Saturday, October 23, 2021

On the primacy of the physician-patient relationship, from an unlikely source - the Attorney General of Nebraska

 

Tuesday, October 19, 2021

On the primacy of the physician-patient relationship, from an unlikely source - the Attorney General of Nebraska

I have not written much at this site, or any site, in recent years due to being kept busy supporting litigation regarding bad healthcare information technology as an expert witness.

A recent letter, however, so caught my eye regarding both current events and my past writing about bad health IT, that I decided to write about it.

It is perhaps a poignant reminder of the craziness of the times in which we physicians find ourselves that a well researched letter on the primacy of the doctor-patient relationship, and the non-interference with that relationship by outside forces based on opinions of non-clinicians, half-baked ideas, overzealous government, media hysteria to garner audience share, etc. comes not from the hallowed halls of academia or a prestigious medical journal - but from a state Attorney General, namely, of Nebraska.

The letter, dated Oct. 14, 2021 and entitled "Prescription of Ivermectin or Hydroxychloroquine as Off-Label Medicines for the Prevention or Treatment of Covid-19", is located at this link: https://ago.nebraska.gov/sites/ago.nebraska.gov/files/docs/opinions/21-017_0.pdf

It was requested by Dannette R. Smith, the Chief Executive Officer of the Nebraska Department of Health and Human Services.

I recommend reading it in its entirety.

In this 48-page letter, arguments regarding sanctioning of Nebraska physicians for their decisions on how to treat their patients with FDA-approved drugs for off-label purposes are discussed in significant detail and with significant literature references.  The letter reaches the conclusion that:

...  Based on the available data, we do not find clear and convincing evidence that a physician who first obtains informed consent and then utilizes ivermectin or hydroxychloroquine for COVID-19 violates the UCA (Nebraska Uniform Credentialing Act). This conclusion is subject to the limits noted throughout this opinion. Foremost among them are that if physicians who prescribe ivermectin or hydroxychloroquine neglect to obtain informed consent, deceive their patients, prescribe excessively high doses, fail to check for contraindications, or engage in other misconduct, they might be subject to discipline, no less than they would be in any other context ... Allowing physicians to consider these early treatments will free them to evaluate additional tools that could save lives, keep patients out of the hospital, and provide relief for our already strained healthcare system.


No matter one's opinion on the specifics of this particular controversy, the primacy of the physician-patient relationship - absent extreme circumstances of malfeasance/malpractice - is a principle that should not now, and should never need a 48 page letter for its justification

I find the following passage on pg. 36 particularly intriguing relative to my many essays in the past on observations by many parties that healthcare information technology (e.g., EMRs) are unhelpful and even harmful to provision of medical care, and the response from the Medical Informatics "establishment" and HIT industry that those observations are "anecdotal" and meaningless (e.g., see my 2010-2011 posts "Health IT: On Anecdotalism and Totalitarianism" at https://hcrenewal.blogspot.com/2010/09/health-it-on-anecdotalism-and.html and its linked posts, also "The Dangers of Critical Thinking in A Politicized, Irrational Culture" at https://hcrenewal.blogspot.com/2010/09/dangers-of-critical-thinking-in.html and "Australian ED EHR Study: An End to the Line 'Your Evidence Is Anecdotal, Thus Worthless?'" at https://hcrenewal.blogspot.com/2011/03/australian-ed-ehr-study-putting-lie-to.html).

... To be sure, these data derive from large-scale observational studies rather than RCTs, and we understand that RCTs are considered the gold standard in medicine. But for at least two reasons, we find these observational studies sufficient for our purposes.  

First, our role is not to set a standard for the practice of medicine. Rather, we must simply confirm whether reasonable medical evidence supports the use of hydroxychloroquine as an early COVID-19 treatment, and we determine that a collection of large-scale observational studies suffices for that purpose. Second, a seminal review of the scientific literature has revealed that “on average, there is little evidence for significant effect estimate differences between observational studies and RCTs, regardless of specific observational study design, heterogeneity, or inclusion of studies of pharmacological interventions.” 235 There is thus no basis to cast aside the observational studies demonstrating hydroxychloroquine’s efficacy as an early COVID-19 treatment.  

235 Andrew Anglemyer et al., Healthcare outcomes assessed with observational study designs compared with those assessed in randomized trials, Cochrane Database of Systematic Reviews, at 1 (2014), available at https://www.cochranelibrary.com/cdsr/doi/10.1002/14651858.MR000034.pub2/epdf/full (last visited Oct. 14, 2021)

I find the second observation in that paragraph about outcomes of observational studies vs. RCTs truly fascinating.

The arguments by the HIT hyper-enthusiasts that observational data from a wide variety of qualified personnel is "anecdotal" and thus invalid (e.g., from physicians such as at my Jan. 2010 post "An Honest Physician Survey on EHR's" at https://hcrenewal.blogspot.com/2010/01/honest-physician-survey-on-ehrs.html as just a small example of the observational data accumulated over many years) and demands that only RCT's (which are, in fact, nearly impossible to conduct) could validate efficacy and safety risks of EHRs fail under the above.

Observational data by qualified observers needs be taken more seriously in all of biomedicine, and not dismissed with the refrain that "it's not a RCT."

If that had happened in the domain of HIT, perhaps I would not now be spending so much time assisting litigation regarding HIT evidentiary obfuscation, HIT-related patient harms, and other litigation issues.

-- SS
 
 

"The Call" by Chris Hedges

 

The Call

This excerpt is from Chris Hedges' newest book, "Our Class: Trauma and Transformation in an American Prison." 
 
 
 Simon and Schuster
 

By Chris Hedges

On September 5, 2013, I pulled my old Volvo wagon—a bumper sticker reading “This is the Rebel Base” stuck on the back by my wife, a Star Wars fan—into the parking lot at East Jersey State Prison in Rahway, New Jersey. I had taught college-level courses in New Jersey prisons for the past three years. But neither my new students nor I had any idea that night that we were embarking on a journey that would shatter their protective emotional walls, or that years later our lives would be deeply intertwined.

I put my wallet and phone in the glove compartment, emptied my pockets of coins, and dumped them in the console between the front seats. I made sure I had my driver’s license. I gathered up my books, plays by August Wilson, James Baldwin, John Herbert, Tarell Alvin McCraney, Miguel Piñero, Amiri Baraka, and a copy of Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. I locked the car and walked toward the maximum security men’s prison, past the telephone poles that dotted the parking lot, each topped with two square spotlights.

East Jersey State Prison in Rahway was shaped like an X. At its center was a massive gray dome with boarded-up windows, surrounded at its base by a ring of oxidized copper. The wings of the prison stretched out in four directions from the dome. The brick walls of each wing were painted a dull ochre color with off-white patches. There were seventeen oblong windows on each wing with white metal bars. Turrets with what looked like brass spikes on top stood at the far end of these brick wings. The walls were covered with patches of ivy. The dull black roof was peaked and discolored by a patchwork of darker and lighter sections from repairs. Directly over the entrance to the prison, below the dome, was a guard tower constructed of Plexiglas windows. At the base of the guard tower were large yellow letters, EJSP, set against a blue background. The prison complex was ringed with cyclone fencing topped with bright, shiny coils of razor wire. At the front entrance of the prison, on the left, stood a chrome-colored communications tower with antennas.

[Watch a two-part interview with journalists Hugh Hamilton and Chris Hedges on “Our Class.”]

In the lobby, which led directly into the rotunda covered by the dome, plastic chairs faced a Plexiglas booth. A bulky corrections officer sat at a desk behind the Plexiglas. I pushed my car keys through the small metal slot below the Plexiglas, told him my name, which he checked on an authorization form, and exchanged my driver’s license for a plastic visitor’s badge. I sat for a half hour and waited to be called.

East Jersey State Prison, originally called New Jersey Reformatory, opened in 1896 as a reformatory for juveniles. It soon became known as Rahway State Prison. There were contact visits every Sunday when the middleweight boxer Rubin “Hurricane” Carter was imprisoned at Rahway from 1967 until his release in 1985. A contact visit, he writes, “was equal to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation for us inmates.” There were numerous sports programs, including a boxing program. A drama group called Theater of the Forgotten came in every week to perform plays. Community volunteers ran various programs. The prisoners put on a variety show every year. The prison held an annual Achievement Night when families came to ceremonies where prisoners officially graduated from training and academic programs. There were notorious family days where, out by the back fence, girlfriends and wives would leave pregnant. All of that was gone when I arrived, part of the steady stripping down of programs that have reduced most prisons to warehouses. Rahway State Prison changed its name to East Jersey State Prison in 1988, following complaints from local residents who claimed that naming the prison after the city of Rahway negatively affected property values. Similarly, Trenton State Prison changed its name to New Jersey State Prison. But prisoners continue to refer to the prisons as Rahway and Trenton.

There were riots in 1952, when about 230 prisoners seized a two-story dormitory wing and took nine corrections officers hostage, to protest a rash of beatings. Riots again erupted on Thanksgiving Day 1971, six months after the arrival of a new warden who abolished many recreational and sports programs and imposed a series of harsh and punitive rules. During his short tenure, there were two murders, ten escapes, three prisoners who died from a lack of medical care, a corrections officer stabbed, another hospitalized after being attacked with a pool cue, and a strike by the prison guards. The prisoners took six guards hostage in the 1971 riot, along with the warden, who had foolishly waded into the crowd of prisoners and told them there was no way they could win—that all he had to do was push a button to call in the state police. As Carter recalled in his 1974 memoir The Sixteenth Round: From Number 1 Contender to Number 45472, the warden was seized by the enraged mob and “stabbed, kicked, beat over the back with a fire extinguisher, had a chair broken over his head, and ended up the first superintendent in New Jersey prison history to be taken hostage in a riot.”

The rioters, many drunk from homemade prison wine, or pruno, eventually issued a list of grievances that included demands for better food, a restoration and expansion of educational and vocational programs, and an end to the chronic shortage of medical supplies, including aspirin. The prisoners in the 1971 uprising dropped bed sheets from prison windows with messages painted on them such as “We are fighting for better food, a new parole system, and no brutality.” They held out for 115 hours before negotiations finally resolved the revolt. A year later, three prisoners escaped by sawing through the bars of a third-floor window.

