultural turn of the 1990s. In the last decades, dismissing more recent and sophisticated approaches in favor of a narrow range of outdated emphases and methods to interpret largely narrative sources of Ottoman history has contributed to the neo-Ottomanism of the contemporary moment, unwittingly or not.

    It has taken a collective, transnational and multi-disciplinary effort to begin to recover and restore the global legacy of the peoples and cultures of the tri-continental Ottoman polity. Indeed, scholars across the humanities and social sciences whose work engages different aspects of Ottoman, Turkish, and, more broadly, Middle Eastern pasts, have all contributed to the methodological sophistication Mikhail’s overall work reflects as well as helping to prepare the intellectual terrain for its reception. However we may regard the merits of God’s Shadow, we must thank its author for his efforts in making the empire’s significance understandable to new audiences while defying those who seek to impose boundaries on the horizons of Ottoman scholarship to solidify their fading authority.

    _____

    Efe Khayyat is Associate Professor of Comparative Literature at Rutgers and a Senior Researcher at St. Edmund’s College of Cambridge. He works mostly with Turkish (Ottoman and modern), Ladino (Judeo-Espagnol), Italian, French, German, and Arabic. He is the author of Istanbul 1940 and Global Modernity (Rowman & Littlefield, 2019). Among his awards are various fellowships and visiting professorships at Gutenberg in Mainz, Science Po and Paris 8 in Paris, Cambridge University, and Jamia Millia Islamia of Delhi; a UNESCO award, the Marjorie Hope Nicolson Fellowship and an ICLS fellowship at Columbia, and the Sir Mick and Lady Barbara Davis Fellowship at the Woolf Institute. He was a member of the founding board of Harvard’s Institute for World Literature. Efe is currently working on an edited volume on the cultural history of artificial intelligence, and a new book on “Kariye” (Khôra).

    Ariel Salzmann is Associate Professor of Islamic and World History at Queen’s University. Her intellectual interests span world regions, disciplines, past and present. In addition to her 2004 monograph on the political sociology of the later Ottoman Empire, Tocqueville in the Ottoman Empire: Rival Paths to the Modern State, Professor Salzmann has published articles on a wide range of subjects, from a sociological analysis of the integration/exclusion of religious minorities in Medieval Christendom and the Islamic World, to an account of the conversion of a Maltese priest to Islam in seventeenth-century Egypt and an analysis of the consumer craze over tulips in eighteenth-century Istanbul. Her scholarship has been supported by fellowships and grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities/American Research Institute in Turkey Fellowship (1988, 1999), the American Council of Learned Societies (2000), and Queen’s University’s A.R.C/ S.A.R.C. (2005, 2011). Her current research project, which seeks to document cultural and diplomatic relations between the popes and Ottoman sultans, was the alternate for the American Academy in Rome’s Senior Prize in Renaissance and Early Modern Italian Studies in 2010. She was awarded a Senior Fellowship at the Research Centre for Anatolian Civilisations of Koç University in Istanbul, Turkey for Winter Term 2011. Before Queen’s, Professor Salzmann taught graduate and undergraduate students at the Pratt Institute, the University of Cincinnati and New York University. At Queen’s University she teaches seminars and lectures on Middle Eastern and world history.

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    Notes
    [1] Suraiya Faroqhi, A Cultural History of the Ottomans: The Imperial Elite and its Artefacts (London: I. B. Tauris, 2016); Suraiya Faroqhi, Kultur und Alltag im Osmanischen Reich: Vom Mittelalter bis zum Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts (Munich: C.H.Beck, 1995); Caroline Finkel, Osman’s Dream: The Story of the Ottoman Empire, 1300-1923 (New York: Basic Books, 2006); Elizabeth F. Thompson, Justice Interrupted: The Struggle for Constitutional Government in the Middle East (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013); Eugene Rogan, The Fall of the Ottomans: The Great War in the Middle East (New York: Basic Books, 2015); Leslie Peirce, Empress of the East: How a European Slave Girl Became Queen of the Ottoman Empire (New York: Basic Books, 2017).

    [2] Erich Auerbach, “The Philology of World Literature,” in Time, History, and Literature: Selected Essays of Erich Auerbach, ed. James I. Porter, trans. Jane O. Newman (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014), 262-63.

    [3] Carina L. Johnson, Cultural Hierarchy in Sixteenth-Century Europe: The Ottomans and Mexicans (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011).

    [4] Suraiya Faroqhi, Approaching Ottoman History: An Introduction to the Sources (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 2.

    [5] Ariel Salzmann, “The Education of an Ottomanist: Donald Quataert and the Narrative Arc of Ottoman Historiography, 1985-2011,” in History From Below: A Tribute in Memory of Donald Quataert, eds. Selim Karahasanoğlu & Deniz Cenk Demir (Istanbul: Bilgi Üniversitesi Yayinlari 2016) pp.75-106.

     

  • Anthony Bogues — Writing About Empire in the Nineteenth Century Caribbean (Review of Christopher Taylor’s Empire of Neglect)

    Anthony Bogues — Writing About Empire in the Nineteenth Century Caribbean (Review of Christopher Taylor’s Empire of Neglect)

    by Anthony Bogues

    Review of Christopher Taylor, Empire of Neglect: The West Indies in the Wake of British Liberalism (Duke University Press, 2018).

    To write about Empire today is of some significance. To connect Empire to the practices of nineteenth century British liberalism is critical. Christopher Taylor’s Empire of Neglect, which argues that in British colonial policy, “liberal freedom becomes a form of liberal neglect,” Taylor, 2018, 3) is thus already doing important work. That it does this through a critical literary lens marks an opening for those of us who think that critical scholarship currently demands an interdisciplinary approach. In the field of political thought/political theory the writings of Uday Metha, Jennifer Pitts and others have laid some grounds for thinking about the ideology of liberalism and its entanglements with the various European  colonial projects, particularly the British and French colonial empires. In these studies, the Caribbean—despite being one of the early centers of British colonial rule and site of several conflicts and territorial transfers from one colonial power to the next — is often elided. And, all of this is strange since the Caribbean before the late 1870s scramble for Africa was the venue from which many theories about blackness were formulated. One only has to read Jefferson’s Notes on Virginia to see the copious references to the Jamaican colonial administrator and historian Edward Long’s three volumes on the history of Jamaica published in 1774. Jamaica was considered in the eighteenth century the “best jewel in the British Diadem.” And even after the abolition of slavery there was continued British preoccupation with these former slave societies.

    Nineteenth century British political ideas and thought in general were deeply engaged with the Caribbean in the aftermath of the abolition of the slave trade in 1807 and then the ending  of the formal social system of racial plantation slavery in 1838. In the words of the 1839 “Memorandum of the West Indian Assemblies” from the Colonial Office, the new key concern for the British colonial policy was the “institutions of the colonies and the new rights given to the negroes” (Cited in Bogues 2018, 156). These rights, which purported to make the once enslaved black population subjects but not citizens would become a contested terrain. All of this was not accidental once we recall that John Stuart Mill argued in Liberty that “despotic government” was acceptable for the colonies until they had arrived at a stage where they could be offered self-government. In this tutelage model of rule, what I have called elsewhere the “ladder of civilization,”(Bogues 2005, 217) there was a profound set of distinctions between being a subject and citizen. Included in these distinctions were issues of suffrage and conception of capacity. The conceptions of capacity meant several things including: political self-rule, mastery over the self, and forms of rationality, all summed in the word character.[i] This conception of capacity became a key element of Anglophone Caribbean anti-colonial  thought so that in many of the writings of the newly formed black intelligentsia during this period the frame for anti-colonial thinking was around them having the capacity for self-rule. However, a key issue issue would be who was judging who and therefore what did the color of capacity look like? Part of the strength of Empire of Neglect is to point to how capacity was a problematic terrain of anti-colonial thinking.

    Liberalism and colonialism

    Often times, in our general thinking about liberalism and empire we focus on the main political thinkers of the period. Yet, as Empire of Neglect reminds us, liberalism was not only wrought through theoretical work; it was constructed as well by colonial practices. And here one is thinking about what colonial power did and how these deeds were then formulated back into liberalism and where that did not happen, how liberalism would create sites of difference in which might was right. Liberalism therefore was not an ideology and theory without practices, but rather within forms of colonial rule it was one in which colonial practice shaped political ideas. Therefore, to tell a more complex story of the history of political thought requires us to probe practices of thought because in any ideological configurations there is a profound relationship between the deed and the word. In trying to grapple with British liberalism in the mid-nineteenth century it behooves us to grapple with the critical issue that faced British colonial power at that time. So one might read Empire of Neglect as working through a form of rule which British colonial policy sought to enact. In the case of the Caribbean, colonial rule was a complex matter  because the colonies were slave colonies. Within some Caribbean slave colonies there were local white legislative assemblies that governed the territories. All slave colonies were run by a colonial governor who worked in tandem with the British colonial office that set colonial policy based on British parliamentary decisions. In such contexts violence as an technology of rule was the order of the day.

    As stated before, after the abolition of slavery, the crucial question for British colonial policy and politics was: how were these colonies to be ruled now that slavery was abolished? One current of this preoccupation was expressed in the phrase the “new rights of the negroes.” By the 1850s this preoccupation about how the colonies should be ruled became a driver of British colonial policy towards the Caribbean. A figure who represented this drive and wrote many essays about this as an Oxford professor of political economy was Herman Merivale. His essays and speeches brought him some public acclaim and he moved from Oxford to become colonial secretary in the British colonial office.[ii] In the lecture “Colonies without slaves or convicts,” Merivale noted that “the economical objects of colonization are two only: First, to furnish means of bettering their condition to the unemployed, ill–employed, portion of  the people of the mother country. Secondly, to create a new market for the trade of the mother country” (Merivale 1842, 33). To create a new market for British trade required creating new subjects who were not slaves. For this to happen, Merivale recommended that the “duties of the colonial government … seem to arrange themselves under two heads – protection and civilization” (155). The idea of this form of rule, which I have called elsewhere “pastoral coloniality” (Bogues 2018, 156) was at the core of British rule of the Caribbean colonies in the immediate post abolition period. This did not mean that when deemed necessary by the colonial governor, the conventional practices of colonial power—that might was right–did not operate, clearly discernible by the actions of Governor Eyre in the aftermath of the 1865 Morant Bay Rebellion.[iii] Also, the black Jamaican was not simply a subject of the British colonial crown but he or she was in the words of Anthony Trollope, “a creole Negro.” This invented subject was in the mind of many British colonial officials different from continental Africans, a difference characterized by Trollope as one made possible by the close proximity of the African enslaved in the Caribbean living closely with and in societies with Europeans (See: Trollope 1860).

    The British Caribbean colonies from the abolition of slavery onwards were therefore former slave societies in gestation. Within this context, the Afro-Caribbean person operated on dual grounds partly shaped by the color-class codes of the period. On the one hand, there was the construction of the black ex-slave subject as a “Christian Black.”[iv] This was a subject who would wear the coat of Victorian respectability and who could, in the end and over time, might  be considered “civilized.” On the other hand, there were the ways in which many former black slaves created alternative subjectivities as they constituted new forms of culture and alternative Afro-Caribbean religious forms.[v] These latter subjectivities would never be and could never be considered civilized.

    An important aspect of the Empire of Neglect is its concern with the figure of the respectable black, the “Christian Black.” Taking its title from the poem England in the West indies; A Neglected and Degenerating Empire by the poet George Reginald Margetson, who hailed from St Kitts, the core arguments of Empire of Neglect are about the ways in which “the Jamaican ex-slave navigated  the institution of black life as worthless…[and how] ex-slaves moved through worthlessness to find another horizon of social being that they associated with empire (27). In this argument there is a concern for “imperial belonging” on the part of these ex-slaves. Taylor develops this argument through different readings including that of a pamphlet of an absentee white planter and the novel of Trinidadian intellectual Michel Maxwell Philip. The over-arching point of this book is to illustrate how Caribbean political imageries were constituted in relation to the rise of forms of anti-colonial nationalism as the “political horizon of Caribbean writing.” Yet, I pause here. I do so because black subjectivities in post-slavery Caribbean societies were not homogenous even within the newly emergent black intelligentsia. Because while there was black imperial belonging, there was another current of anti-colonialism one in which forms of black nationalism under various symbolic orders of Afro Caribbean religious-politico forms would appear. Alongside these counter-symbolic forms were mass actions so that in Jamaica in 1884 there was black mass anger which frightened the colonial authorities and by 1895 the dockworkers went on massive strike, one which Dr Robert Love perhaps the most radical black intellectual  in the Caribbean at the time suggested was a new marker. All of this pushed the British colonial authorities to increase Indian and Chinese indenture labor schemes. In recalling these moments while Empire of Neglect opens up the space for us to grapple with the complexities of “imperial belonging,” one might also attend to other archives and figures, such as the ordinary Caribbean ex-slave who sought to create different forms of belonging other than that which primarily rested upon an imperial imaginary. Empire of Neglect makes it clear that central to the emergence of a certain kind of Caribbean nationalism is J.J. Thomas’s work and his seminal book Froudacity.

