THE REAL HEART OF DARKNESS - 2


(Where are the Praetorian Guard when we need them?)

You should never blame people for their country's foreign policy, but I remember at University in the 1980s asking a American student indignantly why the hell the US had bombed Libya. His reply: "because we can", before launching into a lot of anti-Arab humour. He was one of those smart people who don't take anything seriously.

It's a truism that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. I'm becoming persuaded by the idea that this is a kind of Law of (Human) Nature. It operates in every sphere: personal, financial, professional, political. Not that there aren't exceptions - we all know them. But, in general, the amount that people act on principle is in inverse proportion to the range of opportunities open to them. The morality we were raised on, itself a veiled system of social (in this case parental) control, loses its hold as we flex our muscles a bit. Of course this is Nietzsche's Will To Power.

Who are the passionate believers in social justice, out campaigning, going to political meetings in the rain, and handing out leaflets? Committed idealists are usually young, dispossessed, property-less. It's no accident that middle age is full of compromises - they go hand in hand with the accumulation of wealth. What was it hippies used to say - "Don't trust anyone over 30"? And whatever their replies, when powerful people are pressed by journalists about their motives, the real reason is almost always "because I can".

SPRING, EPISODE 1: IN THE SKY

Today, I emerged from the stuffy interior of my thoughts into a bright morning. The pavements were no longer gleaming and their heaps of hardened snow had lost their rockiness, full of holes and the crystals merging and turning into big drops. The breeze was unmistakably mild. Rounding the corner to the riverside tram stop, I was surprised by warm sun on my face. An incomparable moment: nothing prepares us for the first touch of Spring, and none of the things we normally hanker after is half as good. On the tram, I looked out at the unfamiliar light reflected by the rooftops and steeples.


I’ve always thought of roofs, and specifically chimneypots, against a sunny sky, as one of the best images of freedom. You never look at them if you’ve got to be somewhere in a hurry. Like in a Magritte painting, the effect lies in the contrast between the perfectly mundane architecture and the blue infinity beyond.

FOOL, n.

A person who pervades the domain of intellectual speculation and diffuses himself through loading up on heaps of junk from a series of adjacent retail outlets, and compulsive downloading. He is omnific, omniform, omniject, omnicidal and oblivious. He it was who invented clubs, hierarchies, contracts, the steam iron, pop-up advertising, the annual appraisal, the mullet, snakebite, and mobile phone jewellery. He created patriotism and taught the nations marching – then devised,“flagged up” and “actioned” political economy, management theory, fatwas, postmodernism, corporate training, consultancy (medical specialists excepted) and Las Vegas. He established totalitarianism and democracy, left-wing versus right-wing, the “third way”, and centre-partings. He is from everlasting to everlasting – such as creation’s dawn beheld he fooleth now. In the morning of time he sang upon primitive hills, and in the noonday of existence headed the sitcom of being. His myopic gaze falters as the rolling credits of civilisation blur and fade to grey, and he steals a furtive peep at a random cleavage. And after the rest of us shall have retired for the night of eternal oblivion he will sit up to compile a Top 100 goals of all time. (adapted)

POLITICS, n.

A strife of interests masquerading as a contest of principles. The conduct of public affairs for private advantage.

From The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce

DOING THAT SCRAPYARD THING


Got the following email from a good friend of mine, who works for a big car magazine. Shows just how messed-up autophiles can be. (This description, with its overtones of, well, self-love, fits nicely.)

"...in return for my soul?

Usually I enjoy editing our letters page. This month, we have one guy who loves himself and his Porsche so much he thinks he can see the'hope, warmth and happiness' in people's eyes when they just look at his car.

We have another guy who tells his wife she should be thankful he spends so much time with his cars, because he could be in a hotel room with his niece instead.

And another guy who blames environmentalists for the decreasing number of lovely, wonderful scrapyards.

I'm doing my bit for the world... by changing 'niece' to mistress."

HOW TO BECOME HIP WITHOUT REALLY TRYING



“Went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head … “

I first heard these lines about a year ago, sung in a high-pitched shaky voice to a spooky, almost monotone tune, and with a chorus of dust and scratches in the background. It was such an otherworldly sound, it stopped me in my tracks. My painstaking researches (click, click, click) revealed that they were from a WB Yeats poem set to music by Dave Van Ronk (early Dylan era New York folkie).

“And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out …”

I stumbled across the MP3 by accident, hunting down the Donovan version from Jon Savage’s Donovan recommendations in MOJO magazine. The details are important – it seemed to me that, musically speaking, this could be the least hip thing you could possibly be up to in early 2005. But I’ve always loved Donovan despite his “hippy-dippy” reputation, and this kind of pursuit is painless in the privacy of your own home, as opposed to over the counter at HMV, where it’s potentially hazardous.