Carter’s book galvanized outside support from celebrities, including Muhammad Ali and also Bob Dylan, who opened his 1976 album, Desire, with “Hurricane,” an eight-and-a-half-minute epic he cowrote to publicize the injustice of Carter’s imprisonment. The album sold 2 million copies and spent five weeks at number one. Carter’s two murder convictions were eventually overturned, and he was released in 1985. Dwight Muhammad Qawi, a world champion boxer in two weight classes—light heavyweight and cruiserweight—began his boxing career in Rahway Prison’s boxing program. He was trained in the prison gym, in part, by another inmate, James Onque Scott Jr., a light heavyweight who was ranked number two by the World Boxing Association (WBA) and who fought in seven sanctioned bouts televised nationally from the prison.

One of the students in my first class at East Jersey State Prison, James Leak, was a New Jersey Golden Gloves champion who had spent three years as an Army Ranger on the US Army boxing team. I boxed for nearly three years as a welterweight for the Greater Boston YMCA boxing team while I was a student at Harvard Divinity School. One time after class, I told Leak I would never have been a great boxer because my hands were not big, nor was I very quick. I held up my right hand with the fingers spread apart. He placed his hand flat against mine. Our hands were the same size. “It’s what’s in here,” he said, tapping his heart, “and what’s in here”—he tapped his head—“that counts.”

Numerous Hollywood films shot scenes in the prison, including Crazy Joe, a film about Joseph Gallo, a member of the Colombo crime family, with Peter Boyle in the title role, and Lock Up, starring Sylvester Stallone and Donald Sutherland; as well as Malcolm X, directed and cowritten by Spike Lee and starring Denzel Washington; He Got Game, written and produced by Spike Lee; Ocean’s Eleven, with George Clooney and Brad Pitt; Jersey Boys; The Irishman, which was directed and produced by Martin Scorsese and starred Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and Joe Pesci; and The Hurricane, a 1999 biopic, with the boxer played by Denzel Washington, who was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actor for his portrayal of Carter.

My students usually lived with a bunkmate, or bunkie, in double cells roughly fifteen feet long, four and a half feet wide, and ten feet high. The cells were grouped together in cell blocks, or wings. If they lived in a single cell on One Wing or Four Wing, the cells were about nine feet long and seven feet high. Most prisoners could hold out their arms and touch each side of the cell wall. Those in single cells could also usually reach up to touch the ceiling. There was a metal toilet, a metal washbasin, one or two bunks, a table, a footlocker, shelves, and a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. It was sweltering in the summer, and cold and drafty in the winter.

I stumbled into prison teaching in 2010 after finishing my book Empire of Illusion: The End of Literacy and the Triumph of Spectacle. My neighbor Celia Chazelle, a scholar of early medieval history and the head of the History Department at The College of New Jersey, was teaching noncredit courses at the Albert C. Wagner Youth Correctional Facility in Bordentown, New Jersey. She asked me if I would be willing to teach. I had taught before at Columbia University, New York University, Princeton University, and the University of Toronto. It was hard, she said, to recruit college professors who were unpaid, burdened with the cost of buying texts for their students, and required to travel—often over an hour each way—to teach a night class at a prison in a rural part of New Jersey.

Teaching in state prisons returned me to my original calling as a minister working with those who lived in depressed urban enclaves. I had spent two and a half years living in Roxbury, Boston’s poorest neighborhood, while in divinity school. I ran a small church, and I preached on Sundays. I oversaw a youth program. I presided at funerals, which entailed helping to carry the casket into the church, opening the lid, and lifting transparent paper placed by the morticians over the face of the dead before conducting the service. The church and manse, where I lived, were across the street from the Mission Main and Mission Extension housing projects, at the time the most violent in the city. I skipped numerous classes to attend juvenile court with mothers and their children from the projects.

I intended to be ordained to serve in an urban church, but I grew increasingly disillusioned with the posturing by the liberal church and my liberal divinity school classmates, who too often talked about empowering people they never met. Too many “liked” the poor but did not like the smell of the poor. I took a leave of absence to study Spanish at the language school run by the Maryknolls, a Catholic missionary society, in Cochabamba, Bolivia. After four months there, I lived in La Paz for two months; then Lima, Peru; and finally Buenos Aires. I worked as a freelance reporter for several newspapers, including for the Washington Post, and covered the 1982 Falklands War between England and Argentina from Buenos Aires for National Public Radio. That fall, I returned to Cambridge, Massachusetts, to complete my Master of Divinity degree but had decided that when I graduated I would go to El Salvador as a reporter to cover the war.

The writer James Baldwin, the son of a preacher, as I was—and, for a time, a preacher himself—said that he left the pulpit to preach the Gospel. Baldwin saw how the institutional church was often the enemy of mercy and justice. He saw how it too easily devolved into a sanctimonious club whose members glorified themselves at the expense of others. Baldwin, who was gay and Black, was not interested in subjugating justice and love to the restrictions imposed by any institution, least of all the church. And that is why there is more Gospel—true Gospel—in Baldwin than in the writings of nearly all the theologians and preachers who were his contemporaries. His books and essays are prophetic sermons: among them, Nobody Knows My Name, The Fire Next Time, and The Devil Finds Work. Chapter titles include: “Princes and Power” and “Down at the Cross.” His 1953 semi-autobiographical novel, Go Tell It on the Mountain, is divided into three chapters: “The Seventh Day,” “The Prayers of the Saints,” and “The Threshing Floor.”

Baldwin deplored the self-love in American society—he counted white churches as being in the vanguard of self-love—and denounced what he called “the lie of their pretended humanism.” In his 1963 book-length essay The Fire Next Time, he writes: “[T]here was not love in the church. It was a mask for hatred and self-hatred and despair. The transfiguring power of the Holy Ghost ended when the service ended, and salvation stopped at the church door. When we were told to love everybody, I had thought that meant everybody. But no. It applied only to those who believed as we did, and it did not apply to white people at all.” He goes on: “If the concept of God has any validity or any use, it can only be to make us larger, freer, and more loving. If God cannot do this, then it is time we got rid of Him.”

Baldwin, like George Orwell, names truths that few others have the courage to name. He condemns evils that are held up as virtues by the powerful and the pious. He, like Orwell, is relentlessly self-critical and calls out the hypocrisies of the liberal elites and the Left, whose moral posturing is often not accompanied by the courage and self-sacrifice demanded in the fight against radical evil. Baldwin is true to a spirit and power beyond his control. He is, in religious language, possessed. And he knows it.

“The artist and the revolutionary function as they function,” Baldwin writes, “and pay whatever dues they must pay behind it because they are both possessed by a vision, and they do not so much follow this vision as find themselves driven by it. Otherwise, they could never endure, much less embrace, the lives they are compelled to lead.”

This was a sentiment understood by Orwell, an Englishman who fought against the Fascists in the Spanish Civil War, where at the Aragon Front in May 1937 he was shot through the neck by a sniper. He lived with and wrote about those living on the streets in Paris and London, as well as with impoverished coal miners in the north of England.

“My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice,” Orwell writes. “When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art.’ I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing.”

Orwell, like Baldwin, disdained the hypocrisy of the institutional church. He observed that pious Christian capitalists “do not seem to be perceptibly different” from other capitalists. “Religious belief,” he writes “is frequently a psychological device to avoid repentance.” Moses, the pet raven in the 1945 novel Animal Farm, is used to pacify the other animals, telling them they will all go to an animal paradise called Sugarcandy Mountain once their days of labor and suffering come to an end.

“As long as supernatural beliefs persist, men can be exploited by cunning priests and oligarchs, and the technical progress which is the prerequisite of a just society cannot be achieved,” Orwell writes. And yet, like Baldwin, Orwell feared the sanctification of state power and the rise of the manufactured idols that took the place of God; those who promised an earthly rather than heavenly paradise. Orwell struggled throughout his life to find a belief system strong enough to oppose it. “If our civilization does not regenerate itself, it is likely to perish,” he writes shortly before publishing Animal Farm. That regeneration, at least in Europe, he said, would have to draw on a moral code “based on Christian principles.”

In The Fire Next Time, Baldwin writes:

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns, and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death—ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible to life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. One must negotiate this passage as nobly as possible, for the sake of those who are coming after us.

A few weeks before graduation and leaving for El Salvador in the late spring of 1983, I had a final meeting in Albany, New York, with the committee that oversaw my ordination. My father, who had spent three decades as a minister, waited outside the conference room. I had already purchased a one-way ticket to El Salvador, where the military government, backed by the United States, was slaughtering hundreds of people a month. I had already decided, as Baldwin and Orwell did earlier, to use my writing as a weapon. I would stand with the oppressed. I would amplify their voice. I would document their suffering. I would name the injustices being done to them. I would shine a light into the hidden machinery of power. That was, to use religious language, my calling.

I would report on the war in El Salvador for the next five years as a freelance reporter for the Christian Science Monitor and National Public Radio, and, later, as the Central America bureau chief for the Dallas Morning News. And after leaving Central America, I worked for fifteen years, most of them with the New York Times, in war zones in the Middle East, Africa, and the former Yugoslavia. I would experience the worst of human evil. I would taste too much of my own fear. I would imbibe and became addicted to the intoxication and rush of violence. I would witness the randomness of death. And I would learn the bitter fact that we live in a morally neutral universe, that the rain falls on the just and the unjust.

Reporting on the war in El Salvador was not something the Presbyterian Church recognized as a valid ministry. When I informed the committee of my calling, there was a long silence. Then the head of the committee said coldly: “We don’t ordain journalists.” I left the conference room and met my father outside. I told him I was not to be ordained. It must have been hard for him to see his son come so close to ordination, only to have it slip away, and hard to know that his son was leaving for a conflict in which reporters and photographers had been killed and would be killed. But what the church would not validate, my father did.

“You are ordained to write,” he told me.