     JJ Thomas and the struggle for recognition

    Empire of Neglect engages adroitly with the reception of J.J. Thomas’s work in Caribbean intellectual and political history. Following Empire of Neglect, I want to reread Froudacity as a complex anti-colonial text, one in which there is a longing for Britishness or recognition from the British colonial power of capacity, and within this capacity, a desire for some form of Caribbean self-government. In his writings on Thomas, Rupert Lewis makes clear that “the book marks a state of mind that is in direct transition to the ideas which later became known as Garveyism” (Lewis, 54). At the core of this complexity was Thomas’s idea that the Black Anglo-Caribbean person was equal to any British white person. It was an argument about capacity and the readiness of the colonies for forms of internal self-government, if not full independence.[vi] In his 1969 introduction to the republication of Thomas’s book, C.L.R. James noted that James Anthony Froude, the British professor who wrote the book The English in the West Indies: The Bow of Ulysses, to which Thomas had responded, had embarked on this project because he was part of the British intelligentsia opposed to any form of West Indian self-government. Thomas, who read the book in Grenada, wrote a series of articles in response to Froude’s travelogue.[vii]

    Christopher Taylor provides us with a nuanced and excellent read of Froudacity. He writes, “Froudacity did not simply cut ties with the empire … it also cut ties with the empire centered political and literary tradition” (232). In one sense, I think this is an accurate assessment, but in another, I wonder if we can think further about the complexity of this kind of anti-colonial thought, predicated as it was on  the idea that “we were ready.” On whose terms were we [the Caribbean] ready for self rule? And more importantly, who was ready? Thomas, while exposing the anti-black racism of Froude, simultaneously agrees with one of the markers of anti-black racism of the period, the ways in which the West understood the black sovereign power of the Haitian republic. One nineteenth century current of anti-black racism was the “Haitian Fear.” The idea of black sovereignty expressed through the dual Haitian revolution shook the colonial world. The idea of Haiti, was the worst nightmare for colonial powers and American slave masters.[viii] Liberalism feared Haiti. Many a liberal abolitionist believed that Haiti was the worst example of black freedom. Froude was not an exception to this and raged against the black republic. Thomas, while vindicating the black self, wrote in repose to this anti-black rage, “we saw them free, but perfectly illiterate barbarians, impotent to use the resources of their valour.” In this statement, he repeats what some black figures at the time felt about Haiti. Attempting to mitigate this sentiment, Thomas noted that part of the political difficulties in Haiti had been generated by the mulatto social grouping (Thomas 54). His ambivalences towards Haiti were rooted in a certain respectable black subjectivity created by British colonial power. Here we should remember that Thomas was a schoolmaster. Such a figure was at the pinnacle of what was then considered the “Christian Black.” But Thomas was a complex figure because he wrote the very first defense of the black vernacular languages of the Caribbean and his book, Creole Grammar, remains the starting point for creole linguistics in the Anglophone Caribbean.

    In the final chapter of his book, Thomas makes it clear that “the extra – African millions in the Western Hemisphere” will make a significant contribution to what he considers as human development. Interestingly, he deploys the American reconstruction period as an example of this, but elides the racial terror of the period. In all of this, Thomas was attempting to stake out a different ground for Caribbean anti-colonialism and the capacity of the black Caribbean person.[ix] Froude had written that within the Caribbean “there are no people here in the sense of the word and  the islands [were] becoming nigger warrens” (Cited in Thomas, 19). J.J. Thomas, learned schoolmaster and respectable Black, was not only deeply offended by this, but in his act of writing in defense of the capacity of the Caribbean black ex-slave, began to formulate the idea of a nation. I would argue that for him, as well for his work, Creole Grammar was in part illuminating capacity, making it clear that this nation in gestation had a language.[x]

    Thus, Taylor’s book, in teasing out a sentiment of “imperial belonging,” makes a signal contribution by bringing Thomas as an example of this kind of current. I would argue that this was one hall mark of this Caribbean black intelligentsia—a deep anti-racism combined with a sense of belonging to the British empire while desiring all the rights of citizenship. Thus even in his advocacy for a modicum of internal self-government within the juridical context of a crown colony, Thomas appeals to fact that the black Caribbean subject as outgrown “ the stage of political tutelage” (215). But this capacity or political readiness was not an argument for full independence but rather a call for fuller internal political participation and the end to crown colony government. Perhaps nowhere is this kind of advocacy most pronounced than in the writings of T. E. S. Scholes, an extraordinary figure who wrote two volumes attacking the idea of Black inferiority, The Glimpses of the Ages, or the Superior and Inferior Races So  Called, Discussed in the Light of Science and History (1905/1907). Before that he had written the important political economy pamphlet in 1897, “The Sugar Questions of the West Indies.”[xi]

    One of the major contributions of Empire of Neglect is to illuminate the political economy circumstances that Thomas and others inhabited. In the eighteenth century, colonial Britain operated economically through a closed system of mercantilism. One effect of industrialization, a process facilitated enormously by Caribbean plantation slavery was the demand by another set of British economic elites for free trade. In such a context the economic frame became a balance between the overseas sale to foreign regions of manufactured goods. Critical to that was the access to raw materials and finance. All this meant that the Caribbean colonies were no longer jewels in the British colonial crown. Thus, the matter of how to rule the newly emancipated ex-slaves occurred within an economic situation in which the core drives of colonial power had shifted from plantation slavery to imperial colonial control and command over new lands, as well as to the construction of the figure of the native in Africa and elsewhere. To put this in another way, deploying Stuart Hall, the conjecture had shifted. Yet, we know that in these kinds of shifts the old does not die but is reworked into new forms. One strength of Empire of Neglect is to mark this historic shift.

    It is safe to say that many Afro-Caribbean persons felt the shift but paid no attention. I would argue that, in part, this was due to the growing importance in the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth century of the banana trade, and the emergence of the United States as an economic presence in the region. And here we should recall that by December 1823, the US had promulgated the Monroe doctrine. The doctrine made it clear that Europe should no longer seek new colonies in the Western Hemisphere. It was a clear sign of the beginning of US hegemonic power in the region. By the late nineteenth and early twentieth century the so-called respectable Afro-Caribbean individual would still look to Britain as a place where he or she could make a mark. Thus, for example, between 1931 and 1932 C.L.R. James would first consider migrating to London, while Garvey and Sylvester Williams years earlier would think about moving to the US. One could argue that the migratory patterns of the Caribbean, even as British subjects, was largely directed toward Central America and the US before London recalling that West Indian labor was critical for the building of the Panama Canal and the revitalization of the sugar industry in Cuba in the early 20th century. So, while there were migratory movements in the late 19th and 20th centuries which social grouping went where is an important fact. Here the issue was not so much geography but rather the sense of the neglectful distance, which colonial Britain had so carefully cultivated. So we have a paradox: the Anglophone Caribbean person  was still constituted as a  British colonial subject and yet those black Caribbean political  subjects, who were preoccupied with forms of black consciousness, would find themselves in the US and while they belonged to empire, and also seeing themselves  as part of the Black world.[xii]

    The rule of Crown Colony

    Empire of Neglect provides an important alternative view of the emergence of Caribbean anti-colonialism and its nineteenth century context. One of the central features of British colonial rule in the Caribbean in the aftermath of the Jamaican Morant Bay rebellion in 1865 was the enactment of crown colony government. This form of juridical rule meant that the local white legislative assemblies were abolished. Some of the arguments for their abolishment circled around the sense that sooner rather later the emerging black intelligentsia would begin to clamor for rights and representation in the assemblies. From as early as the 1840s the colonial secretary of state wrote the following letter: “From all I can hear it seems certain that before long the negro population will obtain a preponderating influence in the Assby…[thus] the authority of the Crown should be for the protection of the higher classes be somewhat strengthened” (Cited in Hart, 66). But there were many complexities involved here. How was a liberal colonial government to treat the former black slaves as subjects? What did it mean to be subjects and not citizens? How was rule to be constituted over a black intelligentsia which was rapidly emerging in part through missionary education? Within this context this intelligentsia created forms of anti – racism. A feature of these forms was the ground for racial equality. It meant that the black Caribbean had the capacity for internal self rule. It also meant that as a black diaspora they were better equipped in their minds to redeem Africa.[xiii] This kind of anti-racism in the understanding of many of these figures was compatible with being a citizen of the British colonial empire. Therefore, in many instances their struggles circled around what was considered to be the features of the rights of this citizenship. In this sense one aspect of colonial rule and domination had created a Caribbean black native for whom empire was a form of rule in which they had rights. It is from this perspective that for them empire was neglectful.

    By the 1930s, this kind of anti-colonialism would congeal into forms of creole nationalism, a form of political nationalism which would focus on constitutional independence.[xiv] The various currents within this form of anti-colonial nationalism would eschew the ordinary black Jamaican and Caribbean person. For the ordinary black Caribbean person forms of black radical nationalisms dominated life, either through religious practices such as Rastafarianism, through the work of black prophets like Alexander Bedward, or through radical political organizations like the Poor Man’s Land Improvement Association.[xv]

    These various forms of anti-colonial nationalisms would tussle with each other even after constitutional independence in the 1960’s and would remain in a political alliance for a brief moment during the Michael Manley regime of the 1970s.[xvi] The importance of Empire of Neglect is that it allows us to revisit a historical period of Caribbean history when the conjuncture was in flux. In its close readings of some of the key texts of the period, it reminds us of another historiography of thought that demands our attention. Finally, it makes plain that the Caribbean continued to be a crucial site, even if a neglected one, for nineteenth century Imperial Britain. In all of this, the Caribbean created various forms of anti-colonial ideas and practices. These included radical anti-colonial ideas that drew from Afro-Caribbean alterative epistemological practices. In moments of what C.L.R. James would call the “fever and fret” of the times, these radical practices would challenge both colonial and post-colonial state formations and its ways of life (James xi). In thinking about mapping the intellectual history and political thought of the region, writers like J.J. Thomas and Maxwell Philips became key figures. However, in the words of Bob Marley, the half is still to be told. Empire of Neglect, in this way, gives us an excellent rendering of the figure of the respectable “Christian black” and his desire for racial vindication and self-government. It is a necessary book.

     

    Anthony Bogues is the Asa Messer Professor of Humanities and Critical Theory and  the inaugural director of the Center for the Study of Slavery and Justice at  Brown University. He is also a visiting professor  and curator at the University of Johannesburg. The author/editor of nine books, he has curated exhibitions in USA, Caribbean, and South Africa. He is currently working on a book titled Black Critique and editing with Bedour Algraa a volume on Sylvia Wynter’s work. He is the co-convener of an Africanand African Diasporic contemporary art project/platform on Black Lives today titled, Imagined New.

     

    [i] For a discussion of this see Stefan Collini, “The Idea of Character in Victorian Political Thought” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, vol 35, fifth series (1985) 29-50.

    [ii]  For a discussion about the writings of Merivale, liberalism and nineteenth century Jamaica see Bogues 2018, 150-173.  Merivale’s lectures were published as Lectures on colonization and Colonies, delivered before the University of Oxford in1839, 1840 and 1841 (London 1842). As well it should be noted that there is a rich Caribbean historiography  which argues that the political contours of the Caribbean were put in place during this period. Emerging from this historiography is the concept posited by Rex Nettleford of the “battle for space.” The argument rests on the idea that within the Anglophone Caribbean there is not a revolutionary political tradition but rather a rebellious one which circles around contestations for space within society. For a historical account of these battles see, Moore and Johnson 2004. One of the most impressive historical text on the practices of the British Empire is Catherine Hall’s Civilizing Subjects: Metropole and Colony in the English Imagination 1830-1867 (2002).

    [iii] Of course, the debate within the Jamaica committee then led by John Stuart Mill was indicative of a divide about how to rule the Caribbean. Mill and his colleagues including Charles Darwin argued that the killing of the leadership of the rebellion by the colonial governor without due legal process of trial was an abrogation of the rights of British-Jamaican subjects. Thomas Carlyle and Charles Dickens argued otherwise.

    [iv] The idea of the “Christian Black” emerged out of studies of nineteenth century post-slavery Jamaica and complicated the imperial  narrative by foregrounding the role of British missionaries sent to Jamaica and the British Caribbean to train the ex-slave in Christianity and civilization. For a discussion of this concept see Russell, 51-58.

    [v] For a discussion of these Afro-Caribbean religious forms see Curtin 1955.

    [vi] It should be noted that at the core of C.L.R. James’s pamphlet, “The Case for West Indian Self Government” (1933) is the central political argument that West Indians were ready for self-rule. It was an argument against the colonial office which at that time made clear that there was need for more years of preparation before the region could be self-governing.

    [vii] It is important to note that Froude and Trollope were travel writers and both had written on South Africa and the Caribbean. Thomas’s response therefore should also be seen as a nationalist response to the colonial gaze which dominated European travel writing at that time.

    [viii] For a discussion of this vision of Haiti see the essays in the collection in eds. Dillon and Drexler 2016.

    [ix] I think in these views that the anti-colonial figure from Trinidad who follows closely some of the lines of thinking that Thomas lays down is Henry Sylvester Williams who was born in Trinidad in 1869 and by 1897 had formed the African Association in London. In 1901 he and W.E.B. Du Bois organized the first Pan African congress in London. Thomas’s thought moved from a focus on an emancipated ex-slave population to then consider the African diaspora. Williams began by thinking about blacks in the Caribbean and then moved to continental Africa. It is important to note that he lived for a time in Cape Town, South Africa.

    [x] For a full and careful reading of J.J. Thomas’s life and work see Smith 2002.

    [xi] For a good description of T. E. S. Scholes see Bryan, 47-67.

    [xii] It is interesting to note that Garvey seeks to build the UNIA in the US and that George Padmore comes to the US to study at Howard University where he joins the Communist Party before going to Moscow.

    [xiii] The idea of the “redemption of Africa” by the African diaspora in the Caribbean has a long history which includes figures of the Haitian revolution like Baron de Vastey, the writer and political personality whose 1814 text is critical in any study of the revolution. I would argue that  J.J. Thomas and others belonged to this current who believe that one of the obligations of the African diaspora is to “redeem Africa.” One does not understand the ways in which Africa becomes a signifier in the work of Garvey without not locating it inside this political tradition.

    [xiv]  I would argue that this kind of anti-racism would then merge  with a  Brown Jamaican nationalism which emerges with the formation of Sandy Cox and  Alexander Dixon’s  organization National Club  and the newspaper  Our Own, which began publication in July 1910. In Grenada in 1883 the newspaper Grenada People also began to advocate for a modicum of self rule and that blacks  should be allowed the right to vote and be  represented.

    [xv] For a discussion of nationalism in Jamaica see Bogues,  “ Nationalism and Jamaican Political  Thought’ in Kathleen Monteith & Glen Richards ( eds ) Jamaica in Slavery and Freedom: History , Heritage and Culture.  2002, 363-388. For a discussion of the leader of the Poor Man Land Improvement Association see, Rumble 1974. For a exemplary  novel that examines the ideas and work of Alexander Bedward see Miller 2016.

    [xvi] There has been intense discussion and debate about these nationalisms and how the 1970’s was a transformative moment, from constitutional independence to decolonization, as well as ar national liberation. This is part of a critical oral history project in political thought of the 1970’s that is currently underway in the Caribbean.  In the eyes of many,  this kind of  project is required to fill the gaps of the numerous the scholarly works of the period. Such a project also reimages what kinds of archives can and should be engaged in circumstances when a society is in deep flux and change.

     

    Works Cited:

    Merivale, Herman. 1842. Lectures on colonization and Colonies, delivered before the University of Oxford in 1839, 1840 and 1841. London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longman.

    Bogues, Anthony. “John Stuart Mill and the “Negro Question” Race, Colonialism and the Ladder of Civilization.” In Andrew Valls, Race and Racism in Modern Philosophy Cornell University Press, 2005.