“But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair…”

Around the same time last year, I discovered internet radio and Brindle sat me down to listen to Radio 1’s dance/ambient/acoustic/dub show, The Blue Room. It was the first time I’d heard Radio 1 since 1991 (when I decided it was just no good to wake up to someone, anyone shouting inanities at you, even if the music had been good, which it generally wasn’t). It goes out at 5.30am at the weekend and is aimed at people stumbling home from clubs, coming down from various psychedelics. The choice of music is inspired and unpredictable – I can deal with the odd bit of machine-grinding techno because I know there will be something great in a few minutes. I’ve been introduced to El Perro Del Mar, Hot Chip, TV On The Radio, The Ralfe Band, The New Young Pony Club, The American Analogue Set, and loads besides. (A couple of years ago I’d have been hard-pressed to name any but the best known bands.) Besides which, Rob da Bank is a really affable and non-shouty DJ. It’s just what music radio should be.

In yesterday’s show, he also included The Beatles, a reworking of a song from The Wicker Man, and… Wandering Aengus by Donovan.

“And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.”

SPOILING FOR A FIGHT


When I lived in Ghana and was the chairman of the campus debating society, I organized a debate on the motion, “religion is the opium of the people” and spoke in favour, with some relish. For various reasons, mostly frustration that the European Enlightenment had failed to make any inroads into their society, I wanted to give my students a nudge in the direction of atheism, or at least skepticism. My intensely devout Christian and Muslim students viewed me as an eccentric “free-thinker” and, thankfully, did not take offence. One of them even volunteered to second me! The debate passed off without incident. I was judged the winner (by a panel, not a show of hands); this was actually a foregone conclusion, as I was one of the masters.

It’s the same impulse to shove believers into modernity that causes Matthew Parris to write (in yesterday’s Times) in defence of publishing the cartoons of Mohammed:

‘But let us not duck what that “I do not believe” really means. It means I do not believe that there is one God, Allah, or that Muhammad is His Prophet. It means I do not believe that Jesus is the way, the truth and the life, or that no man cometh to the Father except by Him. I do not believe that the Jews are God’s Chosen People, or subject to any duties different from the rest of us. It means I do not believe any living creature will be reincarnated in another life.

In my opinion these views are profoundly mistaken, and those who subscribe to them are under a serious misapprehension on a most important matter. Not only are their views not true for me: they are not true for them. They are not true for anyone. They are wrong.’

Let us assume for the sake of argument that matters of religion do in fact fall into the falsifiable-by-science category (see ‘Who Lives in a Postmodern World?’ below), and therefore can be demonstrably wrong. What grounds are there for showing a deluded believer the error of his ways? Might there be any factors that would hold us back from so doing?

As far as I can see, in the case of the cartoons, there were no good grounds to publish. They are NOT going to help shift the balance of power in oppressive societies. Besides which, they may well incite religious hatred; the one with Mohammed sporting a bomb doesn’t look too dissimilar to me from the anti-Jewish cartoons in 1930s Germany. While upholding the freedom of the press to publish, we should recognize that to do so was a pretty poor decision all-round.
It looks rather like a piece of playground provocation – picking a fight. And the result has been perfectly intelligent journalists and crowds of Muslims on the street just spoiling for one – in their own different ways. It’s so exciting, isn’t it, this impending “clash of civilizations”? It’s something to talk about and it’ll sell a lot of papers, to be sure. But where are the peacemakers now? In the face of the disintegrating order, where’s Piggy to wail impotently about people “acting like a crowd of kids?”

While recognizing that satire is a powerful weapon in deflating pomposity and chipping away at the armour of authoritarian regimes, we should use our freedom to criticise people judiciously. After all, I am free to tell my overweight friend that he’s eaten all the pies. Just as I am free to discuss how diverting pornography is with my feminist colleague. I am free to tell an advertising consultant I meet at some party that he’s in an evil trade, or a committed Robbie Williams fan that his idol is a media-manufactured talentless chimp. Many of my closest friends believe passionately in astrology and I am of course free to trash their beliefs mercilessly. You get the picture. The thing is, I choose when to say these things, and often hold my tongue. It’s not hard; it’s the usual process of seeking not to give offence. It’s valued only a little and so easily scorned, but behaving respectfully is not merely a social nicety; in Ghana, and in our modern multicultural European societies, it can prevent bloodshed.

I now regret having held that debate in Ghana, and sincerely hope that I was not the catalyst in bringing anyone to give up their opium habit. I now see clearly that it was a society in a different stage of development. Belief in Providence and in the afterlife gave people a practical reason to hope, to get up in the morning and plough their fields, to strive to better their lives, to smile. And generally people in Ghana, barring personal tragedies, were happy and fulfilled, with some belief that things were going to get better for them. How could skepticism possibly improve this? It was a clear case where happiness, albeit opiated, was better than “the truth”.

Simon Jenkins: These cartoons don't defend free speech; they threaten it