A few weeks after I started teaching at East Jersey State Prison, I met with the other professors in a restaurant near the prison before our classes. All of us, it turned out, had graduated from seminary, although only one of us served in the church. This vocational synchronicity made sense. Mass incarceration is the civil rights issue of our time. The liberal church, which left the inner city with white flight, had failed to connect its purported concern for the marginalized and the oppressed with meaningful social action. This disconnection had largely neutered its prophetic voice. The church too often became infected by the cult of the self that defines consumer culture. It went down the deadend path of a narcissistic, self-involved, “How-is-it-with-me?” form of spirituality. Its mission to stand, as the theologian James Cone writes in his 2011 book The Cross and the Lynching Tree, with the “crucified” of the earth was lost in all but rhetoric.

The ancient Greeks, like James Cone, understood that we gain a conscience only by building relationships with those who suffer. These relationships place us within the circle of contamination. They force us to confront our own vulnerability, the possibility of our own suffering. They make us ask what we must do. Aristotle understood that virtue always entails action. Those who do not act, Aristotle warns, those who are always asleep, can never be virtuous. It does not matter what they profess.

Most of my students in prison are Muslims. I am not bringing them to Jesus. I speak Arabic, and spent seven years in the Middle East. I have a deep respect for Islam. I saw in my twenty years outside the United States how men and women of all faiths, or no faith, and in all cultures, exhibited tremendous courage to confront the oppressor in behalf of the oppressed. There is no religious or cultural hierarchy. What people believe, or what language they speak, or where they live, does not determine the ethical life. It is what they do. If there is one constant, it is this, it is that the privileged too often turn their backs on the less privileged.

The point of ministry is to bear witness, not to dream up schemes to grow congregations or engage in religious chauvinism. It is to do the work we are called to do. It is to have faith, as the radical priest Daniel Berrigan—who baptized my youngest daughter—said, to carry out “the good” insofar as we can discern the good. Faith, Berrigan argued, is the belief that the “good draws to it the good.” Faith requires us to trust that acts of kindness and empathy, an unequivocal commitment to justice and mercy, and the courage to denounce and defy the crimes of the oppressor, have an unseen, incalculable power that ripples outward and transforms lives. We are called to carry out the good, or at least the good so far as we can determine it, and let it go. The Buddhists call this Karma. But, as Berrigan told me, for us as Christians, we do not know where it goes. We trust, even in spite of empirical evidence to the contrary, that it goes somewhere; that it makes the world a better place.

By 2014, I had been teaching in New Jersey prisons, including the Albert C. Wagner Youth Correctional Facility in Bordentown, State Prison in Trenton, and East Jersey State Prison in Rahway, for four years. That year, I was ordained as a Presbyterian minister for my prison work. The service was presided over by the theologian James Cone, who taught at Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York, and the moral philosopher and Princeton University professor Cornel West. The ordination was held in the depressed section of Elizabeth, New Jersey, in the church of my Harvard Divinity School classmate the Reverend Michael Granzen, who had reopened my ordination process. For music, we hired the New York–based Michael Packer Blues Band. We invited the families of my students. We rewrote the service to focus on the incarcerated and those, especially children, who endure the loss of people they love. My wife, Eunice Wong, who taught poetry in New Jersey State Prison, the men’s supermax prison in Trenton, got permission to read two of her students’ poems in the opening minutes of the service.

One of the poems, called “Gone,” was by Tairahaan Mallard. One morning, when he was in the fifth grade, Mallard woke up to find that his mother had abandoned him and his younger siblings. She never returned.

I awaken on my own.

Strange. Mommy normally wakes me up.

Us, rather. My three brothers and baby sister.

But not today. Today I awake on my own.

Why? Where’s mommy.

I’m the only one awake.

Five children, one pull-out bed. In the living room.

Where’s mommy?

I walk towards the bathroom.

Cold, wooden floors, squeaking with every step.

Nobody. Nobody’s in there.

Where’s mommy?

She’s got to be in her room. Must be.

No place else she could be.

No one. Nothing but empty beer bottles

And cigarette butts.

Party time’s over.

But, where’s mommy?

Gone.

Not only is she gone, but where?

Gone is her security.

Gone is my innocence.

Gone is my childhood. Ushering in responsibility.

Prematurely.

Gone is a mother’s love for her children.

Gone is her protection.

Gone. But where?

Will she come back? I don’t know.

But if she ever does, I will have already been gone.

Eunice also provided two of the highlights of the afternoon, first by appearing in front of the congregation in a black miniskirt, fishnet stockings, combat boots, and a tank top, announcing: “I wore my best Presbyterian minister’s wife’s outfit today.” And at the end of the service, when the blues band began an up-tempo version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” The singer stepped out from behind the microphone and began a soft-shoe shuffle. Eunice leapt up from the pew to join him, her arms swaying back and forth over her long black hair. She beckoned me to follow. It was an unorthodox way to enter the ministry.

I entered into the formal embrace of the church. But in my own mind, and in the mind of my father, who died in 1995, I had been ordained long ago. I was possessed by a vision, a call to tell the truth—which is different from reporting the news—and to stand with those who suffered, from Central America, to Gaza, to Iraq, to Sarajevo, to the United States’ vast archipelago of prisons. “You are not really a journalist,” my friend and fellow New York Times reporter Stephen Kinzer once told me, “you are a minister pretending to be a journalist.”

Life is a circle. We return to our origins. We become who we were created to be. My ordination made that circle complete. It was an affirmation of an inner reality, one that Baldwin and Orwell understood.

The profound abandonment that Mallard described in his poem, part of American society’s wholesale abandonment of the poor and its endemic racism, was an example of one of the stark social truths that inspired James Cone and his radical, socially liberatory message. In the only ordination sermon James ever gave, he told the congregation:

The conviction that we are not what the world says about us but rather what God created us to be is what compelled me to respond to the call to become a minister and theologian. The great Black writer James Baldwin wrote about his Harlem junior high school principal who told him that he “didn’t have to be entirely defined by circumstances,” that he could rise above them and become the writer he dreamed about becoming. “She was living proof,” Baldwin said, “that I was not necessarily what the country said I was.

My mother and father told me the same thing when I was just a child. It did not matter what white people said about us, they told my brothers and me: “Don’t believe them. You don’t have to be defined by what others say about you or by the limits others try to place on you.” I also heard the same message every Sunday at Macedonia A.M.E. Church. “You may be poor,” Reverend Hunter proclaimed from the pulpit,“you may be Black, you may be in prison, it doesn’t matter, you are still God’s child, God’s gift to the world. Now go out of this place and show the world that you are just as important and smart as anybody. With God, anything is possible!” That was the message my parents and Black church community gave to me. It was a message I read in the Bible. And I believed it.

Jesus was crucified on a cross as an insurrectionist because he bore witness to the divine truth that no one has to be defined by his or her circumstances. Liberation from oppression is God’s gift to the powerless in society. Freedom is Jesus’ gift to all who believe. And when one accepts this liberating Gospel and makes the decision to follow Jesus, you must be prepared to go to the cross in service to others—the least of those in society.

Because the Gospel begins and ends with God’s solidarity with the poor and weak, ministers who preach that Gospel will inevitably disturb the peace wherever there is injustice. Jesus was a disturber of the peace. A troublemaker. That is why he said, “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father and a daughter against her mother. . . . Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; . . . Whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life shall lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake shall find it” (Matthew 10:34–39). Jesus’ presence creates division and conflict, even in families and among friends and especially among religious leaders and rulers in government. That was why the Roman state crucified him, lynched him on Golgotha hill, placing his exposed, wounded body high and lifted up on a cross for all to see and learn what would happen to others who chose to follow the man from Nazareth.

Now, if we Christians today are going to follow this Jesus and become ordained as one of his ministers, we too must become disturbers of the peace and run the risk of being lynched just like Jesus. The great theologian Reinhold Niebuhr said: “If a gospel is preached without opposition, it is simply not the gospel which resulted in the cross.” It is, in short, not Jesus’ gospel.

The love that informs the long struggle for justice, that directs us to stand with the crucified, the love that defines the lives and words of James Baldwin, George Orwell, James Cone, and Cornel West, is the most powerful force on earth. It does not mean we will be spared pain or suffering. It does not mean we will achieve justice. It does not mean we as distinct individuals will survive. It does not mean we will escape death. But it gives us the strength to confront evil, even when it seems certain that evil will triumph. That love is not a means to an end. It is the end itself. That is the secret of its omnipotence. That is why it will never be conquered.

I taught my first prison class in 2010 at Wagner Correctional, which houses men in their teens and early twenties. The course was American history, and I used Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States as my textbook. Wagner, built in the 1930s, had the look and feel of prisons in old black-and-white gangster films. My class met in a small basement room. To get there, I had to pass through a series of descending locked gates. I walked through an open gate that would then close behind me. I would wait fifteen seconds in a holding cell before the next gate opened. I repeated this process several times as I went deeper and deeper into the bowels of the prison. It felt as if I were traveling downward through Dante’s circles of hell: limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, anger, heresy, violence, and fraud, and then to the final circle of hell—treachery, where everyone lives frozen in an ice-filled lake. Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate. Abandon all hope, ye who enter.

We studied Spain’s violent decimation of the native inhabitants in the Caribbean and the Americas, the Revolutionary War in the United States, and the genocide of Native Americans. We examined slavery, the Mexican-American War, the Civil War, the occupations of Cuba and the Philippines, President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal, two world wars, and the legacy of racism, capitalist exploitation, and imperialism that continue to infect American society.

We looked at these issues, as Zinn did, through the eyes of Native Americans, immigrants, those who were enslaved, feminists, union leaders, persecuted socialists, anarchists, Communists, abolitionists, antiwar activists, civil rights leaders, and the poor. As I read out loud passages by Sojourner Truth, Chief Joseph, Henry David Thoreau, Frederick Douglass, W. E. B. DuBois, Randolph Bourne, Malcolm X, or Martin Luther King, I would hear students mutter “Damn!” or “We been lied to!” Zinn’s work, because it gave primacy to their story rather than to the story of powerful and wealthy white men, captivated them. Zinn elucidated the racial and class structures that, from the inception of the country to the present, perpetuate misery for the poor, and gluttony and privilege for the elite—especially the white elite. A veil was lifted. My students took notes furiously as I plowed through the book in ninety-minute lectures.