    Bogues, Anthony. “Liberalism, Colonial Power, Subjectivities and the Technologies  of Pastoral Coloniality: The Jamaica Case” in Tim Barringer & Wayne Modest, Victorian Jamaica  Duke University Press, 2018

    Elizabeth Dilion & Michael Drexler. The Haitian Revolution and the Early United States University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016.

    Miller, Kei. 2016. August Town. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson.

    Moore, Brian and Michelle Johnson. 2004. Neither Led nor Driven: Contesting British Colonial Imperialism in Jamaica, 1865-1920. Kingston: University of West Indies Press.

    Richard Hart. From Occupation to Impendence ; A Short History of the Peoples of the English Speaking Caribbean (London: Pluto Press, 1998) p. 66.   

    Rumble, Robert. 1974. “As told to Robert Hill & Richard Small : The Teaching of Robert Rumble – A Jamaican Peasant Leader.” In Education and Black Struggle: Notes from the Colonized World. Cambridge: The Harvard Educational Review.

    Smith, Faith. 2002. Creole Recitations, J.J. Thomas and Colonial Formation in the Late 19th century Caribbean. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press.

    Taylor, Christopher. 2018. Empire of Neglect. Durham: Duke University Press.

    Thomas, J.J. 1969. Froudacity. London: New Beacon Books.

    Trollope, Anthony. 1860. The West Indies and the Spanish Main. London: Chapman and Hall.

    Russell, Horace. 1983. “The Emergence of the Christian Black: The Making of a Stereotype.” Jamaica Journal, 16.1: 51-58.

  • Christian Thorne — Immanuel Kant’s Manifesto for Dad Rock (Review of Nicholas Brown’s Autonomy: The Social Ontology of Art under Capitalism)

    Christian Thorne — Immanuel Kant’s Manifesto for Dad Rock (Review of Nicholas Brown’s Autonomy: The Social Ontology of Art under Capitalism)

    This article is part of a forthcoming special issue of CLCWeb: Comparative Literature and Culture, dedicated to Nicholas Brown’s book, Autonomy: The Social Ontology of Art Under Capitalism, edited by Mathias Nilges.

    By Christian Thorne

    Review of Nicholas Brown, Autonomy: The Social Ontology of Art under Capitalism (Duke, 2019)

    If there is one point that should be reasonably clear to anyone who has read “The Culture Industry” (1947/2002), it is that Adorno and Horkheimer do not reject popular culture. That essay, it’s true, gives us reasons to question any number of things that we typically hold dear: free time (for being unfree time, nearly as programmed as the work from which it nominally releases us) (104), laughter (for being the consolation prize you get for not having a life worth living) (112), style (for funneling all social and historical content into a pre-arranged matrix or inflexible scheme of aesthetic quirks and twitches; for holding out the promise of artistic individualism—the personal signature in literature or music—and then transposing this into its opposite, the iterative, unresponsive art-machine) (100ff). Most of us remember “The Culture Industry” as anti-pop’s cahier de doléance, its encyclopedia of anathema, the night in which all bêtes sont noires. But alongside the essay’s admittedly austere bill of grievances, it is easy enough to compile a second list, an inventory of things that Adorno and Horkheimer say they like and suggest we might admire: Charlie Chaplin, the Marx Brothers (109), Greta Garbo (106), the circus (114), old cartoons, Felix the Cat (maybe), Gertie the Dinosaur (perhaps), Betty Boop (for sure, because they name her) (106). Just to be clear: “The Culture Industry,” Exhibit A in any case against critical theory’s Left elitism, is also the essay in which Adorno attacks Mozart while praising “stunt films,” which we might more idiomatically translate as “Jackie Chan.” One can thus cite authentically Adornian precedence for an attitude that distrusts classical music and celebrates kung fu movies, and this will be hard to believe only if you prefer a critical theory shorn of its dialectics, stripped of the contradictory judgments that thought renders upon contradictory material—only, that is, if you prefer the Adorno of joke Twitter feeds and scowling author photos: bald, moon-faced, a Central European frown emoji inexplicably mad at his own piano. One suspects that readers have generally refused to take seriously the essay’s central category. For the culture industry is neither an epithet nor a gratuitously Marxist synonym for popular culture, but rather a different concept, distorted every time we paraphrase it in that other, more comfortable idiom, as a calumny upon pop culture or pop. There is plenty of evidence, in the essay itself, that Adorno and Horkheimer were drawing distinctions between forms of popular culture, and not just pitting the Glenn Miller Orchestra against Alban Berg.

    Such, then, is one way of taking the measure of Nicholas Brown’s Autonomy (2019). This is one of those books that you might have thought no-one could write anymore: four chapters that mean to restate the old, left-wing case for art, unapologetically named as such, as the artwork—and not as text or culture or cultural production—the idea being that art represents the survival of independent human activity under conditions hostile to such a thing. No longer homogenized under those master terms, art can again take as its rival entertainment, a word whose German equivalent derives from the verb unterhalten, which even English speakers can tell means “to hold under,” as though movies and TV shows existed to keep us down, as though R&B were a ducking or a swirlie. That the English word borrows the same roots from the French only confirms the point: entre + tenir, to keep amidst or hold in position. Entertain used to mean “to hire, as a servant.”

    Autonomy is also the book in which a next-generation American Marxist out-Mandarins Adorno, who, after all, begins his essay by insisting that the cultural conservatives are wrong. There has been no decline of standards, no cultural anarchy let loose by the weakening of the churches and the vanishing of the old, agrarian societies, hence no permissive culture in which anything goes. Just the contrary: Magazines and radio and Hollywood form a system with its own rigidly enforced standards, a highly regulated domain in which almost nothing goes. Adorno’s way of saying this is that there is no “cultural chaos.” But Nicholas Brown prefers the chaos thesis, endorsing the position that Adorno has preemptively rejected as both reactionary and implausible: “The culture industry,” Brown writes, couching in Frankfurtese his not-at-all Adornian point, is “the confusion in which everything worth saving is lost” (135).

    Similarly, readers are usually surprised to find Adorno writing in defense of “mindlessness.” His hunch is that Kantian aesthetics might find its niche among the lowest art forms and not, as we more commonly expect, among the most elevated. Sometimes I encounter an object and find it beautiful, and in that moment of wonderment, my attitude towards the object is adjusted. I stop trying to discern what the thing is for or how to use it. Where a moment ago, I was still scanning its instruction manual, I am now glad for the thing just so. Perhaps I am even moved to disenroll the beautiful thing from the inventory of useful objects, or find myself doting on it even having ascertained that it’s not good for much. But then sometimes this purposiveness without a purpose is going to strike me not as beautiful, but as stupid, and Adorno’s point is that the stupid can do the work of the beautiful, that the beaux arts are If anything outmatched by the imbecile kind. The activities that we do for their own sake, for the idiot joy of our own capacities, are the ones that our pragmatic selves are likely to dismiss as dopey: someone you know can pay two recorders at once with her nose; a guy you once met could burp louder than a riding mower; you’ve heard about people who can vomit at will and recreationally. Kantian Zweckmäßigkeit ohne Zweck enters the vernacular every time we mutter “That was pointless.” It is in this spirit that Adorno sticks up for “entertainment free of all restraint,” “pure entertainment,” “stubbornly purposeless expertise,” and “mindless artistry.” His claim, in fact, is that the culture industry is hostile to such “meaninglessness,” that Hollywood is “making meaninglessness disappear” (114). It might be enough here to recall the difficulties that the major studios have in making comedies that are funny all the way through, preferring as they do to recruit their clowns from improv clubs and sketch shows, to promote them to the rank of movie star, and then to impound them in the regularities of the well-made plot, complete with third-act twists and character arcs, gracelessly telegraphed in the film’s final twenty-five minutes, to make up for all the time squandered on jokes, and tending to position the buffo’s comic persona as a pathology to be cured, scripting a return to normalcy whose hallmark is a neutralized mirthlessness. Hollywood’s comic plots model the supersession of comedy and not its vindication.

    But Nicholas Brown is not on the side of meaninglessness. “In commercial culture,” he writes, “there are no works to critique and no meanings to be found”—and he does not mean this as praise (10). In Autonomy, there is no liberating nonsense, but only the English professor’s compulsion to discern meaning, his impatience with any art for which one could not readily devise an essay prompt. Whatever independence the book’s title is offering us, it is not the freedom to stop making sense. It feels bracing, in fact, to read a book so willing to discard the institutionalized anti-elitism of cultural studies and 200-level seminars offering to “introduce” 20-year-olds to horror movies. When Brown rolls his eyes over Avatar because of some dumb thing its director once said in an interview, or when he calls off a wholly promising reading of True Detective by announcing that it is “nothing more than an entertainment,” we need to see him as turning his back on the aging pseudo-Gramscians of the contemporary academy, all those populists without a movement, the media-studies scholars who imagine themselves as part of a Cultural Front that no-one else can see, a two-term alliance consisting entirely of Beyoncé fans and themselves; the shopping-mall Maoists of the 1990s who couldn’t tell the difference between aller au peuple and aller au cinema (71). Adorno, of course, was concerned that the desires and tastes of ordinary audiences could be manipulated or even in some sense produced. “The Culture Industry” prompts in its readers the still Kantian project to figure out which of the many pleasures they experience are authentically their own. Which are the pleasures that will survive your reflection upon them, and which are the ones that you might reject for having made you more object-like, for having come to you as mere stimulation or conditioning? The autonomy that Adorno is trying to imagine is therefore ours, in opposition to a mass media that muscles in to tell us what we want before we have had a chance to consider what else there is to want or how a person might want differently, to work out not just different objects of desire, but different modes of desiring and of seeking satisfaction. Brown, by contrast, complains repeatedly that artists more than ever have to make things that people like. The autonomy that he is after is thus not our autonomy from an insinuating system but the artist’s autonomy from us. It is no longer surprising for a tenured literature professor to disclose, in writing, that he’s been listening to early Bruno Mars records. The unusual bit comes when Brown says he doesn’t think they’re any good (24).

    *

    Rather than summarize Brown’s findings, it might be more instructive to think of his book as having been constructed, modularly, out of four blocks:

    1) A Marxist problem: The problem that drives Brown’s thinking arrives as a question: What is the condition of art in the era of the universal market? The very concept of art promises that there exists a special class of objects, objects that we intuitively set apart, that are exempt from our ordinary calculi, that indeed activate one of the mind’s more recondite and less Newtonian faculties. But it is the premise of the universal market that there exist no such objects. Art might thus seem to be one of the things that a cyclically expanding capitalism has had to eliminate, as rival and incompatibility, like late medieval guilds or Yugoslavia. And yet art plainly still exists. I swear I saw some last Sunday. What, then, is the status of art when it can no longer dwell, nor even pretend to dwell, outside of the market, when its claim to distinction can no longer plausibly be voiced, when we’ve all come to suspect that the work of art is just another luxury good? One way of thinking about Autonomy, then, is to read it as refurbishing the theory of postmodernism, thirty-five years after Jameson first put that theory in place.

    2) A Kantian solution: Maybe “refurbish” is the wrong word, though. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Brown means to call off the theory of postmodernism, to soothe readers steeped in Jameson by explaining how art survives even once, in the latter’s words, “aesthetic production … has become integrated into commodity production generally” (1991: 4). Autonomy amounts to a set of reassurances that aesthetic autonomy remains possible even within the market; that artworks can come to us with ISBN numbers and still elude the constraints of the commodity form. Brown’s book amounts to a list of the techniques available to contemporary artists for performing this feat. This is an argument that can be broadcast in different frequencies. Most often, it arrives in Kantian form, to the effect that there still exist non-instrumental objects, objects that, in some sense yet to be defined, display an anomalous relationship to purpose or use. At the same time, the argument can be modulated to carry a certain Marxist content. It was Marx’s claim, after all, that capitalism was bound to produce its own enemies, that bosses and investors were fated to produce a class of persons who would simultaneously serve and oppose them. One way of engineering the splice between Marxism and Kantian aesthetics is just to swap in the word objects where the last sentence had “persons.” Marx held that labor power was the commodity that did not behave like all the others. –Perhaps art is a second such. –And maybe work is the word that holds the two together. If we grant this point, postmodernism might reveal itself to have been a false problem all along. For which faithful Marxist ever thought we had to look outside of market society for solutions? Not Jameson, at any rate, whose mantra in the 1980s was that there was no advantage in opposing postmodernism, that the task for an emancipatory aesthetics was to pick its way through postmodernism and out the other side. Nicholas Brown, meanwhile, is more interested in what came before postmodernism than in what might come after it. In literary-historical terms, his argument is best understood as vouching for the survival of modernism within its successor form. Indeed, Brown is such a partisan of early twentieth-century art that he writes a chapter on The Wire, hailed by all and sundry as the great reinvention of Victorian social realism for the twenty-first century, and calls it “Modernism on TV” (152). The theorist’s attachment to the old modern is easiest to sense whenever the book’s readings reach their anti-utilitarian and aestheticist apotheoses. Brown thinks he can explain why, when presented with two versions of the same photograph, we should prefer the one with the class conflict left out (58-9). He also praises one white, Bush-era guitar band for negating the politics implicit in its blues rock, for achieving a pop formalism so pristine that it successfully brackets the question of race (145).