Education is not only about knowledge. It is about inspiration. It is about passion. It is about the belief that what we do in life matters. It is about moral choice. It is about taking nothing for granted. It is about challenging assumptions and suppositions. It is about truth and justice. It is about learning how to think. It is about, as Baldwin writes in his essay The Creative Process, the ability to drive “to the heart of every matter and expose the question the answer hides.” And, as Baldwin notes further, it is about making the world “a more human dwelling place.”

Wagner, because it was a youth correctional facility, and the prisoners were young and could be undisciplined, required the imposition of strict rules for classroom behavior. Disagreements could quickly become personal. Homophobia, common in male prisons, generated slurs to belittle others. There were always one or two students that tried to veer the class discussions into tangents, especially since they knew I had lived outside the United States, had covered wars and conflicts, and had been to countries they had only glimpsed on television. In one class, I struggled to redirect the class back to the course material from its insistent questions about the possibility of nuclear war. When I asked why this issue was of such concern to them, a student answered, “Because if there is a nuclear war, the guards will run away and leave us in our cells.”

I was unforgiving with those who did not take the class seriously. A student who disrupted the class to mouth off or play the clown, who had little interest in doing the work, sabotaged the chance my students had to learn. An uninterested or unruly student would arrive the next week and find I had crossed his name off the list. My reputation for zero tolerance spread quickly throughout the prison, along with my propensity to be a tough grader. It built a protective wall around my classes for those who had a thirst for education.

The corrections officer rapped on the Plexiglas that first night in Rahway. The three other professors and I were buzzed through the first heavy metal door and into the prison. There were 140 students who had been selected after a rigorous application process from the prison’s population of 1,500 to participate in the program known as the New Jersey Scholarship and Transformative Education in Prisons, or NJ-STEP, which allowed them to pursue their college degree. I had twenty-eight of these students in my class.

We walked down a long, drab corridor until we passed through a cavity where a heavy, blue metal door had been electronically opened. I put my shoes, watch, pens, and belt in a plastic bin that rolled through an X-ray machine to an officer at a high wooden desk. I stepped through a metal detector. I lifted my arms to be patted down. The metal door behind us rumbled shut, and an identical door on the other side of the small room rumbled open. I walked into the rotunda. A half circle of metal bars with a gate in the middle separated us from the prison population. The white, throne-like BOSS chair—BOSS stands for Body Orifice Security Scanner, which is used to X-ray the cavities of prisoners for contraband—was on my left. A holding cell with bars on all sides was to my right.

We waited silently. I watched prisoners in khaki uniforms, many carrying meal trays, walk in single file on the other side of the bars. When the corridors were clear, the officer seated by the gate motioned us forward. I went through the gate, passed perhaps a dozen officers, many wearing latex gloves, and another metal detector. On my left, some prisoners, dressed in white to identify them as kitchen workers, were seated on benches behind another set of bars. As civilians, we were not allowed into the corridors during movement, when long lines of prisoners would be walking to and from their cells. I walked up a flight of metal stairs into an area called the Old School. I registered with the officer at the desk. He checked the list.

“Your classroom is at the end of the corridor on the left,” he said.

I entered the room. My twenty-eight students were seated at desks. Many, given their size, barely fit. I was wearing an old brown suit. When I had gone to Brooks Brothers to see if I could replace it, the sales clerk informed me that it was no longer manufactured because it was not “a power color.” Power colors were probably something Brooks Brothers understood. The clothing firm got its start buying inexpensive cotton from slave plantations to make livery and cheap, coarse fabrics called “Negro cloth,” that it sold to slaveholders.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the massive size of one of my students in the back row. He was, I would learn later, six foot two and 270 pounds. He had very broad shoulders, a dark, wide, open face, and short dreadlocks. He was Robert Luma, known as Kabir, which in Arabic means big. There were other large men in the room—members of what was referred to as the 400 Club, meaning they bench-pressed more than 400 pounds in the prison yard—but they appeared dwarfed next to Kabir.

Kabir was a devoted listener of the Pacifica Network radio station that broadcast from New York City, WBAI. He had heard me on the air several times and told the other students they should take the class.20 Boris Franklin, dark skinned, with a round, inquisitive face and biceps that rivaled his thighs in size, was seated next to Kabir. Reading glasses were carefully tucked in the front pocket of his prison uniform. I assumed, correctly, that he was a serious reader and a serious student. He eyed me, however, like much of the class, with skepticism.

“You walked into the room,” he told me later. “I thought, ‘This little dude is the guy Kabir says is supposed to be so great. Okay. We’ll see.’ ”

I opened the class with my usual imposition of guidelines I had found necessary in the classes I had taught to younger students at Wagner.

“My name is Chris Hedges,” I said. “I was a reporter overseas for twenty years, covering conflicts in Central America, the Middle East, Africa, and the war in the former Yugoslavia. Now I write books—a career choice made for me by my former employer, the New York Times, after the paper issued me a formal reprimand for speaking at public forums and on media outlets denouncing George W. Bush’s call to invade Iraq. They demanded I cease speaking publicly about the war. I refused. That ended my career at the paper. I was an English major at Colgate University. I have a master of divinity from Harvard. I also spent a year at Harvard studying classics.

“I have taught in colleges before, including at Princeton University. I expect the same decorum and commitment to do the work here that I would in a Princeton classroom. In this class, we will read various plays, along with Michelle Alexander’s book The New Jim Crow. But first a few rules: In this class, everyone is treated with respect no matter what their race, ethnicity, religion, politics, or sexual orientation. In this class, we do not interrupt. We challenge ideas, but never integrity or character. I know homophobia runs rampant in men’s prisons. But not in my classroom. In my classroom, everyone has a legitimate right to be who they are created to be. In short, I never want to hear any derogatory term used about anyone, and that includes the word faggot. Is this clear?”

The class nodded its assent.

East Jersey State Prison was different from Wagner, which did not hold many long-term offenders. My new students were older. They were charged with more serious crimes—often murder. They had usually spent the first few years, even decades, of their time in New Jersey State Prison, the supermax prison in Trenton, where movement is heavily restricted and the prison regime harsh and unforgiving. They rarely went to the prison yard in Trenton, and there were no weights—prisoners call it the pile—which are usually a ubiquitous part of prison life. Those prisoners considered incorrigible by the Department of Corrections are housed in Trenton, often for life.

The atmosphere in Trenton was dark and menacing. The Department of Corrections did not permit college credit courses in Trenton because, as one corrections official said, “They will die in there anyway.” I taught noncredit courses there. One summer I taught Shakespeare’s King Lear. When we discussed Gloucester’s aborted suicide, a third of the class admitted they had seriously contemplated or attempted suicide in the prison. My students carried the trauma of Trenton into East Jersey State Prison. In short, the students were adult men, more reserved, more composed, but also hardened in the way the young, often preening men in Wagner were not.

Students got into the college program at East Jersey State Prison by keeping their disciplinary records clean. I would often hear that prisoners “age out of crime,” and that is probably the best way to describe my students. They held back emotionally. They watched me carefully. They trusted few people and only after long observation. They had clearly demarcated lines that you crossed at your peril. But they did not have the impulsiveness and immaturity of younger prisoners.

I had more experience with prisons than most of my fellow professors. I had been inside numerous prisons in Latin America, the Middle East, India, and the Balkans as a foreign correspondent and had been locked up for brief periods in cells myself—including in Iran, where I managed to get through 180 pages of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot before being released. I was also, as a war correspondent, accustomed to being around violence and those who perpetrated violence.

In my class in East Jersey State Prison, we would have a long discussion that semester about prisoners who murder other prisoners.

“Don’t they take into consideration that they will almost certainly get caught and add a life bid to their sentence?” I asked.

The class assured me that the high cost of the murder was known and accepted by the assailant. It was part of the price to pay for a killing that was often seen as an act of justifiable revenge, they insisted. As the students filed out that night, one of them came up to me and whispered, “Everything you heard is bullshit. I shanked a dude in Wagner. I didn’t think about any of that. All I wanted was to take the motherfucker out.”

The next week, a student said he had watched my face as his classmate confessed to a killing and was surprised by my composure.

“Well,” I said laughing, “in the world I come from, the killers in here are amateurs.”

“The most powerful prisoners are not the gangsters,” Boris Franklin wrote later. “They are those who have earned the respect of the other prisoners and the guards. There is less violence in a well-run prison than many on the outside assume, since it is the word and stature of these prison leaders that creates social cohesion. These leaders ward off conflicts between prisoners, raise issues of concern with the administrators, and intercede with the guards. They intuitively understand how to navigate the narrow parameters set by prison authorities, giving them something that resembles freedom. Prison is a lot like the outside world. There is a stratum of people you try to avoid. There are the majority who spend most of their free time slack-jawed in front of a television set, and then there are those who have recovered their integrity and even, to an extent, their moral autonomy. They have risen above prison to become better people. Yet even they can be arbitrarily disappeared into solitary confinement or shipped to another prison by the administration.  Everyone in prison is disposable.

“It was this last group . . . that Professor Chris Hedges met when he walked into a prison classroom in Rahway, New Jersey, in September 2013,” he continued. “These were some of the 140 men who comprised what we called Rahway University; those of us who dedicated all our free time to studying to earn our college degree. We would be in the yard working the pile talking about Plato or Augustine. We exchanged ideas about the readings from our bunks or in the mess hall. And we tutored those who were falling behind. We had converted our cells into libraries. Our books were our most precious possessions, especially since we had to scrape together the money to buy them. We did not lend them unless we were sure they would be read and even surer they would be returned. And if you read one of our books, you had better be prepared to give an intelligent commentary on its contents. We were a dedicated fraternity of prison scholars.”

My class contained highly literate men. None of this was apparent from looking at most of them, but their passions and mine were identical. I was not, I would soon find out, the only writer in the room.

Excerpt from OUR CLASS by Chris Hedges.

Copyright © 2021 by Chris Hedges. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc, NY.