    3) A high-middlebrow canon:  That the band in question is The White Stripes lights up the next important feature of Autonomy, which is that it has assembled a canon of high-middlebrow art from the last forty years: Caetano Veloso, Jeff Wall, Alejandro Iñarritu, Ben Lerner, David Simon, Jennifer Egan, Richard Linklater, Cindy Sherman. That Brown shares the last-named with Jameson’s postmodernism book is a reminder that this set of objects could be variously named. The mind swoops in to say that the high-middlebrow is nothing but postmodernism itself (EL Doctorow, Andy Warhol, Blade Runner)—that the book’s dexterity is therefore to redescribe as neo-modernist what we had previously known only as pomo—but then pauses. If we follow the classic account, then one of the foremost characteristics of postmodern art—the first box to tick if you’re in a museum carrying the checklist—is  the collapsing of high and low, or what Jameson often identifies as elite art’s unwonted interest in its downmarket rival, its willingness to mimic trash, pulp, schlock, or kitsch. But it’s never been obvious that the latter really and truly triggered the former—that the mere quoting of popular media was enough to abolish the class-boundedness of art or even to weaken our habituated sense that cultural goods sort out into a hierarchy of distinction. If I am sitting in a concert hall listening to a string quartet, then this setting alone will be enough to frame the music as high even when the composer briefly assigns the cello the bassline from Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition.” One wishes to say, then, that the middlebrow—and not the citational—is the mode of art in which the distinction between high and low most fully collapses, which should make of Midcult the form of a perfected postmodernism, except that the doubling of the concept will now raise some puzzles of its own. For didn’t the middlebrow precede the postmodern? Wasn’t there middlebrow art before there was postmodern art? And if yes, then why wasn’t such art postmodern when it combined high and low in 1940? Were high and low commingling differently in 1980 than they had in The Old Man and the Sea? And doesn’t middlebrow art have its own, more or less direct way of reaching the median, its own styles and forms, without having to assemble itself afresh every time from pieces borrowed from high and low? So perhaps we would need after all to distinguish the middlebrow from the splicing-of-pop-and-art, for which we would continue to reserve the word postmodernism. At this point, watching those terms grow unwieldy, one casts about for new ones, and looking back over Brown’s list of autonomous artists, discerns the outlines of what until recently we were calling indie culture or alternative: small-label rock albums and small-studio features, supplemented by New Yorker fiction and the more accessible reaches of gallery art. If you are persuaded by Autonomy, you’re going to say that it is a thoughtful Gen X’ers riposte to Jameson, thirty-five years his senior, a careful explanation of why he has never experienced the art of his generation as all that broken. If you are unpersuaded by the book, you’re going to say that it is Immanuel Kant’s manifesto for dad rock.

    4) The methods of the literature seminar: At this point, it becomes important to identify the first of two ways that Brown has modified the Kantian arguments that he makes often and by name. The third Critique is at pains to explain that you are doing something unusual every time you call something beautiful. First of all, you are judging without interest; when you experience something as beautiful, you stop caring what it is for, or what it can do for you, or what it is worth. And if you are judging without interest, then it follows directly that your judgment should hold universally, since all other people equally capable of bracketing their interests should judge as you do. And yet the universality in question will be a fractured one even so. When I call this painting beautiful, I demand that everyone agree with me while knowing in practice that not everyone will. My claim is thus universalizing but not genuinely universal. Beauty is the occasion for what Kant (1790/1987) innocuously names our “subjective universality”—our failed and spectral commonality, which is, of course, the fate of all universalisms thus far, unusual here only because raised to consciousness (see especially section 8).

    Brown follows this argument closely, but has nothing at all to say about beauty, which is the term one might have thought a Kantian aesthetics could not forego. His revision goes like this: I know I am in the presence of art not when I experience an object as beautiful, but when I know it to be meaningful, and I discern its meanings even having admitted that I can never know what it was that the artist meant. Deliberating about art, Brown says, has to involve the “public ascription of intention,” and it’s worth taking the time to extract the Kantian structure of this claim (13). Intention is merely ascribed, something that I have to posit. But this ascription is necessarily public; I posit meaning while expecting others to co-posit it alongside me. Meaning is subjective but not private and in this sense the successor to Kant’s beauty. Brown’s niftiest trick is thus to get meaning to do the work of the beautiful, and we can accordingly read Autonomy both as the making-hermeneutic of the philosophy of art and as the making-aesthetic of meaning, hence as philosophical aesthetics’ revenge upon semiotics for having once taught us to talk about art in de-aestheticized ways.

    “The public ascription of meaning” is also Brown’s big proposal for authenticating an object as real art even when it comes to as us as commodity. It’s his bite test and dropper of nitric acid. Can I generate public meanings around x (Alison Bechdel, Gus Van Sant, Yeah Yeah Yeahs)? In practice, this is bound to mean: Can I teach a class on x (St. Vincent, Wes Anderson, Cormac McCarthy)? Will it work in seminar? We know something to be art, Brown says, when it “solicits close interpretative attention,” and Autonomy is most convincing when modeling such attention (22). Brown is a first-rate exegete, and his book tosses off one illuminating reading after another, repeatedly vindicating the program of an older criticism: why Boyhood isn’t really a coming-of-age movie; why the second season of The Wire is Greek rather than Shakespearean tragedy (and why that distinction matters); the particular way in which bossa nova bridges the divide between popular and art musics (and what this has to do with developmentalist politics in the global South). Readers might nonetheless be disappointed to learn that postmodern art’s paths to autonomy are the ones they already knew about. The book’s point, in fact, seems to be that the old paths still work, that new ones aren’t needed. Brown likes art when it displays a degree of self-consciousness about its own procedures and historical situation, and especially when an artwork includes a version of itself which it then subjects to critique. Simple self-referentiality is his most basic requirement: that art not reproduce without comment the inherited imperatives of its genre or medium, always glossed as market imperatives. He sticks up for “framing” and “citation” because of the meta-questions that these provoke; some guitars don’t just play rock songs, but get you to reflect on the condition of rock songs. All three of the novels he recommends are thus Künstlerromane, or at least readable as such, but these are only the clearest instance of Autonomy’s fundamentally didactic preference for literature when it interrupts our naïve attitude to fiction and instead makes us think afresh about same. The White Stripes are congratulated for having turned “fun” into an “inquiry” (149).

    This position is no more perspicuous than it has ever been. A person might finish Autonomy still wondering how it is that irony in this accustomed mode is able to “suspend the logic of the commodity” (34). The question is difficult: When irony comes to us in the form of the commodity, can we be sure that the commodity always loses? What keeps the self-ironizing commodity from functioning as commodified irony? In order to be convinced of Brown’s position, do I have to believe first that irony is the one uncommodifiable thing? Or that a work that confesses its dependence on the market has thereby neutralized that dependence? In Autonomy, autonomy sometimes withers back to my ability to name my subordination. Brown, moreover, is altogether inured to one version of clientage, which is the continued dependence of art upon the critic, who, after all, is the only one who can ratify it as art, via that public ascription of meaning. Artists forward works to the marketplace without knowing whether they will even count as art, generating instead a kind of proto-art, obliged to wait for the critics who produce the aftermarket meanings that classify some works as not-just-commodities. If you are an artist, then  autonomy apparently means marking time until somebody else certifies that you have successfully described your heteronomy.

    *

    A Marxist quandary, a Kantian path out—that’s Autonomy. If I say now that the path out is poorly blazed, and maybe even a trick, then you needn’t be disappointed, because it will also turn out that the quandary wasn’t one and that it didn’t need solving. You needn’t worry, I mean, that Brown’s account of art is unconvincing, and indeed disheartening, because the situation to which this art putatively responds is a non-problem. I’ll explain each in turn:

    The non-problem: “The work of art is not like a commodity,” Brown writes. “It is one” (34). That sentence is admirably hard-headed—but is it also correct? Are music and film and such available to us only as commodities? Do we never encounter art without having bought it first? It will be enough to consult your own experience to see that you are, in fact, surrounded by non-commodified art. Works of art are the only items that governments still routinely take out of the marketplace, amassing large collections of books, movies, and symphonies that citizens can access for free. Public libraries make of the arts the only remaining occasion for the otherwise atrophied traditions of municipal socialism. But when we start surveying our contemporary reserves of non-commodified art, we are talking about rather more than some picturesque Fabian survival. There was a period around the year 2000 when the new technologies more or less destroyed the market for recorded music. Even neoliberals concede that markets are not natural or spontaneous—that they have to be created and politically sustained. For the market in recorded music to have survived the rise of digital media, the governments of the capitalist states would have had to intervene massively to counter the wave of illegal downloading—the Moment of the MP3—when in fact they were largely content to let that market stop functioning. Brown is telling a story about the ever-intensifying logic of commodification, even though he has lived through the near decommodification of an entire art form, its remaking as a free good. If we are no longer talking much about media piracy, then this is only because filesharing has since been nudged back into a drastically redesigned marketplace, in the form of streaming and subscription services, which are the Aufhebung of the commodity form and its opposite: the non-market of free goods, available for a fee: Napster + the reassurance that you won’t get sued. But then is the Spotify playlist a commodity? It might be, though it seems wrong to say that I have bought such a thing, and we still lack a proper account of the new political economy of culture and its retailoring of the commodity form: Art in the Age of the Platform and the Deep Catalog. There is, of course, one position on the Left that has become totally contemptuous of the new technologies and especially of social media. The claim here is that we are gullibly creating free content for the new monopolies; we are writers and filmmakers and photographers—and we upload our work: our labor! our creativity!—and the companies make money (via advertising and the hawking of our data), and we don’t get a cut.[1] We are thus all in the position of the ‘90s-era pop star who has seen her royalties tank; against every expectation, Shania Twain has become the representative figure of our universal exploitation. This argument is worth hearing out, but it remains important even so to recall the situation that gives rise to this misgiving in the first place, which is that the creative Internet involves much more than people Instagramming their dinners. It produces Twitter essays, Ivy League professors anatomizing authoritarianism, lots of short movies, 15-second TikTok masterpieces, and song—everywhere song. To the anti-corporate line that calls me a chump for posting a video of myself playing Weezer’s “Hash Pipe” on the ukulele, the necessary Marxist rejoinder is that an arts communism is already in view—or at least that we have all the evidence we will ever need that people given the opportunity will gather without pay to fashion a culture together. Our snowballing insights into surveillance capitalism co-exist with the unforeclosed possibility that social media is the opening to socialist media. But then one wonders how new any of this is—wonders, indeed, whether the culture industry was ever tethered to the commodity form, since network television and pop radio in their canonical, postwar incarnations were already free goods, generating one of the great unremarked contradictions of twentieth-century arts commentary. Already in 1980, the art forms that a Left criticism excoriated under names like “corporate rock” and “consumer culture” were the ones that you could readily watch or hear without buying them. Before the advent of the full-scale Internet, it was alternative culture that existed only as a commodity, like that Sonic Youth CD I was once desperate to buy because I knew I was never going to hear it during morning drive time. (Only as a commodity? Almost only? Surely a friend might have hooked me up with a dub. Was I nowhere near a college radio station?) Indie used to be our name for music more-than-ordinarily dependent on the market, for art that one encountered mostly as commodity.

    That’s one way of understanding why Autonomy is trying, in vain, to solve a non-problem: The commodification of art is by no means complete. The relation of music, image, and story to the commodity form remains inconsistent and contradictory. But there’s a second way of getting at this point, and it goes back to the book’s fundamental misunderstanding of Marx and the commodity form. Brown’s promise, again, is that even in an era when we can no longer posit a distinction between the commodity and the non-commodity, we can still learn the subtler business of telling the mere commodity from the commodity-plus. Contemporary art might be a commodity, but it isn’t just a commodity. But in Marx, there is no such thing as the mere commodity. The very first point that Marx makes in Capital Volume 1 (1867/1992) is that commodities have a dual character; it is, in fact, this dualness that makes them commodities: Objects “are only commodities because they have a dual nature” (138)—they are simultaneously objects of use and objects of exchange, themselves as well as their fungible selves. Brown seems to hold that this condition is the special accomplishment of the neo-modernist artwork—its ability to escape commodification by being twofold. But that simply is the structure of the commodity. A Thomas McCarthy novel has no advantages in this regard over a tube sock or a travel mug, and Brown can only believe that it does by arguing repeatedly, contra Marx, that it is usefulness, and not doubleness, that makes something a commodity: “An experience is immediately a use value, and therefore in a society such as ours immediately entails the logic of the commodity…” (49). “Since the display value of a picture is a use value, there is nothing in the picture as an object that separates it from its being as a commodity” (68). This error is baffling, since twenty minutes spent reading Capital would have been enough to correct it, but it is also the predictable outcome of trying to get Marx and Kant to speak in the same voice. Marx’s argument has two steps: 1) It is exchange that makes something a commodity, and not use; useful objects obviously predated market society and will outlive it. 2) But then equally, use is not negated by exchange; the exchangeability of the object coexists with its usability, even though these require contradictory standpoints. It is thus impossible to understand why Brown thinks that art would stop functioning as art just because it’s for sale. Brown’s way of claiming this is to say that “the structure of the commodity excludes the attribute of interpretability” (22). If a movie comes to me as a commodity, I shouldn’t be able to interpret it, and if I am against all expectation able to discern meaning in it, I can congratulate it for having slipped free of its commodity shackles. But why would that be the case? A commodified rice cooker doesn’t stop functioning as a rice cooker. Commodified soap doesn’t stop cleaning your face. Why would artworks alone lose their particular qualities when commodified, such that we would wish to solemnize those putatively rare examples that achieve the doubleness that is in fact the commodity’s universal form?

    The fake solution: Brown’s argument gets itself into trouble by superimposing Kant on top of Marx, and yet its Kantianism is itself a mess. I should explain first why this matters. A critical theorist spots on the new arrivals shelf a book called Autonomy and can’t know at a glance what it is about, since its title exists in two registers at once. She might expect to find a book about the autonomy of art—a book, in other words, that belongs in the tradition of Gautier, Pater, Greenberg, and Rancière. But she might equally expect a book about the autonomy of workers, a book about autonomia, about the ability of workers to direct their own activity and set their own political goals without the superintendence of political parties and big trade unions. Anyone who notices that the book’s author is carrying a Duke-Literature PhD has got to expect this second autonomy, an Englishing of Potere Operaio and Lotta Continua; one might well be grateful for such a thing, since American Marxists still require the help of the Italians to make militant the cozily Jeffersonian program of “participatory democracy.” That Nicholas Brown holds no brief for the Italian Marxists is thus one of the book’s bigger surprises; if anything, the baldness of the book’s title seems designed to wrest the word autonomy away from the autonomists and to deliver it back to the aestheticism that historically predated Tronti and Virno. But the matter is more complicated than that. A certain workerism continues to inform Brown’s writing even so, if only because he so often makes about artworks arguments that we are used to hearing about proletarians. His biggest claim is that the artwork is wholly inserted into capitalism while also opposing it. “Art as such does not preexist capitalism and will not survive it; instead, art presents an unemphatic alterity to capitalism; art is not the before or after of capitalism but the deliberate suspension of its logic, its determinate other” (88-9). Or again: “The artwork is not an archaic holdover but the internal, unemphatic other to capitalist society (9). No Marxist should be surprised by this figure, though one might well marvel that it has taken the aesthetes so long to come round to it. It was the modernists, in this respect like the Third Worldists, who thought that the struggle against capitalism would have to come from some uncontaminated outside, from people who had wrenched free of the market or managed to avoid entering it in the first place. Brown’s project is to correct this bit of modernist doctrine by borrowing from Marxism its most basic dialectical motif, and in the process to get artworks to play the role formerly assigned to the working class. Brown’s artwork accordingly rumbles with otherwise diminished proletarian energies, and this has contradictory effects, for it is unclear in this scenario whether autonomous art comes to us as the ally of working people or as their rival. Brown is nowhere closer to a conventional Marxism than in his discussion of The Wire, where he offers some cogent remarks on the disappearance of the American working class, on casualization, the vanishing of jobs hitherto thought immune to mechanization, and the persistence of the category worker, as quasi-ethnic identity, even after work has disappeared. In this context, he has earmarked one line from the second season: “Modern robotics do much of the work” (qtd 174). But this last is a historical development that Brown’s argument emulates in the process of opposing, as his book palpably assigns to objects a set of historical tasks that were once thought proper for workers. Autonomy is accordingly stalked by automation, with the position of the working class—its superseded position? its only ever putative position?—now filled by quality television and smart novels. Robots do the work of capitalism; art does the work of “suspending” capitalism and is to that extent a second robot, the robot of negation: the nay-robot.