 Source: SCHEERPOST
 
 

"Yellow Vests ‘Season 2’ begins – are Season 1s always better?" by Ramin Mazaheri

 

 

 

Yellow Vests ‘Season 2’ begins – are Season 1s always better?

The Yellow Vests are back! But Macron promises more and harsher repression, while the corporate media, both French and foreign look the other way.

 

 The Yellow Vests poised to restart marching in Paris: The Bastille monument is in the background and a “Stop the genocide of the Gauls” sign is at the head of the demonstration. (All photos by the author).

Last weekend, after more than one and half years away, the Yellow Vests hit the streets again for what they are calling “Season 2”. 

You’re going to laugh and say, “But Season 2 of television programs are always worse!” Sure, for TV shows which turn out to be lousy. I find it hard to imagine that the Yellow Vests are going to sour into something unwatchable - in 2019 it was global can’t-miss politics. 

French President Emmanuel Macron may appreciate the coronavirus because it provided the only time in his term, other than his first several months, when the streets weren’t swarming with protesters. There are self-centered Americans who claim that the corona hysteria was amplified in the West to push Donald Trump into losing re-election - some egotistical French say the hysteria was manipulated to get the Yellow Vests off the streets. Neither egos are totally out of control here, if you ask me. 

Most everyone in France I talked with about the Vesters had the same response about Season 2: “The Yellow Vests still exist?” That’s fair - it has been a while. 

I hate sounding like the perpetually self-referential Chris Cuomo of CNN, but no journalist in French or English attended more Yellow Vest demonstrations than I did… and even I had to catch up on what happened in the different epoch of 2019! 

All I can say after doing so is - wow… France’s state-sponsored repression in 2019 boggles the mind and stuns the pen. It should not be forgotten, and someone needs to get it right. 

Which is why at the end of 2019 I thought it was necessary journalism to compile this, A News Chronology of France in 2019: The Year of Yellow Vest Rebellion. I recommend it to anyone who wants to know exactly what happened in 2019, in what order, how and why. It is 11,000 words but reviewing how the Yellow Vest phenomenon arose and exploded, and the depths to which France descended to repress it, makes for astounding reading even if Chris Cuomo would have penned it.

To condense it all into two lines from the introduction: “The metronomic sadism of certain, massive state violence was not at all a normal state of affairs, and yet Parisians were expending all their psychic energy to convince themselves that everything was indeed ‘normal’. … The question that France cannot quite answer is: are they still the coloniser, or are they now colonised?

 https://www.greanvillepost.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/10/ericZinmour.webp?x91368

 Zemmour

Disgusting Eric Zemmour, who has risen to third in the April 2022 presidential polls, will say that France is the colonised - by Muslims. Nonsense: somehow the lowest socioeconomic class is the one pulling the strings which gutted France’s middle class? Yet he still gets all the airtime in the world. The Yellow Vests, however, get it right - France has been colonised by the European Union, which is indeed a neo-imperialist project that is openly and repeatedly anti-democratic. For this, Vesters get no airtime.

But they do get plenty of tear gas (a more powerful type began getting used in March 2019), and rubber bullets (or “flash balls” shot from “defense ball launchers” per the MSM), from a new police chief who was hired because the Prime Minister said that “Inappropriate orders were given to reduce the use of LBD (rubber bullets)” by the previous police chief, while protesters were forbidden from covering their face (are corona masks ok now?). 

You really can’t make this stuff up: remember the “anti-Yellow Vest law”, the lockdowns, the deployment of the army, the reactionary and short-lived “Red Scarves”, the fake turnout numbers, the fact that Macron didn’t even utter the words “Yellow Vests” until April 25, the banning of rural demonstrations, the tear-gassed tourists on Bastille Day, Lobstergate, etc.  

So, yes, Mr. and Mrs. Jean Q. Frenchy stopped going to protests around mid-May 2019. You can say the Yellow Vests grew unpopular but you’d be wrong - they were consistently around a 60% approval rating, which is a staggeringly high number for a protest movement, and a great score for a political party. 

But don’t forget the victories: they stopped Macron’s privatisation of the airports, they forced him to back down on yet another austerity budget (thus ending 9 years of austerity), they got €10 billion in concessions (which was credited to raising France’s 2019 Q3 growth rate of 0.3% (remember how many years of awful quarters they had when 0.3% quarterly growth would be trumped up as proof of austerity’s success!)), they must get credit for inspiring the 2019/20 General Strike (France’s longest labor movement in history) and also - they refused to give up. 

These are low numbers, because how many hurt protesters (including tourists) didn’t report their injuries, but the 1-year tally in late November was 11,000 arrests, 2,000 convictions, 1,000 imprisoned, 5,000 seriously hurt and 1,000 critically injured.  

Incredible… and yet all the while France continued to claim to be a leader in human and political rights. As if Danton and Robespierre wouldn’t have guillotined themselves rather than be associated with the French government of today…. 

But we all know what happened right after the French union-led, which is to say incompetently-led, General Strike failed: ”2 weeks to flatten the curve!” 

Well, at least it gave France a reason to have a new type of state of emergency. Recall that those started under Francois Hollande - executive branch power-grabs are not something started by Macron.  

Season 2 of the West’s most advanced political group 

Oh, wait - aren’t they Islamophobic, per the repeated accusations of the MSM? Well, then why did the head of the Paris demonstration feature a Muslim woman wearing a hijab? 

Here’s the TV report we at PressTV did on Act 1, Season 2 - you may not find any others. (Se below!) I surprisingly did see a lone major French media there, which was a huge increase from the usual French media presence of “none”. An RT colleague was there, as always, so it was quite the same as it was from mid-May 2019 onwards - mostly just the Russians and the Iranians covering the Yellow Vests.

So what’s going to happen this season?


Well, the resumption of regular weekend repression of protesters would surely hurt Macron’s re-election chances, but will the average Jean and Jeanne Frenchy join them? Believe it or not, many people don’t like being tear gassed in 2021 as much as they didn’t like it in 2019. The massive state repression, the criminalisation, the tear gas, the beatings, the fines, the intrusive searches, the portraying of political protesters as mere rioters - the whole point was to scare away the average Frenchman, and it definitely worked. 

People here tell me that Macron will just buy voters off with some one-off payments before the election, but Americans told me the same thing about Trump - I note that he did not.

The world is not going to lock itself down to sway the French election, like many said it seemed to do for the US election; the Western 1% really doesn’t care what happens to French protesters, and 2019 proved that emphatically. 

If you’re going to pin me down for an early prediction, and fairly ask this foreign correspondent what exactly is going on in France, then at this point I’d say: Macron wins re-election regardless of how much petrol increases, inflation rises, the Vesters march, etc. for a simple reason:

The West postures on 18th century political and social achievements, largely disavowing 20th-century advances in political thought and anti-imperialism. Thus, France is a far-right country with a host of recent massacres, violence and repression which are forgotten or covered-up as soon as the smoke clears - look at the Yellow Vests of 2019. The Yellow Vests are emphatically not poseurs, but they were and likely will be incredibly suppressed ahead of the presidential election.

Apathy is always the forerunner of catastrophe - however, perhaps France will grasp that and not cede the political field to the economic and social far-right (Macron, Le Pen, Zemmour)?

The story of French political modernity is not over - Season 2 has only begun. 

Ramin Mazaheri is the chief correspondent in Paris for PressTV and has lived in France since 2009. He has been a daily newspaper reporter in the US, and has reported from Iran, Cuba, Egypt, Tunisia, South Korea and elsewhere. He is the author of Socialisms Ignored Success: Iranian Islamic Socialismas well as Ill Ruin Everything You Are: Ending Western Propaganda on Red China, which is also available in simplified and traditional Chinese. Photos by Ramin Mazaheri

 

 Source: The Greanville Post

 

 

Friday, October 22, 2021

"What is the Experiment, Again?" by John Steppling

Elizabeth Hayes here. LeftFlank upvoted me when I asked if I should post this, so I'll take that as a yes and you all can blame him for assaulting you with an intellectual, artistic point of view. So, as I usually say, thank you [LeftFlank] for contributing this article. Personally, I always find Steppling's essays worth reading twice or more. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What is the Experiment, again?

Hans Federle

“Up until 1909, Freud, to speak broadly, had been fascinated with the dynamics of desire. He wanted to know how the unconscious, the seat and source of desire, worked and in particular how it expressed itself in neuroses and dreams and in works of art. It was during this period that Freud was inclined to see erotic urges—and also, less consequentially, aggressive drives—at the root of human behavior. But as time went on, Freud became more and more preoccupied with the issue of authority, and with the agency that he thought of as the center of authority in the human psyche, the superego, or over-I.”
Mark Edmundson (The Death of Sigmund Freud)

“Impressionism depended for its force on something more than painterly hedonism or a simple appetite for sunshine and colour. The art of Manet and his followers had a distinct “moral aspect,” visible above all in the way it dovetailed an account of visual truth with one of social freedom.”
Meyer Shapiro (Marxist Quarterly, 1937)

“{ Godard’s Hail Mary} distorts and slanders the spiritual significance and historic value’ of ‘fundamental themes of the Christian faith’ and ‘profoundly wounds the religious sentiment of believers.”
Pope John Paul II

“…play only fulfills its human potential—only carries an insubordinate charge—if it is posited as a counterweight to the grownup world of purposiveness. We, on the other hand, exist in a world where the ‘adult’ and the ‘juvenile’ are hopelessly commingled; where leisure time has been both increasingly infantilized and increasingly regulated, depoliticized, dosed and packaged.”
T.J. Clark (Heaven On Earth)

The seeming lack of resistance to vaccine passes, or passports, or whatever one wants to call them, is both astonishing and, sadly, not astonishing. There is resistance, huge and profound degrees of resistance, in France for example, but in the UK, too. There is little to none in the U.S. (or Norway or most of Scandinavia, nor in Canada or Australia or New Zealand). And I was reminded this week (by Molly Klein) of T.J. Clark’s books on the art of the French Revolution (Absolute Bourgeois and his study of Courbet, The Image of the People). And first, to re read The Image of the People was startling, because I had somewhat forgotten how good it was, and then Absolute Bourgeois, which I had never really read, and which was equally brilliant, was a revelation of sorts. And the latter feels especially relevant to current moment. For Clark feels the trends of reaction in Western culture, and sees the resemblance to that period both before and after the Revolution in France (1788/89) with the climate today. I would suggest that if I were to teach the aesthetics of Covid the curriculum would start with Diary of a Man in Despair (Friedrich Reck-Malleczewen), and Absolute Bourgeois. I might then add any of several books by Franco Moretti (Far Country perhaps?) And when I say the aesthetics of Covid I must, of necessity, focus on the United States. For the stamp of U.S. culture is indelibly stained into the fabric of the entire Covid narrative.

Alfred Rethel (1851)

And this culture of which I speak is one that has been developed (in its current specific form) for about the last thirty or so years. Perhaps longer, perhaps from the 70s onward. You could make a case that even this current version began before that, began after WW2. All are true. But the post internet phase describes something qualitatively different from all that came before.

“Traditional societies tend to produce heteronomous individuals who,like the society,exist in a state of closure. In other words,there isa close functional fit between the belief system of the group and the superegos and ego ideals of its members. Unlike Hamlet,for example—a quintessentially modern man tortured by the question of his identity—it is difficult to imagine an Athenian citizen,a medieval knight,an Ottoman pasha,a Comanche warrior,or a Chinese Maoist ruminating about theirs.According to Castoriadis,an autonomous society began to emerge when the “new men”of early modern Europe—the city dwellers,the burghers,the bourgeoisie—started to fight for a different form of life.They did not simply criticize the particular authority of the Church or of the feudal system; they challenged the notion of traditional authority as such.”
Joel Whitebook (Hans Loewald, Psychoanalysis and the Project of Autonomy)

Now, I don’t actually agree with the above quote, or not entirely anyway. But it serves the purpose here of helping frame this question.

William Henry Jackson, photography (1872, Yellowstone survey team).

Now Whitebook (per Hobbes) sees the emergence of science as an ambivalent form of study, he extrapolates that modernity itself was foundationally ambivalent.

“Insofar as modern science was mathematical,it contained the potential for modern technology and carried the seeds of the domination of nature within it. Thus it became essential to the project of instrumentalization. But to the extent that modern science rejected all appeals to authority and dogma in the justification of truth-claims and maintained that all assertions—about the polis as well as about nature—must be validated by argument and demonstration,it became an essential part of the project of autonomy.The emergence of modernity marked a rupture of the closure that characterized all previously existing societies and initiated a program for the creation of a new,autonomous form of society.”
Joel Whitebook (Ibid)

Whats missing here is the colonial project, the sense of European superiority, and justifications for conquest. Edward Said was very good at tracing all this in his book Orientalism. The idea of Enlightenment values driving this instrumentalized modernity has been pretty well explored. And so for the sake of another approach to the current state of things (and as I write this Australia just shut down most of Sydney, literally almost completely because of, I believe, 13 deaths from, allegedly, Covid). And to be clear, locking up healthy people is not strictly speaking quarantine, its arrest or detention. Language is becoming very important to rectify — this is the age of spin for sure.

Adam Collier Noel

Now Castoriadis, who Whitebook is following here, saw the new age of criticism (per Kant) as resulting in a populace in search of identity. (see Death of God etc). And that while that did spur creativity (did it?) and autonomy, it also increased pathologies. Enter psyhoanalysis. Ok, so far I can mostly agree with this. But it is feeling perilously anti-Marxist here. But the point is that, the emergence of psychoanalysis coincided with a number of technical discoveries (I have noted all this before) especially optical discoveries. Now Whitebook is a strangely anti-communist conservative, but his reading of Freud is pretty good and it strikes me he something of an auteur here (if he were a movie) because ambivalence is exactly the quality of his writing (at least of late). And he does note the obvious fact that the fall of the U.S.S.R. signaled the unchecked expansion of instrumental thinking and what I might here call ‘techno values’. America was free to define progress any way it chose.

So it might be that this current phase of culture began in 1989, with a precursor decade preceding it.

Here it is important to note that the word ‘science’ has to be reevaluated. Or perhaps just defined better. For Freud it was simply (for better or worse) a tool to soberly examine illusion (his idea of illusion). To understand the personal individual (through the forces of society) creation of mythologies. Personal myths. But science exceeded ambivalence almost from the start. It early on became a cult like worship of authority, an authority that appealed to its technical principles as a kind of God. Now, these personal mythes were mediated by social and economic forces. And above all else (as cause and effect) by class. And class is not a thing, it is a relation. It is social relations. And what Whitebook and even Castoriadis are guilty of is the minimizing of class struggle. For religious fundamentalism (a topic for Whitebook) is directly related to colonialism and class domination. But the main point here for the purposes of this post is that what for Freud was illusion (and by extension most secular scientists) is not a simple one dimensional thing. And the discarding of religious belief, for example, also tended, or has tended, to result in a kind of historical amnesia. It results in a de-emphasizing of tradition. Of memory, even.

Danny Lyon, photography.

So one might well argue that the rise of a social media culture, of mass electronic media platforms, and smart phones was linked directly to the fall of the Soviet Union. The other aspect of this was the transference of wealth to the very top — to the one half of one percent. And Covid is a project, however one tweezes it apart, of an unelected billionaire class that continues to amass enormous almost unthinkable amounts of money and property, beginning a project of reshaping the planet. And their influence is now expressed in global corporations and, more, in NGOs and institutions such as the WHO and World Bank, the UN (symbolically, sort of) and the World Economic Forum. That they are ignorant of their own hubris is perhaps the most terrifying part of this entire scenario. This is the age of the rigid and weak ego. And Hans Loewald was very prescient about this. The threatened ego (the threatened insecure ego) must resort to a constant policing of its boundaries.

Writing of this ego of late modernity…“It is purchased,Loewald argues,by the narrowness of its boundaries,which exclude everything foreign to it,and by the compulsive rigidity with which it must police those boundaries—that is,by isolation from its unconscious-instinctual life. Loewald observes that,“in its dominant current”—which includes the official Freud and many of the ego psychologists of his day—a pathological form of self formation, namely, the obsessional self,is elevated into the healthy self. Thus,“psychoanalytic theory has unwittingly taken over much of the obsessive neurotic’s experience and conception of reality and has taken it for granted as ‘the objective reality’”
Joel Whitebook (Ibid)

This is very insightful and I think correct. But however we got here, this is where we are. The eradication of the unconscious, of archaic dreams and collective imagination, the disenchantment of the world, and of the self, has taken place rapidly over the last thirty years or so. It has made for an ideal human who functions as an informal scientist observing the world around him. Observing under cover of hyper rationality and sobriety. The ego-psychology of American mental health experts has been exported in ever greater degree for thirty years. And this disenchanted human is one who finds it hard to grasp the ideas of class and economic coercion. The American psychologist has internalized the sensibility of American sociologists, and almost as a reflex, exports American narcissism (American exceptionalism).

Larry Fink, photography.

The American idea of psychological well being is tied in with its Puritanical heritage. The Ego rejects the unconscious but suffers its influence anyway, indirectly. The other aspect of rejecting the archaic mythos is that the policing Ego, now cooperating, really, with the Super-ego, must police those dangerous spots where the unconscious surfaces (i.e. art and cultural expression). Whitebook riffs off Loewald and Castoriadis when he writes...”The greatness of Bach’s music does not derive solely from its sophisticated and complex contrapuntal logic. Nor is it only the result of its ability to invoke powerful primitive affective states. Bach’s greatness requires both these accomplishments in equal measure.” This is of course true of all good art. And this forms a segue back to T.J. Clark.

As an aside, it is worth noting that Loewald studied with Heidegger.

“I am deeply grateful for what I learned from him [Martin Heidegger], despite his most hurtful betrayal in the Nazi era, which alienated me from him permanently.”
Hans Loewald

But I will return to this.

Gustave Caillebotte, 1875

“As the contexts of bourgeois sociability shifted from community, family and church to commercialized or privately improvised forms—the streets, the cafés and resorts—the resulting consciousness of individual freedom involved more and more an estrangement from older ties; and those imaginative members of the middle class who accepted the norms of freedom, but lacked the economic means to attain them, were spiritually torn by a sense of helpless isolation in an anonymous indifferent mass. By 1880 the enjoying individual becomes rare in Impressionist art; only the private spectacle of nature is left. And in neo-Impressionism, which restores and even monumentalizes the figures, the social group breaks up into isolated spectators, who do not communicate with each other, or consists of mechanically repeated dances submitted to a preordained movement with little spontaneity.”
T.J. Clark (The Painting of Modern Life)

The above quote is really Clark summarizing Meyer Shapiro’s arguments in an essay, he Shapiro wrote, from the 1930s. But it is another relevant example of cultural shifts, or of how culture shifts and changes, and of something in early modernism had already anticipated the 21st century estrangement of artistic life. That particular estrangement and alienation one feels today. And, Shapiro was already introducing the idea of spectators, as a theoretical subject for cultural analysis. That spectatorship was an expression of class tension.

The purpose here is really to both find clues in previous eras, culturally speaking (though that includes nearly everything else anyway) and with the effects of a loss of coherency in the experience the public has of artistic production. (see https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2021-07-15/new-museum-technology-collects-data-on-viewing-habits?utm_content=citylab&utm_campaign=socialflow-organic&utm_source=twitter&utm_medium=social) And to try to persevere in a time in which the loss of aesthetic understanding has reached an absolute threshold — where there is essentially no longer ‘a’ culture to speak about, something that allows for a sense of collectivity and meaning in artworks. For the disappearing radical artist the search, the hunt, is not just for meaning but for revelation, I think.