    At the same time, however, the artwork will continue to serve as the anticipatory figure for a free and self-determining humanity. If I can’t figure out how to be autonomous, I can delegate art to be autonomous in my stead. This is the not-so-secret use of those special objects to which we do not assign uses. The autonomy that we ascribe to the artwork will therefore say a lot about the independence that we wish for ourselves, and it is for this reason that the book’s explanation of Kant’s aesthetics matters, since it is from his third Critique—and not from his moral philosophy, nor from his overtly political essays—that we are expected to extract this political criterion and aim.

    The problem, then, is that Brown parses Kant’s theory of aesthetic autonomy in at least three different and incompatible ways.

    1) Sometimes, though not often, Brown cites Kant’s most distinctive formulation. Some objects strike me as manifestly designed—organized, patterned, not random—even though I can’t tell what they are for or, indeed, whether they are for anything at all. This Autonomy knows to call “purposiveness without purpose,” design without function (12, 179). Anyone aspiring to this condition is aiming for a kind of idleness, or at least an un-work, a kind of busy leisure. If lack of purpose is how we recognize autonomy, then we will ourselves only gain independence once we have resolved never to achieve anything—to swear off goals and undertakings and weekend to-do lists.

    2) But then Brown also praises some detective fiction for its ability to produce cognitive maps—for its “making connections” across “multiple milieux and classes,” and at that point one notices that he isn’t hostile to purpose after all (70). He has violated the Kantian stricture by assigning a purpose to Raymond Chandler and endorsing that purpose as worthy. The Big Sleep doesn’t just hum with needless pattern; it provides us with a service for which we might feel grateful (and for which we might pay Random House). What stands out at this point is that Brown has proposed a formulation of his own, which he prefers to “purposiveness without purpose”—namely, “immanent purposiveness,” a refusal, that is, of imposed or extrinsic ends (13). Sometimes he refers in this regard to “the self-legislating work”: “A work’s assertion of autonomy is the claim that its form is self-legislating. Nothing more” (182). For any Kantian, of course, autonomy is precisely something more—a rejection of all ends, and not just of “external” ones (31)—though the phrase “self-legislating” has a Kantian ring of its own, and we might soon conclude that Brown is silently correcting the third Critique by smuggling in a key concept from the second, in order to re-introduce purpose into a landscape forbiddingly devoid of it. He is putting the self-legislating subjects of Kantian moral philosophy in the place of the aimless objects of Kantian aesthetics.

    3) But when is an end “immanent” to a work of art? And when is it “external”? Are we confident that we know the difference between inside and out? Early in Autonomy, Brown lists among his goals a defense of the category of “intention” (10-11): We won’t even be able to regard artworks as intelligible if we treat them as non-intentional—if, that is, we stop conceiving of them as somebody’s attempt to say something. This claim is plainly incompatible with a rigorous Kantianism, since whatever intention I ascribe to the artwork will be a purpose, and Kant’s whole point is that artworks have no such purposes. But Brown’s retrieval of intention is no less damaging to the loose Kantianism he prefers. He instructs us to think of autonomy as “self-legislating,” but he also wants us to consider the intentions that activate a work of art, and the latter generates all sorts of ambiguity around the former, simply by introducing the problems of authors and artists. Where before we had one term, the artwork, now we have two, the artwork and its intender, and now we have to wonder which of them gets to be self-legislating. If we allow the artist to give herself the law, then the artwork will presumably be secondary, the vehicle and working-out of the poet’s self-chosen code, the telegram of her intention. Sometimes, however, Brown sidelines the artist and lets the movies choose their own ends: It is the job of the viewer, he writes, “to figure out what [the artwork] is trying to do” (31). And from this second perspective, one is compelled to distrust the artist’s intention as an externality—just another imposed demand: The artwork, if it is to be autonomous, should get to do what it wants, where this desire is usually understood as an inherited formal project, requiring that all new artists solve hitherto unsolved formal problems or that they re-do old aesthetic experiments in radicalized form. But in this second scenario, the autonomy of the artwork plainly comes at the expense of my autonomy. The artwork that I had hoped would secure my independence instead ends up bossing me around. It was Adorno (1970/1997: 36-37) who observed that modernism, which we typically describe to undergraduates as an emancipated anti-traditionalism, a discarding of the old conventions, an experimental drive to make art otherwise, actually amounted to a “canon of prohibitions”: an ever-expanding list of Things You Could Not Do: paint figurally, compose with triads, end your novel with a marriage.[2]

    But then do artworks really get to choose their own ends or give themselves the law? Brown sometimes writes as though they did, but mostly confesses that they don’t, preferring the following, thrice-repeated hedge:

    • “The novel presents itself as simply following a logic that is already present in the material, as though the novel were not written by an author” (99).
    • In the domain of art, all legitimate politics must “appear to emerge as if unbidden from the material on which these artists work” (38).
    • For an artist, one important skill is “the capacity to produce the conviction that what we are seeing belongs to the logic of the material rather than to some external, contingent compulsion” (59).

    This last sentence makes Brown’s point with special force: The artwork cannot, in fact, achieve autonomy; its glory is not to negate command, but merely to mask it, to produce in us a belief that the artwork was self-generating even when it wasn’t. Autonomy begins by recommending to us art as the undiminished paradigm of self-determination and free activity, and ends up enrolling it in that list of calculated things we misapprehend as spontaneous—consumer choice, electoral democracy, Spinozist consciousness—and this it does without ever admitting how dolefully it has dickered down its offer: We search art for the possibility of our freedom and walk away persuaded only that some things expertly disguise their subservience. They step forward “as though” unbidden. Autonomy … as if.

     

    Christian Thorne is a professor of English at Williams College.

    References

    Adorno, Theodor. Aesthetic Theory. 1970/1997. Translated by Robert Hullot-Kentor. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

    Brown, Nicholas. 2019. Autonomy. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

    Horkheimer, Max and Theodor W. Adorno. 2002. Dialectic of Enlightenment Translated by Edmund Jephcott. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

    Jameson, Fredric. 1991. Postmodernism, or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

    Kant, Immanuel. The Critique of Judgment. 1790/ 1987. Translated by Werner Pluhar. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing.

     

    [1] See for instance the writings of Cracker’s Davd Lowery, collected at The Trichordist, a collective of “artists for an ethical and sustainable Internet.” thetrichordist.com, last accessed November 12, 2019.

  • Joseph Slaughter — Who Owns the Means of Expression? (Review of Sarah Brouillette’s UNESCO and the Fate of the Literary)

    Joseph Slaughter — Who Owns the Means of Expression? (Review of Sarah Brouillette’s UNESCO and the Fate of the Literary)

    by Joseph R. Slaughter

    Review of Sarah Brouillette’s UNESCO and the Fate of the Literary (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2019)

    The misfortune is that the forces of change are not always able to express themselves because they do not possess the means of expression.

    –Amadou-Mahtar M’Bow

    In April 1974, Houari Boumédiène, the Algerian Secretary General of the Non-Aligned Movement, opened a special session of the UN General Assembly with a blistering speech describing and denouncing the world system of neocolonial exploitation that continued to disadvantage and despoil the newly independent postcolonial states. “[T]he colonialist and imperialist Powers accepted the principle of the right of peoples to self-determination,” he asserted, “only when they had already succeeded in setting up the institutions and machinery that would perpetuate the system of pillage established in the colonial era” (Boumédiène 6). Sarah Brouillette’s important new book, UNESCO and the Fate of the Literary, offers a similarly searing account of Third World efforts to capture the institutional machinery of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) and to redirect its work for the mass benefit of disenfranchised peoples everywhere, and of how those efforts were ultimately frustrated. Brouillette is concerned with “how cultural production emerges in relation to the real economy” (2). By “grounding the critical discourse of world literature in the political economy of global literary institutions and markets,” she places UNESCO at the center of a revealing story about the production, consolidation, and distribution of world literature in the post-war international order (2).

    Because, as Brouillette insists, the economic world system overlaps with, and to a great degree determines, the cultural world system, it seems helpful to sketch here the broader Third World legal efforts to decolonize international law and the administrative organs of the UN that provide background for Brouillette’s account of UNESCO’s historical role in shaping our current neoliberal assemblage of world literature. The 1974 UN special session that Boumédiène opened was convened to consider the problem of “raw materials and development”—namely, that “The Third World possesses 80 per cent of existing raw materials, but its share of overall industrial production is under 7 per cent” (Bedjaoui 27). The session culminated on May 1st with the Declaration on the Establishment of a New International Economic Order (NIEO), which sought to “reverse the effects of colonialism” (Anghie 199) by establishing a framework for “the economic advancement and social progress of all peoples . . . . which shall correct inequalities and redress existing injustices” (United Nations). The NIEO Declaration, adopted without a vote by a greatly expanded General Assembly in which the postcolonial states now constituted a substantial majority, intended to rectify the growing “gap between the developed and the developing countries” by (among other things) insisting on the “self-determination of all peoples,” “permanent sovereignty of every State over its natural resources,” the right “to restitution and full compensation” for colonial exploitation and “foreign occupation,” the “extension of active assistance to developing countries,” and guarantees for “developing countries [of] access to the achievements of modern science and technology” (United Nations).

    It is not entirely clear which specific “machinery” in the “system of pillage” Boumédiène had in mind when he suggested that old colonialist and new imperialist economic powers lay in wait for the postcolonial right of self-determination like its own doom. In 1965, however, Kwame Nkrumah had already famously recognized the trap of postcolonial self-determination conditioned by neo-colonialism: “the State which is subject to it is, in theory, independent and has all the outward trappings of international sovereignty. In reality its economic system and thus its political policy is determined from outside” (ix). Boumédiène similarly implies that the nominal right to political self-determination was undermined by the economic fact that “the developed countries have virtual control of the raw materials markets and what practically amounts to a monopoly on manufactured products and capital equipment” (6). (As Brouillette’s work has consistently shown, a similar dynamic of market domination in the global publishing industries operates in our current world literary system, effectively obviating any romantic or purist idea of cultural self-determination.) In his seminal study of the centrality of colonialism to the history and development of international law, Antony Anghie describes the provisional and partial nature of what he calls “Third World sovereignty,” whose “porous character” ensures the political and economic subordination of newly-independent states and their subjection to Euro-American international law that coalesced to legitimate the continuing exploitation of non-European peoples and their resources (269).

    The doctrine of permanent sovereignty over natural resources (PSNR), first examined at the UN in 1952 by the Commission on Human Rights in relation to a prospective declaration on the right of peoples to self-determination, was formally adopted by the General Assembly in 1962. Resolution 1803 on Permanent Sovereignty over Natural Resources declared the right of nations and peoples to explore, develop, and dispose of their natural wealth in the interest of “national development” and “the well-being of people of the State concerned.” One of the pillars of the NIEO in 1974 was the strengthening of the “[f]ull permanent sovereignty of every State over its natural resources and all economic activities” (United Nations). However, as Anghie shows, among the legal machinations by which “the West . . . negated Third World attempts to use the General Assembly as a means of transforming colonial international law” (222) was the creation of “a new legal framework, suggested by the term ‘transnational law’, to further undermine the economic [and political] sovereignty of the new states” (222-3). Indeed, as early as the 1950s Western-based multinational corporations were turning to “a complex combination of domestic law, private international law and public international law” in order to pursue (and impose) their economic interests in the emerging Third World (223). Thus, in a classic example of forum-shifting, a system of “transnational law” developed that shifted focus and force away from traditional international law and from the standard international legal forums of the United Nations system toward emerging frameworks for private arbitration between sovereign states and multinational corporate finance capital over rights and access to resources (223).

    Thus, one of the sad ironies of the Declaration of the New International Economic Order advocated by Boumédiène in 1974 is that in so many ways it, too, was too late: the newly-independent states were fighting the proverbial last war. By the early 1980s, the old and new imperial powers of Europe and the U.S. had by various means largely beaten back the radical Third World challenge that the NIEO posed to their historic hegemony. Indeed, as the postcolonial nations were claiming custody of and exercising some control over international law, the institutions and machinery of neocolonial exploitation were either already in place or were being erected elsewhere by the time of the NIEO’s declaration. In other words, the Third World’s major gambit to reverse colonial international law was in the process of being reversed by the creation of an alternative framework of “transnational” law that would itself perpetuate the system of pillage established in the colonial era by other means.

    The story of the NIEO in the 1970s, like the like the story of the hijacking of human rights that I’ve discussed elsewhere, is part of the more general history of the rise of neoliberalism and what Walden Bello has called the “rollback”: “the structural resubordination of the [Global] South within a U.S.-dominated global economy” (3). The Euro-American rollback was effectively a revanchist reversal that, among other things, undermined Third World efforts to capture the means of international legal expression. It set adrift the meaning and utility of a number of key political and legal terms in the lexicon of international affairs. Indeed, the growing pressure of decolonization through the 1970s (and reaction to it) instigated a dramatic lexical shift in some of those concepts, when a number of the most “fundamental principles of the international order . . . reversed polarity” (Slaughter 2018, 770). Among the many reversals of lexical fortune, self-determination doubled as “a neo-colonial tool for comprador elites in the Third World who colluded with Western neoliberal capital to dispossess the people of their rights and resources”; “permanent sovereignty over natural resources became a lever for multinational corporations to acquire concessions from newly independent states”; terrorism shifted from naming what states do to their own people to a label used to discredit ongoing national liberation movements; and “the Third World went from being a generative source of energy and inspiration for human rights[, a more just international order, and international law] to becoming a development problem and job opportunity for the new humanitarianism” (my emphasis 771).

    In Brouillette’s account of the “fate of the literary” under UNESCO policy, rollback and reversal also characterize the reactionary responses of the major economic powers to democratizing developments at the cultural wing of the UN. Indeed, in light of UNESCO and the Fate of the Literary, it is possible to see how “cultural development” also suffered the fate of reversal of those other key principles of international affairs, shifting from being on the side of cultural nationalist agendas of newly independent states to providing the policy rationale for the globalization of predatory intellectual property law. In her book, Brouillette astutely reveals how ideological, institutional, and economic forces effectively defused and disciplined efforts at radical reform in the fields of global cultural production, intellectual cooperation, and international communications policy through the politics and programs of UNESCO. Covering seventy years of its institutional history, that story spans the eras “from liberalism through decolonizing left-liberalism to neoliberalism” (2). Brouillette’s discussion of the changing fortunes of “the literary” in the signature programs in each of those periods intends to give “a deeper sense of how the logic of instrumentalization [of literature and culture] has changed with the tides of global economic development and integration” (9). Indeed, Brouillette’s book is written not only against the old Arnoldian “sweetness and light” thesis of literary value that still circulates, more or less surreptitiously, in much world literature discourse. It also challenges what she characterizes as its heir and antithesis: “the idealization of literature as a potent site of noncommercial humanistic social formation” (7). This latter ideal, she chastisingly suggests, is the refuge of some postcolonial and marxist approaches to world literature. By contrast, Brouillette plots the story of UNESCO (and with it, the fate of “the literary”) as a tragedy—in David Scott’s, if not Aristotle’s, sense.

    Brouillette divides the history of UNESCO into three distinct “phases,” with three different policy agendas and corresponding cultural programs that she sees as typifying the prevailing ideology of the period and instantiating the power relations among the states active in UNESCO at the time. In her account, the first period, from 1945 to the 1960s, was “dominated by a liberal cosmopolitan worldview” that promoted cultural understanding among nations as an antidote to fascism and totalitarianism (10). It produced the translation project of the UNESCO Collection of Representative Works that proposed to disseminate widely the world’s literary classics. The second phase, from the 1960s through the 1970s, was dominated by the economic and cultural development agendas of the newly independent postcolonial states who emphasized, through projects associated with International Book Year (1972) and proposals for a New World Information and Communications Order (NWICO), the role of knowledge, technology, literature, and literacy in “humanized development” and the redistribution of “cultural wealth” (16). The final phase, from the 1980s to the present, corresponds to the rise of neoliberal globalization and the rollback of the Third World agenda that I described. Literature, and culture more generally, is treated as a resource commodity requiring enhanced property protection. For Brouillette, the “Cities of Literature” program emblematizes this period and the “neoliberal governance” logic that “utterly transformed UNESCO,” which, in the third phase, began to promote “cultural programming mainly to prop up local industries and generate tourism and trade” (17).

    The first phase of UNESCO’s history that Brouillette identifies is probably the most familiar from the perspective of literary studies. It is also the subject of another very insightful  book from 2019, Miriam Intrator’s Books across Borders: UNESCO and the Politics of Postwar Cultural Reconstruction, 1945-1951 (Palgrave / Macmillan). Under the direction of Julian Huxley, UNESCO pursued its mandate to “increase the mutual understanding of peoples” through projects such as the Collection of Representative Works, which sought to identify, translate, disseminate, and promote literary “classics.” While the project had big ambitions, as Brouillette observes, the Collection “turned out to be largely an incorporative canon. The world’s various literatures were absorbed into English and French, which were thereby solidified in their roles as the languages of expert adjudication of the merit of literary works from any region” (34). In Brouillette’s assessment, because of the institutional eurocentrism of UNESCO, the Representative Works project ultimately was part of the machinery of cultural domination, serving to “secur[e] the former imperial powers’ ongoing trusteeship and dominant position in anchoring and orchestrating [post-war] global development” (33).

    The most illuminating parts of Brouillette’s book deal with the second and third phases in her history of UNESCO cultural policy. If the first phase proceeded under a colonialist/universalist ideology of cultural diffusionism, the second phase of UNESCO programs broadly reflected the Bandung spirit of political, economic, and cultural decolonization—what might be anachronistically called “decolonial” today. In what Brouillette describes as “its most radical phase” (59), UNESCO sought to use cultural policy throughout the 1960s and 70s to “humanize development” (68), to encourage local cultural production and a sense of collective identity, and to defend against cultural imperialism (or “Americanization”) and capitalist globalization (or “commercialization”) (59). Under the rubric of “cultural development,” as Brouillette shows, the newly-independent nations that dominated this period at UNESCO (demographically and ideologically, if not financially) pushed “not just for the expansion of publishing industries but for the right to tell their own stories and be heard” (13)—what the Senegalese Director General of UNESCO, Amadou-Mahtar M’Bow (1974-1987), characterized as “possess[ing] the means of expression” (M’Bow 212). M’Bow is a key figure in Brouillette’s account. Under his direction, UNESCO pursued the ideal of “a vast democratization of access to information and to the means of production of information” (91) through (among other things) its advocacy for the New World Information and Communications Order (NWICO), the cultural companion to the NIEO. Even as the writing was on the wall for the aspirations of the NIEO by the late 1970s, UNESCO continued to push against the tide of globalization and against Western hegemony over information and technology—eventually, as Brouillette suggests, prompting the U.S. and the U.K. to leave the organization in the mid-1980s. That reaction of forum-shifting set the stage for the third phase in Brouillette’s history and for the reversal of the Third World agenda at UNESCO.

    In Brouillette’s story, the second phase of UNESCO’s history amounted to something like a third-world interregnum that was undone by the third phase, dating roughly from the early 1980s, when “UNESCO had to win back its major funders” (10). As Brouillette argues, under the new regime, culture is neoliberalized as a market resource, “conceived as a form of wealth that, properly husbanded, protected, and promoted, results in job creation and economic development thanks to growing visitor and creative economies” (101). For Brouillette’s history, this third period is characterized by UNESCO programs, such as “Cities of Literature,” that promote “adherence to copyright and intellectual property laws and conformity with protocols set out by the World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO) and in the General Agreement on Tarriffs and Trade (GATT)” (100-101). Thus, according to Brouillette, rather than advocating for the liberalization of intellectual property rights and the redistribution of cultural wealth and the means of expression (as it had done during its first two phases), “UNESCO is now regularly concerned with enforcing intellectual property regimes and copyright. . . . World Book Day is now World Book and Copyright Day” (130).

    One of Brouillette’s important insights that deserves special emphasis is her linking of the decline of UNESCO’s more radical cultural development agenda with the tightening of intellectual property regulation globally. This is a crucial connection for understanding the cultural politics and policies of UNESCO today, and it has important ramifications for contemporary literary studies. Indeed, I have argued previously that, although there is a clear “overlap in world-literary and world-intellectual-property space,” literature scholars have largely failed to appreciate the implications of intellectual property law on the field (and formation) of world literature and literary studies today (Slaughter 2014, 43-4). UNESCO and the Fate of the Literary goes a very long way towards remedying that lack, and Brouillette’s three-phase schema of UNESCO history is immensely helpful for beginning to chart the interaction of international cultural policy and intellectual property enclosure. Even so, like all periodizations (including my own above) it necessarily overstates some aspects of an organizational agenda as complex as UNESCO’s, while overlooking others. Moreover, the disciplinary lens of “literature” (or “the literary”) in Brouillette’s study misses some important legal maneuvers that took place outside the frame of UNESCO and distorts somewhat the picture of the organization’s third phase, since the World Heritage Sites program (rather than the Cities of Literature and Creative Cities Network) has arguably been the signature project of UNESCO over the past few decades. Likewise, some of the literary texts seem to have been selected (and bent) expediently to serve the historical narrative.

    As Brouillette tells it, the economic interests of the “producer nations” (97), who also provide the largest share of UNESCO’s budget, ultimately won out over the ideals of information democracy and more global and equitable access to the “means of expression” by subaltern classes everywhere. She writes: “A powerful minority, protected by an international intellectual property regime that favored producer nations, had a clear interest in ensuring that the developing nations would continue to be net consumers of culture” (97). That trajectory seems indisputable, but I would suggest that the story of the subversion of the NWICO looks more like the subversion of the NIEO than is apparent in Brouillette’s account, because the U.S. and other “producer nations” (or, more specifically, nations with major corporate intellectual property producers) could not simply turn to existing intellectual property law for the broad monopoly protection they desired. Rather, they had to reinvent that law and then get the rest of the world to “agree” to be regulated by it.

    In the 1980s, when “the content-producing, copyright-holding nations” (110) left UNESCO, they withdrew their funding and took their business elsewhere, turning away from the cultural politics of the UN organization in part to pursue their economic interests in culture and knowledge through trade agreements and the World Trade Organization. In a forum-shifting strategy that parallels the creation of “transnational law” that helped to undermine the NIEO, the U.S. (primarily U.S.-based pharmaceutical, information technology, and media companies) worked the levers of the WTO to convert cultural production and exchange into a trade issue, as they steered the Uruguay Round of GATT toward the Agreement on Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights (TRIPS) that came into effect in 1995 and continues to regulate international intellectual property relations today. Thus, like the NIEO, the NWICO was not only rebuffed (by the withdrawal of funding from UNESCO); it was also undermined by forum-shifting to trade councils, where new forms of intellectual property and cultural wealth were created under a stricter legal regime of intellectual property designed to protect the monopoly interests of “developed-world producers” (110).

    Thus, by the time the major donor nations returned to UNESCO and its heritage agenda in Brouillette’s third phase, the new “system of pillage” was already in place. In fact, one effect of the shift to trade-related intellectual property rights was the reification of an old colonial binary division between tradition and modernity that largely left cultural property, traditional knowledge, and cultural identity to the minor heritage industry at UNESCO, while taking the much more lucrative intellectual property economy to the transnational offices of patent attorneys and the arbitration forums of the WTO. This division of cultural assets ultimately reflects and reinforces “one aspect of the property bias built into the [current] system of world literature: individual intellectual property for us [the West]; collective cultural property for them [the rest]” (Slaughter 2014, 54). This, in turn, has knock on effects for the fate of “the literary” that Brouillette tracks.

    My supplement to Brouillette’s discerning account of the role of copyright in undoing the second-phase dreams of UNESCO and NWICO is intended as a friendly amendment; moreover, it is testament to how productive it can be to think with her provocative new book, which spurred me to revisit some of the original UNESCO sources and to reconsider my own understanding of the role of intellectual property in the neoliberalization of world literature. Brouillette offers salutary complication to the easy affirmative (and often ahistorical) discourse around “world literature” that has dominated literary studies (especially in the U.S.) over the past two decades, which tends to treat politics, economics, law, republics, the international, and the world itself (the list goes on) as mere metaphors. For instance, Pascale Casanova refers repeatedly to “the international laws” (94) that are said to govern world literary relations, but “law” in her world is mostly a metaphor. In fact, there is, somehow, no UNESCO in the World Republic of Letters, which is perhaps especially surprising given that Paris (its mythic capital) remains the UN organization’s institutional headquarters. For Brouillette, law and economy are not easy metaphors tossed around to make the work feel important, as with so much literary criticism today. Rather, law and economy are real, which makes the work of the literary critic so much harder but also so much more rewarding and explosive when, like Brouillette’s book, it successfully draws genuine links between economics and cultural production.

    Brouillette’s book will (and should) be important and influential for contemporary literary studies, but it does have some limitations that are worth acknowledging in order to advance more fully on its best insights. For one thing, in toggling between sociological analysis and literary textual explication, Brouillette confronts the constant interdisciplinary challenge of reading between law and literature—or, more precisely, between law, policy, economics, and literature—without deciding the methodological question in favor of one over the other. Topically, the book is broadly interested in, as Brouillette says, the “logic of instrumentalization” (9) of literature in UNESCO policy. Methodologically, however, it raises tacit questions about the instrumentalization of literature in literary studies today—especially of so-called non-Western literature in contemporary literary criticism. (This problem is particularly acute in light of what I see as continuing disciplinary efforts in literary studies, parallel to those in international law and economics, to contain the third world challenge to Eurocentrism: the ongoing rollback of postcolonial studies by the expansionist fields of world literature, global modernisms, and others.) Most of Brouillette’s chapters end with readings of literary texts offered to illustrate the logic of UNESCO policies; within the framework of the book, it seems that all third world texts must necessarily be read as UNESCO policy allegories. When the text fits, the allegorical reading wears well—as with Tayeb Salih’s famous early short story, “The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid.” However, if, under UNESCO cultural policy, the fate of the literary is to be instrumentalized, in literary criticism, too, it seems, the fate of literature is to be instrumentalized for other ends. Brouillette’s own analytical mode implicitly raises some basic questions that many of us in literary studies today are grappling with: not only what is literature for, but also what, in the world, is literary criticism for?

    I suppose that most readers will not be coming to Brouillette’s book for the literary readings; still, those familiar with the literary texts, especially the novels by Zakes Mda and NoViolet Bulawayo, are likely to find her textual analysis intriguing, but somewhat forced and flat. These readings might have been made richer and more robust by considering and citing some of what the many critics and specialist scholars of those books have said about them, but the flattening is also an effect of the topical pressure of Brouillette’s driving interests. For example, under allegorical reading pressure, Mda’s multilayered novel Heart of Redness is reduced to a whitepaper on cultural development policy in South Africa—an approach that not only weirdly conflates Mda’s personal experience and attitudes that Brouillette imputes to him about cultural development with those of one of his fictional characters, but also loses sight entirely of the novel’s sharp ironic sensibility. Irony does not belong to whitepapers, of course, but in Mda’s novel, the promise of economic development that is to come from commodifying a people’s historical culture for heritage tourism is one more of the likely-to-be-failed prophecies of future plenty that are the subject and theme of the novel. In other words, rather than “justif[ying] contemporary cultural policy making” (114), the novel makes cultural development policy produced by international institutions an object of its satire, intimating that it may consist of little more than false hopes and empty promises. Furthermore, in its heavy intertextual (some say plagiaristic) reliance on prior written histories of the Xhosa Cattle Killing, Mda’s novel raises interesting and relevant questions about intellectual and cultural property that are unexplored by Brouillette and that might have further complicated her reading and historical narrative.