“In defining a work of art as a “man-made object demanding to be experienced aesthetically” we encounter for the first time a basic difference between the humanities and natural science. The scientist, dealing as he does with natural phenomena, can at once proceed to analyze them. The humanist, dealing as he does with human actions and creations, has to engage in a mental process of a synthetic and subjective character: he has mentally to re-enact the actions and to re-create the creations. It is in fact by this process that the real objects of the humanities come into being. For it is obvious that historians of philosophy or sculpture are concerned with books and statues not in so far as these books and sculptures exist materially,but in so far as they have a meaning.And it is equally obvious that this meaning can only be apprehended by re-producing, and thereby, quite literally, “realizing,” the thoughts that are expressed in the books and the artistic conceptions that manifest themselves in the statues.”
Erwin Panofsky (Meaning in the Visual Arts)

Malcom Liepke

Clark wrote, in a small essay, on DeKooning, and his late paintings, work done presumably after he was diagnosed with Alzheimers.

“Let me point out how special and novel is the modern obsession with artists’ careers—with each artist’s life and work seen as a linear development which we and the artist are supposed to keep in mind as he or she goes along. All this is the creation of a certain, modern world of art which emerged in Europe in the late19th century. The very idea of a “retrospective” exhibition (especially one taking place in the artist’s own lifetime) is unknown until then.”
T.J.Clark (Painting from Memory: Aging, Dementia, and the Art of Willem de Kooning)

This is a typical Clark-like insight. And this is also worth pondering in our age of pure exhibitionism. There is something increasingly cannibalistic about culture today. The retrospective while the artist is still alive, when you actually think about it, is rather grotesque. But its just more artificial inflation of reputation (of sometimes artificial deflation). It is marketing. Coupled to this marketed art world is the loss of quiet and contemplation. Now, if one looks at the art post 1989, from the West, and in particular perhaps the U.S., but not exclusively, one sees a certain repetition that feels arbitrary. The enormous increase in ADHD and autism, in various other cognitive issues, whatever value one wants to attach to these diagnoses, suggests that pollution, antibiotic infused meat, corn syrup, the horrid commercial wheat used for most bread, have caused irreparable damage– and then people seem surprised that fertility has dropped, for both genders– suggests there is something fundamentally wrong with how people live. Humans cannot even reproduce efficiently anymore. But the quick marketing explanation is to blame the victims, to make it all massive but personal failure.

Giotto (detail, Joakim’s Dream)


Cannibalistic art becomes something even more self annihilating in this era — something that is disturbing because the artist is rarely any longer drawing on life. It is the art of a death in life. (and Jerry Saltz and Walter Robinson might end up profoundly prescient in their coining of the term ‘zombie formalism’, most recently used to describe Hunter Biden’s paintings). It is the age of the zombie. It may have become the most overdetermined metaphor in world history. The lockdowns and masks and the growing hysterical irrationality of government voices (see Australia) that encourage people to ditch unvaccinated friends, to not talk to anybody, vaxed or not, and not to talk period, even, are reaching a pitch of hysteria I, for one, could not have imagined a mere two years ago. It is as if the pent up irrational has been unleashed, filters removed, and the age of the fantastical 4th industrial revolution is really the age of maximum pathology.

I grew up with the very late modernism of Beckett and Pinter, of Genet and Handke, of Ab Ex certainly, but also of Diebenkorn and Frankenthaler, of Kiefer and Francis Bacon. And of Bresson and Fassbinder and Antonioni. And of Cashier critics, of Godard and Ornette Coleman. And in all these cases there was something of an act of recuperation taking place. I think I only realized this recently. Nobody I just listed, all off the top of my head, were innovators. In many ways they were all looking back. Even Godard. This late modernism remains, I think anyway, the least understood period of art in the last two hundred years.

And this new lay scientist spectator public was already reaching, by the 80s, a new cynicism, but one cross pollinated with both narcissism and anxiety. This was and still is a public unsure of what they are meant to be doing in their role as science adjunct; what is the experiment exactly?

For Ever Mozart (dr. Jean Luc Godard, 1996)

At the beginning of this post I noted that all cultural forensics would be shaded toward U.S. ideology and style.

“After the 1973 war the Arab appeared everywhere as something more menacing.Cartoons depicting an Arab sheik standing behind a gasoline pump turned up consistently. These Arabs, however, were clearly “Semitic”: their sharply hooked noses, the evil mustachioed leer on their faces, were obvious reminders (to a largely non-Semitic population) that “Semites” were at the bottom of all “our” troubles, which in this case was principally a
gasoline shortage. The transference of a popular anti-Semitic animus from a Jewish to an Arab target was made smoothly, since the figure was essentially the same. Thus if the Arab occupies space enough for attention, it is as a negative value. He is seen as the disrupter of Israel’s and the West’s existence, or in another view of the same thing, as a surmountable obstacle to Israel’s creation in 1948. Insofar as this Arab has any history, it is part of the history given him (or taken from him: the difference is slight) by the Orientalist tradition, and later, the Zionist tradition. Palestine was seen— by Lamartine and the early Zionists — as an empty desert waiting to burst into bloom; such inhabitants as it had were supposed to be inconsequential nomads possessing no real claim on the land and therefore no cultural or national reality. Thus the Arab is conceived of now as a shadow that dogs the Jew. In that shadow— because Arabs and Jews are Oriental Semites— can be placed whatever traditional, latent mistrust a Westerner feels towards the Oriental. For the Jew of pre-Nazi Europe has bifurcated: what we have now is a Jewish hero, constructed out of a reconstructed cult of the adventurer-pioneer-Orientalist (Burton, Lane, Renan), and his creeping, mysteriously fearsome shadow, the Arab Oriental. Isolated from everything except the past created for him by Orientalist polemic…”

Edward Said (Orientalism)

The Covid event had intensified (intentionally guided by western capital) the ‘othering’ mechanisms that fueled mid century fascism. However threadbare, the new Arab (Jew, Black, etc) is the unvaccinated. And the ease and enthusiasm that the western bourgeois expresses its punitive disapproval is not terribly different from the good Germans in the 1930s. The difference is the unvaccinated can be redeemed by a simple injection. A simple symbolic act of pseudo science, the spectator can be welcomed back to (what the state department calls) the international community. For there is a new globalist facade (it takes a village) to the schoolmarm scolding of western leaders.

Raja Ravi Varma (Birth of Shakuntala)

The fact that these vaccines (which in fact they aren’t, but rather gene editing treatments that, in theory, provide the same protection) are apparently dangerous (the deaths from adverse reactions would in normal times be high enough for recall) is all baked into the mythology, to the architecture of sacrifice. The redemptive act must entail risk, that is the price of inclusion. That said vaccines (sic) are dangerous for those who early on got the shot (what those crazy kids are calling the ‘clot-shot’) is entirely beside the point. The ‘othering’, the scapegoating, this is the convenient structure of social tension that the ruling class has always taken advantage of, and always with a good degree of success. Well, not always, but over the last hundred years or so, and this is a telling point. The racializing of propaganda began with the colonial era. But it was in the mid 1800s a meme for buttressing the more significant and foregrounded twin branches of scientism (Darwin largely) and (overlapping) the natural superiority of European culture (and here the Church played a not unimportant role). The colonial engine was of course economic but it was mostly under the cover of a civilizing mission. This has not changed. White paternalism is rife in nearly all western governments. Biden calling Cuba a failed state, for example (check infant mortality and then decide which state is failed). Calling for an armed intervention in Haiti. There would never be an intervention for, say, Slovakia. (The intentional destruction of the former Yugoslavia was for many of the same economic reasons that drives the threats to invade Haiti or Cuba, but it needed the moral scaffolding that suggested these darn old former Communist countries need help to stave off civil war, etc. The apparatchik as a version of lazy ‘negro’, or diabolical Arab, or cunning nefarious Asian). As if the poorest country in the hemisphere were not in such dire poverty precisely because of Western governments. The unspoken understanding among the white bourgeoisie is that Haitians are uncivilized. Its all that voodoo and shit. England has the same relationship toward Jamaica. It did toward (and still does) most of Africa (see Kenya). In fact the entire continent of Africa is feeling the squeeze of white saviors from the West. Africa has the resources.

Lars Turnbjork, photography.

Remember above all else the mortality from Covid, and its variants, remains under 1%.

Listen to the Aesthetic Resistance podcasts for more on this https://soundcloud.com/aestheticresistance

If the degrading of culture (and this does not mean there isn’t terrific, even great work being done in most fields) has been so acute, this is partly the result of electronic media, of the penetration of high art (sic) by the the captains of Silicon Valley, Wall Street, and the WEF. The ascension of NGOs, and lobbying, the financialization of capitalism altogether, has meant that daily life is more colonized by , firstly, commodities, but secondly, now, by algorithms. By a form of constant propaganda that can barely be called propaganda any longer. This is the new bio politics, often absurdly misunderstood, that fuels a half dozen cottage industries that are fed by those staring at screens. The fall of the Soviet Union had deep and unrecognized (until recently, I think) effects. It allowed a course correction for western capital.

In discussion of modernism, Herbert Read wrote that its character was that of “a break-up, a devolution, some would say a dissolution. Its character is catastrophic.”
Herbert Read (Name and Nature of Modernism)

Geometrischer, artist unknown. Late 16 century Germany, collection at the Herzog August Bibliothek in Wolfenbüttel

“The first characteristic of modernism is the one most obviously associated with the heterogeneity just described, and this is its negativism and antitraditionalism: its defiance of authority and convention, its antagonism or indifference to the expectations of its audience, and, on occasion, its rage for chaos.”
Louis Arnorsson Sass (Madness and modernism : insanity in the light of modern art, literature, and thought)

But I do not think this is quite right. And I think it’s important to examine in what way it is ‘not quite right’. The defiance of authority is quite true, and this is most significant, actually. But then I think nearly all art is in one way or another defiant of authority. And its most certainly not, on the whole, anti-traditional. This is the kitsch version of the avant garde. And this kitsch version has come to color the sensibilities of nearly all cultural institutions. This is the age of what my friend Guy Zimmerman and I discussed fifteen years ago (and a term he coined) ‘placebo art’. It is the age of the bureaucratic imprint. The auteur of 21st century culture is the bureaucrat and he or she is narrating the story of his or her own impotence. This bean counter academic is the bloodless rational man, and this rationality has accepted that the avant garde was all about shock and scandal.