    Like many sociological accounts of institutional systems and power relations, UNESCO and the Fate of the Literary is written largely in the anonymous, hedging voice of intellectual history. So much happens outside the purview of the passive sentences that report on the action and the worldly effects of ideas and ideology. To give just one example (of many): “The new liberal internationalism and humanism, enshrined perhaps above all in the United Nations’ 1948 Declaration of Human Rights, were precisely directed against the old modes of unthinking domination and cultural erasure. Instead, the preference was to imagine a new international order built on mutual respect, individual rights, and a shared desire to preserve monuments to authentic human diversity” (41). As certain about history as the passage may be, it is by no means clear exactly who does or wants what, who directs, who unthinks and erases, who prefers, or who shares. This is a common challenge for marxist accounts of political economy, for discourse analysis, for intellectual history and ideology critique. I note it, because the passive voice seems to encourage and license overstatement and dubious claims for the purposes of polemic. For example, it is simply not true, in any categorical way, that “[t]he field of contemporary Anglophone African literature relies on private donors . . .” (125).

    In this book about institutional contests over the means of expression, I have to wonder if the passive voice does not also contribute to the irksome sense of defeatism that emerges from its pages: the sense that “Western” power is generally successful, and “non-Western” efforts inevitably fail in the face of faceless capitalism and neoliberal globalization—that resistance, third world or otherwise, is finally futile. Brouillette’s sympathies are clearly with the futile, but the narrative mode makes it seem as if cultural policy rarely, if ever, misfires or backfires. Maybe it is the case that culture actually and effectively does what cultural policy organizations and cultural theorists think it will do—whether that is “helping to discipline subjects” or, as Brouillette is inclined to see it, serving as a “de-commodifying” branch of “governance, where concerns about the needs left unmet by capitalism are articulated and worked out” (69). However, culture and its effects seem more unreliable than that, and such a view leaves little room for grasping the ways in which people and peoples maneuver within and manipulate for themselves the policy frameworks (not to mention “culture” itself) that, in Brouillette’s narrative, otherwise seem to dominate and determine everything.

    Brouillette’s book is a vital contribution to the fields of Cold War cultural studies, postcolonial studies, world literature, and a globally-minded history of print culture. She has managed to synthesize the messy business of an international political organization in a way that both paints a convincing picture of UNESCO as a central forum and force in the world economy of literature and also paves the way for deeper examination by other scholars of specific moments, movements, and actors within that literary economy. I conclude with a final observation, in order to amplify one of Brouillette’s more offhanded provocations. Reviewing some of the literature from the massive bibliography of work on “books in development,” some of which were “backed by UNESCO” (79), in the 1960s and 70s, Brouillette singles out for special commendation the huge body of scholarship by Philip Altbach. As she notes, Altbach studied (among other things) “the Western bias of the international scholarly community,” and she suggests that perhaps it was “this same bias that placed research like his on the outskirts of the field . . . [of] book history” (79). I could not agree more about the importance and underappreciated value of Altbach’s work and other like-minded “studies of the book in the developing world” (79) that were produced during the decades of development. UNESCO and the Fate of the Literary, too, should take its place at the center of book history. Brouillette usefully sketches an alternative route for the field, pointing us back to a path not taken, but one that is certainly worth following her down.

     

    Joseph R. Slaughter teaches postcolonial literature and theory, cultural studies, human rights, and third-world approaches to literature and international law in the Department of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University. He is currently completing two books: New Word Orders, on intellectual/cultural property and world literature, and Hijacking Human Rights, on the rise and fall of international law, from colonialism to neoliberalism.

     

    Works Cited

    Anghie, Antony. Imperialism, Sovereignty and the Making of International Law. Cambridge UP, 2004.

    Bedjaoui, Mohammed. Towards a New International Economic Order. UNESCO, 1979.

    Bello, Walden. Dark Victory: The United States, Structural Adjustment and Global Poverty. TNI/Pluto Press, 1994.

    Boumédiène, Houari. The Battle against Underdevelopment. Spokesman Pamphlet 42, 1974.

    Brouillette, Sarah. UNESCO and the Fate of the Literary. Stanford UP, 2019.

    Casanova, Pascale. The World Republic of Letters. Trans. M. B. DeBevoise. Harvard UP, 2004.

    Intrator, Miriam. Books across Borders: UNESCO and the Politics of Postwar Cultural Reconstruction, 1945-1951. Palgrave / Macmillan, 2019.

    M’Bow, Amadou Mahtar. “North-South Dialogue: Interviewd by Altaf Gauhar.” Third World Quarterly. 4.2 (1982): 211-220.

    Nkrumah, Kwame. Neo-Colonialism: The Last Stage of Imperialism. International Publishers CO., 1966.

    Slaughter, Joseph R. “World Literature as Property.” Alif: Journal of Comparative Poetics. 34 (2014): 39-73.

    Slaughter, Joseph R. “Hijacking Human Rights: Neoliberalism, the New Historiography, and the End of the Third World.” Human Rights Quarterly. 40.4 (2018): 745-775.

    United Nations General Assembly. “Declaration on the Establishment of a New International Economic Order.” A/RES/S-6/3201. 1 May 1974. http://www.un-documents.net/s6r3201.htm

     

  • David Lloyd — Justice Deferred: Palestine, Settler Colonialism and International Law (Review of Ronit Lentin’s Traces of Racial Exception and Noura Erakat’s Justice for Some)

    David Lloyd — Justice Deferred: Palestine, Settler Colonialism and International Law (Review of Ronit Lentin’s Traces of Racial Exception and Noura Erakat’s Justice for Some)

    by David Lloyd

    Review of Ronit Lentin, Traces of Racial Exception: Racializing Israeli Settler Colonialism (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2018). ix + 268 pp. and Noura Erakat, Justice for Some: Law and the Question of Palestine (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2019). xiii + 331 pp.

    For some decades now, Israeli propaganda (or hasbara) has managed to keep in play two quite contradictory self-descriptions that serve at once to obscure and to legitimate its ongoing subjugation of Palestinians through occupation, strangulating siege, dispossession and settlement, discrimination and collective punishment, not to mention its regular use of lethal force. Though each and every one of these routine practices has been found to be in violation of a panoply of international laws and human rights conventions, Israel and its supporters continue to repeat, with increasing vociferousness the more the facts challenge them, their shopworn incantation of these bipolar narratives: Israel is a normal (if admittedly “flawed”) democracy, indeed, the “only democracy in the Middle East”; Israel is an exception, claiming the right to exceptional allowances because of its precarious location in what President Obama liked to call, with the folksy affectation with which he was wont to disavow the racist formations of his post-racial epoch, “a very tough neighborhood” (Obama 2010). At other times, Israel also claims to be an exception because of its miraculous dispensation, as an improbable achievement that must be treasured as no other state on account if its fulfillment of a centuries-old desire for return enshrined in biblical prophecy. Less often openly acknowledged is that Israel maintains a perpetual state of exception, in its exercise of brutal sovereign power over its Palestinian subjects, deploying a variety of special or emergency powers some of which date back to the British Mandate and the origins of the Zionist settlement, while others are its own inventions.

    Ronit Lentin and Noura Erakat pull apart these familiar myths about Israel in two very different but often converging books. In Traces of Racial Exception: Racializing Israeli Settler Colonialism, Lentin explores at length the nature of what she understands as Israel’s racial state, bringing to bear a succession of intersecting analytical approaches, from the theory of exception to settler colonial and race critical paradigms, testing the extent to which Israel, far from being an exception, conforms to and largely reproduces quite typical elements of the settler colonial and racial state. Her extensively documented book, which draws on the now vast body of scholarship on Palestine/Israel and Zionism as well as on detailed and exemplary accounts of specific Israeli actions against Palestinian communities, synthesizes those approaches into a compelling account of “Israeli-Zionist rule over Palestine.” This account presents “a three-pronged critical engagement with Israel’s settler colonial racial regime in Palestine: first, a state of exception; second, a racial state; and third, a settler colony”, a triad to which, in Chapter 5, she adds a critical gender analysis that undoes that equally perduring myth of Israel as a model of gender equality and LGBTQ rights.

    A “normal” state of exception is understood as a temporary suspension of the rule of law to deal with one or other emergency. When Walter Benjamin famously noted that for the oppressed, the “state of emergency” is the rule, he may not have had Palestine in mind (Benjamin 2003: 392). But Lentin persuasively shows in her first chapter that, in relation to its Palestinian subject population, “Israel has been in a permanent state of exception, which means that in Israel exception is the rule.” [31] This leads her to find the standard accounts of the state of exception as “a space devoid of law” [47], largely drawn from Giorgio Agamben’s readings of legal theorist Carl Schmitt, to be “ultimately inadequate to theorize the state of Israel.” [31] In the first place, “the law, far from being suspended, actually works in the service of the racial state.” [30] By the same token, she later points out, “theories of exception and bare life are inadequate in theorizing the embodied centrality of race in the Palestinian context.” [119]

    Thinking of Israel not simply as enacting a state of exception in order to deal with security issues—as its advocates usually claim—but as a systematically racial state that regulates its subject population by way of racialized categories allows Lentin to show how the Israeli exception works not by the suspension but by the proliferation of laws. The military regime of occupation in the West Bank, indeed, daily performs “the constant production of exceptions” and the arbitrary use of categorizations such as “security threats” that make precarity and unpredictability the norm for Palestinians. Her analysis interestingly corresponds to the late Nasser Hussain’s theses in “Hyperlegality”, where he showed that far from representing a state of exception, the current global war on terror—for which Israel has offered a prime laboratory—should be seen as in continuity with colonial practices that constantly generated legal categories for its subject people, like “criminal tribes”, in order to manage and control whole populations (Hussain 2007). “Security threats”, “infiltrators”, “absentees” all function similarly to subject Palestinians to a regime of ongoing collective punishment, both within Israel and in Gaza and on the West Bank.

    The regime of military occupation and of domestic discriminatory laws within Israel[1] clearly does not apply to Israel’s Jewish citizens, including the settlers illegally located on the West Bank and in occupied East Jerusalem. At the end of this chapter, Lentin briefly considers the question as to whether Israel is an apartheid state, given its own policies of Hafrada (separation or segregation).  It’s important to note, since quibbles about the applicability of the comparison with South Africa have often deliberately confused the issue, that the question depends not on a loose or strict analogy with that apartheid regime, but on the legal definition of apartheid as a crime against humanity given by the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court, that is, “inhumane acts … committed in the context of an institutionalized regime of systematic oppression and domination by one racial group over any other racial group or groups and committed with the intention of maintaining that regime” (Rome Statute 2002).  By that definition, as Noura Erakat shows at greater length in Justice for Some [213-8], Israel’s is indubitably an apartheid regime, whether or not its practices coincides in every respect with those of South Africa under white supremacist rule.

    In some respects, it could be said that to speak of the modern state as a “racial state” is virtually an oxymoron: almost every modern state governs through categories that are either racial or function in quasi-racial ways. Lentin seeks to define more precisely what kind of racial state Israel is, and the logic behind its “dehumanizing racial classifications [that] emanate from the aim of ensuring that Jewish Israelis live at the expense of the Palestinian other(s).” [88] Although she acknowledges that  this dehumanization is based on “separation, segregation and self-segregation” [88], Lentin’s emphasis falls more on the analysis of Israel as a settler colonial entity, beginning with early Zionism’s explicit understanding of its enterprise as a colonial project of settlement and expansion down to currently ongoing efforts to dispossess and displace—or “transfer”, as the Israeli euphemism has it—the indigenous Palestinian population.[2] Her devastating account of the origins of Zionism within the context of European racial nationalism not only substantiates her argument about “the centrality of race to theorizing Zionist settler colonialism”, but also brings out the eugenicist obsessions that underlie its ideology. This clearly informs Israel’s virulent anti-Arab racism, but Lentin shows that the Zionist belief in the necessity for the colonization of Palestine “to ‘regenerate’ diaspora Jewry by creating the racially superior ‘New Jew’” [84] persists in the continuing racial discrimination against the Mizrahim or Arab Jews and African-origin Jews in Israel. As Lentin also shows in Chapter 5, this eugenicist logic also informs the profoundly masculinist features of contemporary Israeli society that persist in the face of its official proclamations of gender equality and LGBTQ friendliness. Ironically, even as critics of Israel or anti-Zionists are accused of anti-Semitism [101-3], Zionism itself turns out to have a deeply embedded disdain for “Jewish characteristics”—as one early Zionist put it, “in order to be a good Zionist, one has to be a bit of an antisemite.” [97]

    Of course, the notion that colonization carries a regenerative force both for the colonizers and for the land itself is a widespread tenet of settler colonial ideology. Lentin’s analysis of Israel as a settler colony is persuasive precisely because it shows so well how the typical dynamics of settler societies account for Israel’s peculiar, but hardly exceptional, intertwining of eugenicist racism, segregation, and legalized discrimination. Apartheid is fundamental to settler colonial domination as is the dispossession and displacement of the native population. Lentin’s careful genealogy of the application of the settler colonial framework to the case of Israel is exemplary in its acknowledgement of the pioneering Palestinian contribution to that theorizing, from the insufficiently known Constantine Zurayk to Fayez Sayegh’s crucial Zionist Colonization in Palestine [62-4], even as she draws on the more recent theoretical work of Patrick Wolfe and Lorenzo Veracini. Despite the outrage that naming Israel’s identity as a settler colony arouses in some circles, early Zionists, as Lentin shows, would scarcely have disavowed the appellation. Despite the old canard about “a land without people for a people without a land”, Zionists have always been committed to that essential aspect of settler colonial projects, the deliberate displacement, or, as Wolfe famously put it, the elimination of the native. While some settler colonies, like Algeria or South Africa, required the native population to work the land and resources from which they had been displaced, Israel—not least on account of its ethno-majoritarian ideology—has constantly sought the disappearance or erasure of the Palestinian demographic majority. Its belated arrival on the colonial scene, just as the decolonizing movement was taking shape around the world, hampered and delayed its execution of that project, but, as Lentin shows in great detail throughout Traces of Racial Exception, the gradual but determined displacement of Palestinians from their own historic lands continues apace. One might say, indeed, that if Israel does indeed impose a permanent state of exception on the Palestinian people, that may be precisely what makes it a typical settler colony: the settlers, no matter how powerful they may be, retain the siege mentality that their determination to eliminate the native as an existential threat generates and sustains. As Memmi long ago observed, that also explains the inexorable rightward drift of the settler society: “every colonial nation carries the seeds of fascist temptation in its bosom” (Memmi 1967: 62).[3]

    Lentin’s work, indeed, has the great value of exemplifying how theoretically stringent work that seeks to furnish a framework for understanding complex but hardly incomprehensible phenomena also carries with it a certain predictive power: her painstaking supplementation of given theoretical models with other ones gradually assembles an analytical framework that combines, not eclectically but systematically, the means by which the “Israeli exception” can be comprehended. But she also allows us to see the rationale for tendencies that, for example, liberal Zionists may lament but cannot explain. If one buy the line that Israel is a modern democracy, flawed as it may be, its actual practices and steadily expansionist drive to dispossess the Palestinians—currently heading toward full annexation of the West Bank—can only seem like aberrations wishfully hoped to be temporary. Lentin’s analysis allows us to see how they emerge quite logically from the nature of the Zionist settler colonial state. That makes Traces of Racial Exception a work that will become indispensable to anyone seeking to understand and, optimally, to organize against Israeli apartheid.