The truth is that only the most idiotic of kitsch modernist work can be so described. The more authentic of modernist work, the more serious let us say, is very much concerned with tradition. And this has enormous implications, and it implicates Heidegger and his metaphysical primitivism. For Heidegger and his Black Notebooks lead directly to the empty anti-humanism of Robert Wilson and Marina Abramovic.( Wilson is, in one sense, aestheticizing the post Hiroshima landscape). The post ’89 art world, following the course correction of western capital, looked to appropriate the past, imitate style codes and cues, empty it, and then distance itself ironically. This even appears in the architecture of a Zaha Hadid. The past is quoted, but only as cocktail chit chat. The entire post modern idea is an attempt to diminish historical value through a diminishing of belief in cultural importance. Snark and sarcasm are so ubiquitous as to be a preferred mode of discourse. The post modern world, because of or along with, the loss of narrative abilities, the loss of rhetorical skill, and a general loss of literacy, will tend toward a validation of vulgar narcissistic display — and this accompanies an acceptance of authority, an underhanded embrace of the status quo.

All the branded dissident artists, from Dylan (and I like much of Dylan, sort of) to James Taylor or countless performance artists, are now doing ads for Victoria’s Secret or credit card providers or whatever. Pepsi and Coke. Taylor and the cloying Jackson Browne want to play to ONLY vaccinated audiences.

But these are, in the end, generalizations — the salient point is that 20th century modernism was recuperating something already being lost. Already fading from memory. What was ‘new’ was that the artwork was recapturing what had been forgotten. But it was cultural autopsy, too. Pinter and Beckett were stripping Shakespeare down to the studs. Fassbinder, with Sirk as his totem, was confronting the populism of melodrama and dime novels. (and it is interesting that Tarantino is the reverse Fassbinder in this sense). I think of Fassbinder as the best exemplar of Benjamin’s arguments in Origins of German Tragic Drama. The world as allegory — as Howard Eiland wrote “Allegorical perception bespeaks a world of mutability and equivocation, a melancholy sense of eternal transience without access to the transcendentals of the medieval mystery plays—though no less haunted and bedeviled, and no less susceptible to momentary apotheosis. History as trauerspiel—as shaped by the base machination of schemers.. { } modern allegory in its inscription of the abyssal, of ever-increasing, apparently incomprehensible, layers of depth, experience, and interpretive questions.” This is the interrogation of authority, finally, and of class. The end of modernism came, I think, with the end of communism. And post modernism was the willing capitulation of the bourgeoisie with the ruling 1% (well, in the 90s that would be ruling 5%). It came via a solipsistic post structuralist and de-politicized academic curriculum and with the loss of legitimate public intellectuals and discouse. Just as the Pentagon and State Department learned lessons from the Vietnam War, so did ruling wealth learn by repurposing Marx in academia. And the promotion of intellectual as reactionary clown (Zizek and now Jordan Peterson). For civil rights, replace Malcolm X with Jay Z and capitalize and brand dissent as soon as it appears.

Edward Kienholz

The fall of the U.S.S.R. also accelerated the schizophrenia of the western bourgeoisie. The entire structure of Girardian sacrifice had lost a key element, never mind most of the proletarian planet was enfeebled and without direction. Without trying to chart anything like a comprehensive graph or time line, the repression in the slave owning Puritan stage of the U.S. found its subjective policing voice growing more remote. The protagonist of American political drama, post WW2, is always the cop.

Post sixties new age mysticism was the precursor, in one sense, to the Covid response. Not in the working class so much, but in the white bourgeoisie. For that new age depoliticizing trend was also an embrace of authority. Werner Erhard is today reincarnated as Anthony Fauci, or the various health ministers of Canada or Australia or Denmark. ‘Dont talk to people, its not the time’ is exactly the EST directive that doesn’t allow bathroom breaks. The rise of social media was there to replace parenting, relieving the growing anxiety of that first generation of screen raised adult children. A reflexive retreat to infantilism was launched. And Zukerberg et al were there to manufacture the stuffed animals and teething rings needed. The post modern bent toward impersonal subjectivity, that sort of lit-crit idea, the fragmented subject, that was taught at U.S. universities the last thirty five years, is actually, contrary to what is now accepted wisdom, a more cultic view of one’s self than even Romanticism. The contemporary subject is, as I wrote last time, identity politics where there is no identity. The fragmented or untethered ego has not resulted in less narcissistic display but more.

“In Alfred Jarry, the turn-of-the-century plavwright who inspired the theater of the absurd, we find a more annihilating solipsism, the celebration of an utter self-involvement of the mind: Being, said Jarry, “consists . . . not in perceiving or being perceived, but in that the iridescent mental kaleidoscope think “itself and of itself [SE pense]. This subjectivist variant is not the only version of modernist worldhood, however; in another mode, external reality loses not its substantiality and otherness but its human resonance or significance, thus bringing about what Heidegger called the “unworlding of the (human) world.” One extreme manifestation of this is what has been called the “white style” or “zero degree of literature”—exemplified by the novelist Alain Robbe-Grillet’s chosisme (“thingism”), his aspiration to depict a world “neither meaningful nor absurd, [that] quite simply is,” a world where “all around us defying our pack of animistic or domesticating adjectives things are there…without false glamour, without transparency.”
Louis Arnorsson Sass (Ibid)

Bhupen Khakar


So, ok, this is pretty reductive stuff, but the point is that the cultural shifts taking place from the 70s onward, and accelerated greatly after 89 (and changed qualitatively) have been, in the West, the celebration of white superiority, the celebration of the ‘end of history’, and the celebration of bourgeois importance and value. The suburban soccer mom meets Mad Men, and no matter the increasing precarity of this class, and no matter if their sense of self worth is mostly voyeuristic (and gleaned from Oprah) the trend remains toward default settings of self importance and hatred of those they deem beneath them. In fact one aspect of this growing post modern stupidity is an open hatred of the poor. It fuels intensified bigotry and racism. And this is the subjectivity that refuses to see anything in terms of class.

As a class, the post 89 ruling wealthy saw themselves as victorious. Hubris is the allegorical trope for western society the last thirty years. Jeff Bezos actually *thanked* his Amazon employees for his ‘space ride’. This is self parody. But the rise of media made wealth, the now constant immersion of billions of people with their smart phones, has allowed for the lockdown of entire nations. And more, at least in the U.S., and certainly among the educated white pseudo middle class, there is resurfacing the most acute Puritanism (its hard to know the degree of bad faith in all this, but its likely a significant amount) and an embrace of the practice of exclusion. It is the *responsible* meme weaponized. We are doing it for your own good. This reminds of Franco Moretti’s examination of DeFoe’s Robinson Crusoe (in The Bourgeoisie). Three key words, useful, efficiency, and comfort are highlighted.

Nandalal Bose (Parthasarathi Krishna)


“Earlier on, I quoted the moment when Robinson addresses the reader— ‘this will testify for me that I was not idle’— in the tone of one who is justifying himself in front of a judge. But then, the sentence veers in an unexpected direction: . . . that I was not idle, reverse’— is completely irrational. It’s only in the latter case that the absurdity of instrumental reason reveals itself and that I spared no pains to bring to pass whatever appeared necessary for my comfortable support’. Comfortable: this is the key.”
Franco Moretti (The Bourgeois)

One can see that the comfort of those working from home, in spacious apartments or houses, are little Crusoes surveying the world of the uncivilized island around them. And the Central American maid or nanny who comes by public transport is their own ‘Friday’. The reality of urban decay is distanced the less you have to actually leave your home. The unreality of these Crusoes online can be sustained throughout the lockdown. Propaganda can be handed over to algorithms and over the course of six months now, the normalizing of curfews and exclusion have been nearly completed. But that tone, ‘of one justifying himself before a judge’ is a tone that has continued to be heard in Western discourse. The adjunct scientist viewing an experiment of which he has no knowledge also contains the voice of one before a judge or tribunal. It is the voice found often in Kafka. The public is a spectator, a lay scientist, uncertain of what is meant to be observed, but feeling the need to make clear they are watching all the same. Responsibly.

Today the voice of the government, the voice of institutional authority is one of the grade school teacher, or even kindergarten teacher. And much of the bourgeois public welcomes this tone. The child feels safer when limits are provided.

“Waiting for Hitler in Vienna in that winter of 1938 was an old and desperately ill Sigmund Freud—as well as a hundred and seventy-five thousand other racial enemies. The Nazis hated Freud with a particular vehemence. When they burned his books at their outdoor rallies in Germany in 1933, the presiding officer had shouted out an indictment: “Against the soul-destroying glorification of the instinctual life,” he cried, “for the nobility of the human soul! I consign to the flames the writings of Sigmund Freud.” Freud, hearing the news about the book burning, remarked, “What progress we are making. In the Middle Ages they would have burnt me;… ”
Mark Edmundson (Ibid)

It is telling today that there is such a pronounced dislike of Freud, a near weekly rebutting of Freudian theory and practice. It seems that it cannot be said enough, for it is repeated endlessly. Freud remains the ‘other’. He is too closely associated with the archaic forces of the unconscious, something the new ‘responsible’ bourgeoisie wants to deny.

Gaston Gale

Notwithstanding the enormous distrust of government narratives regarding the Covid virus, the incessant drumbeat of the official story is wearing down many, and even the skeptical, at least in the U.S. are beginning to acquiesce. There is also now the threat of exclusion. The creation of a new caste system with the unvaccinated as the, literally, new untouchable, is a powerful coercive strategy. But it is the hubris of the ruling class that signals their own fall. Because Branson and Bezos, Musk and Gates, nobody likes these men. I don’t believe people, in general, are fooled. But there are other forces at work, and the insistence on following the rules is backed by economic coercion.

“When associates pointed out to Freud, as they often did, that no nation outside of Germany and Austria was more hospitable to psychoanalysis than America, Freud’s inevitable reply was that Americans had no idea what psychoanalysis was actually about. “We are bringing them the plague,” Freud purportedly said when he and Jung and Ferenczi disembarked in New York in 1909. “We’re bringing them the plague, and they don’t even know it.”
Mark Edmundson (Ibid)

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Source: John Steppling