    While Lentin emphasizes throughout Traces of Racial Exception the proliferation of legal terms and measures through which Israel maintains its settler colonial regime, Noura Erakat’s Justice for Some: Law and the Question of Palestine unfolds the terrain of international law on which the struggle for legitimacy has been fought for over a century. While its focus on the legal history that so deeply informs the fate of Palestine may make it seem daunting to the lay person, it is in fact a rich and compelling work that unfolds a story that at times has all the fascination of a court room drama. That is especially so in its chapters on the PLO’s legal maneuvers to achieve UN Recognition—the high point of the narrative from the Palestinian perspective—or the dismal account of the Oslo Accords that shows how abysmally the PLO leadership failed to understand the US and Israel’s maneuvering and, worse still, its reluctance to listen to the expert advice of its own legal counsel. The story that Erakat tells across this brilliant and finely documented book is crucial for anyone concerned with the Palestinian struggle and its outcomes to read. In general, the defense of Palestinian right against their constant violation by Israel, and in particular the claims of the BDS movement, have largely been articulated through appeals to international law and humanitarian conventions. But it is not always the case that the uses and, possibly more importantly, the pitfalls of the legal arguments are well understood. In that respect, Erakat’s painstaking accounting of Palestinian and Israeli legal and extra-legal maneuvers makes for an invaluable cautionary tale, alerting us to “the potential risks, and benefits, of appeals to international law.” [4]

    The risk of any appeal to international law, less as a body of doctrine—as Erakat shows throughout—than as the framework for a set of practices and negotiation, lies in its status as “a derivative of a colonial order”, a “sordid origin” that both ensures “an asymmetry of rights and duties among international actors” and makes it “structurally detrimental to former colonies, peoples still under colonial domination, and individuals who lack nationality or who, like refugees, have been forcibly removed from their state and can no longer invoke its protection.” [6-7] Nowhere is the maxim that “the rule of law is not synonymous with justice” [5] more telling than in the case of the Palestinians, who continue to insist on their rights under the law in face of decades of legally sanctioned erasure as a people with sovereign rights. This is not least because the peculiar modes of exceptionality that Israel has over and again claimed for itself constitute (as Lentin also observes), less a suspension of law than—to invoke Walter Benjamin again—a form of law-making violence (Benjamin 1996: 240-1).  Israel regularly asserts “that its unprecedented conditions authorize it to create new law for itself and everyone else” [183]. Israel’s capacity to make law in its very breach is one of the patterns that this book illuminates, but the lesson it offers is not for all that a counsel of despair in the face of massive disparities of power and access to rights; it is, rather, that in spite of the asymmetry of their respective positions both Palestine and Israel have succeeded at different moments in using international law to open up “legal opportunities” [4]. The condition of doing so is the recognition of “the imbrication of law and politics” [4]: without generating autonomous political movements and mobilizing the force they can exert, the weaker party cannot seize and exploit whatever legal opportunity the framework of international laws and conventions may offer.

    The ramifications of the asymmetry in the Palestinian case stem most evidently from the fact that Israel has been recognized as a state whereas Palestine has yet to gain that status. This enables Israel to declare, in various forms and at different times, the sovereign exception that constitutes “a zone of exceptional lawmaking wherein political necessity determines applicable law.” [15] But the inverse of that condition is that Palestinians, long “erased”, as Erakat puts it, both by British Mandate policies and by Zionist denials of their “juridical status” as a nation-people [39], could also be rendered legal non-subjects. As she shows in some detail in Chapter 2, in consequence of the post-1967 occupation of the West Bank, “the Palestinians would be suspended in limbo as non-citizens of Israel and as non-sovereigns under occupation, completely subject to Israel’s discretionary whims.” [63] Israel’s insistent claim that its actions are justified by “political necessity” continually trumps in practice the global consensus that it has in multiple ways violated international law and that its regime of occupation is in fact subject to the terms and regulations of the Geneva Conventions. Since there is “no general enforcement mechanism in the international sphere” [82], Israel’s capacity, with US backing, to continue to create and impose “facts on the ground”, whether through direct military violence or “under the veneer of legality” and special regulations [84], continues unabated alongside its steady incorporation of the occupied territory.

    Nonetheless, Palestinians have not been without agency in the sphere of international law and two chapters of Justice for Some relate the ways in which the PLO proved able both to seize and to squander legal opportunities. Chapter 3, tellingly entitled “Pragmatic Revolutionaries”, shows how the PLO under Yasser Arafat firstly succeeded in modifying international and humanitarian law regarding armed conflicts in order to establish the legitimacy of its own use of force and thus “to challenge the criminalization of its armed struggle”. This in turn led to its ability, through its diplomatic work with the UN, “to establish itself as an embryonic sovereign with the ability to exercise a monopoly on violence and a right to use it on behalf of an entire people.” [109] This considerable victory, largely won in the context of and in solidarity with recent and ongoing decolonizing struggles, would in turn open the way to General Assembly recognition, in the 1974 Resolution 3236, of ‘the Palestinian right to self-determination and to ‘national independence and sovereignty,’ as well as the right of refugees to return to their homes and property.” [120] Affording to Palestine non-member status at the General Assembly, the subsequent Resolution 3237 “definitively settled the question of Palestinian peoplehood” and its representation by the PLO, thus effectively reversing Israeli efforts to erase the Palestinians as a nation. [121]

    The successful passage of these resolutions in the face of major-power resistance, Erakat argues, not only demonstrated both the Palestinian capacity to create new international law and “the lawmaking authority of the global South” [122], but also the effectiveness of grounding legal strategy in political struggle and organizing. Nonetheless, she is alert to the dangers secreted in the ends achieved by the PLO: its legal work at the UN “exacerbated the tension between its vision for revolution and the vision for statehood” [111] That tension would play out catastrophically in the tragedy of the Oslo Accords nearly twenty years later, as Erakat shows in her dismaying account of the negotiations that led, in the view of many Palestinians, to the sacrifice of a struggle for liberation that had been significantly advanced by the First Intifada and its decentralized networks of popular initiatives, all for the sake of nominal political recognition and authority. In her view, in entering the peace process, a much-weakened PLO with diminished legitimacy “strove to save itself.” [139] The subsequent 25 years of endlessly deferred “final status” negotiations that have enabled Israel’s covert annexation of increasing segments of the West Bank, let alone the continuing violence of its occupation and siege of Gaza, have sufficiently borne home the fiasco of Oslo. Erakat analyzes in painful detail the now familiar concessions that the PLO made along the way, but also offers a compelling analysis of the willful failures of its legal and political strategies, “failures that reflected its leadership’s lack of appreciation for the law, and particularly for the law’s strategic malleability.” [159] Furthermore, what the PLO in effect sacrificed, to obtain a “ghettoized sovereignty” [171] and “a patchwork arrangement over Palestinian civil affairs and natural resources” [163], was its capacity to continue to appeal to international law. In effect, it returned the Palestinian cause to the purview of a “sovereign exception”, engendering “a specialized legal framework” that “suspended all applicable international law and norms in order to achieve an unfettered political resolution” from which Israel alone would benefit. [164] Subsequent decades have shown just how capable Israel has been in exploiting the legal and political opportunities that Oslo opened up for it.

    If the PLO proved for a moment capable of creating new international law, the Oslo Accords largely ceded that initiative to Israel. Chapter 5, “From Occupation to Warfare” focuses on the ways Israel has succeeded in delegitimating the hard won recognition of the Palestinian right to resistance [180] and in legitimating its own, increasingly regular violence against its subject populations, including its “extralegal, arbitrary, and summary executions, which are prohibited in law.” [178] The main and highly instructive logic that Erakat unfolds, a logic that goes not only to Israel’s conduct under the cover of “anti-terrorist” actions but also to the counter-insurgency tactics of the United States and other major powers, is summed up in a succinct subtitle: “The Malleability of Law: A Violation Can Also Be a Proposition.” [183] Having first “exceptionalized its in fact nonexceptional confrontations with Palestinians” [180], whose occasional and sporadic resort to violence fell far short of formal armed conflict, Israel was able to expand its right to use force outside the restrictive framework of existing laws of occupation. It did so by claiming to be in a conflict with terrorism “analogous to war” [181], an imprecise terminology that permitted it to claim “that no existing body of law had adequately contemplated the conflict between states and terrorists.” [182] In the upshot, its assertion “that its unprecedented conditions authorize it to create new law for itself and everyone else” [183, my emphasis] throws a critical light on “the nature of international law as a living instrument that is continually made, implemented, broken and remade.” [183] As Erakat goes on to show in examining the legal as well as military collaboration between the United States and Israel in the “global war against terror”, they together “shaped the customary [international] law regulating the use of force against terrorism” [191] thus seeking to “determine the law for all other states.” [193] Violations become customary practices and eventually constitute new customary norms. It has long been remarked that Israel wantonly exploits Palestine as a laboratory for counter-insurgency techniques and military hardware; Erakat shows that in its lawless use of violence it has been no less successful as a laboratory for international law in the service of colonial domination.

    Like Lentin, Erakat concludes her book with reflections on the failure of that framework for the peace process to which the international community has for so long paid lip service, the two-state solution that projects an independent sovereign state of Palestine on a much reduced land-base alongside that of Israel. As she says, that prospect is “obsolete”. [211] In practice, Israel’s legal maneuvers have had “an unintended consequence: it oversees an apartheid regime.” [213] In this, clearly, she agrees with the analysis that Lentin offers, including in her recognition that apartheid is the logical “consequence of Israel’s settler colonial ambitions.” [217] And, like Lentin, she recognizes in the BDS strategy a possible alternative to the armed struggle which, although it “remains available to occupied Palestinians as a matter of legal right” is, “as a matter of strategy … counterproductive and dangerous.” [227] BDS has shaped “new political space” precisely by deploying nonviolent tactics that appeal to international law and human rights norms. In other words, it supplies the political campaign that Erakat has shown to be essential to any legal strategy. At the same time, she perceives BDS as “a necessary but insufficient tactic” in a liberation movement that cannot be only for equality, but must entail “a struggle against settler-colonial dominance.” [231] This requires, she argues “a discerning political program” if the movement is not to confuse “the equivocating tendencies of a human rights framework with a practice of decolonization.” [233]

    This is by no means to abandon the still essential work of the boycott movement, but it is to ask that we see in the moral force that it exerts a counter-violence that reaches beyond the framework of law and rights it draws on. Such a line of argument leads her to differ from Lentin’s commitment to “one truly democratic state for all” [170] and to argue—in a way that extends her perception of the tension between a vision of decolonization and a vision of statehood—for a process of decolonization that would displace any outcome framed within the limits of the state form. Erakat’s final pages compellingly force the question as to whether “a state-centric legal order that sanctifies the sovereignty of settler states [can] rectify and stem ongoing possession and native erasure”. [235] That is the urgent task this crucial book prescribes to anyone, and not only to Palestinians, who feels the limits of state-sanctioned conceptions of law and their remoteness from any effective concept of justice. It asks us to imagine and shape a political future beyond anything that the nation-state can offer. Palestine has always offered radical hope to those engaged in emancipatory struggles globally in the form of samud, its persistence in resistance. Erakat suggests that, beyond the often dismal horizon of the present, it also offers a vision and a means to life in common forged in the crucible of dispossession and abandonment. This is a vision worth carrying forward and a project that demands to be pursued.

     

    David Lloyd is Distinguished Professor of English at the University of California Riverside. His most recent book is Under Representation: The Racial Regime of Aesthetics (New York: Fordham University Press, 2019).

     

    Works Cited

    Adalah, “Discriminatory Laws in Israel”, https://www.adalah.org/en/law/index. Accessed April 15, 2020.

    Benjamin, Walter, “Critique of Violence,” translated by Edmund Jephcott, in Selected Writings, vol. 1, 1913–1926, edited by Marcus Bullock and Michael W. Jennings. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996,  236-252.

    Benjamin, Walter. “On the Concept of History”, Harry Zohn, trans, in Selected Writings, Volume 4, 1938-40. Edmund Jephcott and others, trans. Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings, eds. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003, 389-400.

    Hussain, Nasser. “Hyperlegality”, New Criminal Law Review, 10.4 (2007): 514-531.

    Memmi, Albert. The Coloniser and the Colonised, trans. Howard Greenfield (Boston: Beacon Books, 1967).

    Obama, Barack, “Interview of the President by Yonit Levi, Israeli TV”, July 7, 2010. https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/the-press-office/interview-president-yonit-levi-israeli-tv  Accessed April 15, 2020.

    Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court. 2002.  https://www.icc-cpi.int/resource-library/documents/rs-eng.pdf. Accessed April 15, 2020.

    [1] Adalah,  the Legal Center for Arab Minority Rights in Israel, maintains a database of  over 60 such laws, “Discriminatory Laws in Israel”: https://www.adalah.org/en/law/index. Accessed April 15, 2020.

    [2] Article 7 of the Rome Statute also defines “Deportation or forcible transfer of population” as such a crime. https://www.icc-cpi.int/resource-library/documents/rs-eng.pdf

    [3] Given that the United States functions as Israel’s current mother country”—a function that Zionists have historically sought to supply through alliances with the dominant imperial power of any epoch, we might do well to attend to Memmi’s warning that “the colonialist is the seed of corruption in the mother country” (Memmi 1967: 64). Lentin discusses the close alliance between Netanyahu’s Israel and contemporary US white supremacist and ethno-nationalist movements, and with right-wing governments globally, on pp.  99-101.