Category: Uncategorized

  • Thinking Feeling Contemporary Art

    Catherine Zuromskis (bio)

    University of New Mexico

    zuromski@unm.edu

     

    Review of Jennifer Doyle, Hold It Against Me: Difficulty and Emotion in Contemporary Art. Durham: Duke UP, 2013.

    In the summer of 2004, toward the tail end of my graduate studies, I spent six weeks at Cornell University, attending the School of Criticism and Theory. There I witnessed a memorable and dramatic public lecture and presentation by Richard Schechner, one of the key figures in the foundation of performance studies. The lecture focused on the meaning behind contemporary performance artworks that employ self-wounding and mutilation in various forms. After encouraging his audience not to turn away from the difficult material he was about to show, Schechner screened a lengthy montage of video documentation of such works, beginning, relatively innocuously, with Chris Burden’s 1971 Shoot piece and reaching a crescendo with Rocío Boliver’s Cierra las Piernas from 2003. As the artist on screen pushed a plastic Jesus figurine into her vagina and proceeded to sew it closed, the audience at SCT expressed audible discomfort and horror. One student got up to leave and fainted just outside the doorway to the lecture hall, at which point the event ground to an angry halt.
     
    Reactions to the presentation after the fact were mixed but generally negative. Many of my colleagues felt duped by the sensationalism of the presentation and what they felt was Schechner’s inability to offer a coherent rationale for the difficult performances they had been asked, further, exhorted, to watch. Having some previous familiarity with the works in question and knowing well my own very low threshold of tolerance when it comes to blood and the violation of flesh—I have been known to faint myself—I chose to turn away for much of the presentation. As one of the few art historians in the crowd, I reasoned to myself that I understood the work on an intellectual level—that is to say, I felt I knew what the work was even if I had not experienced much of it directly, either in person or through video documentation—and thus felt I did not need to watch it. Like my theory-minded grad student peers, I found Schechner’s presentation to be something of a fiasco for the way it seemed to use these difficult performance works as a tool of emotional manipulation rather than elucidate their meaning on an intellectual and conceptual level.
     
    Reading Jennifer Doyle’s important new book, Hold It Against Me: Difficulty and Emotion in Contemporary Art, I often found myself returning to Schechner’s notorious lecture and I have come to think that there was a lot more going on in that encounter—socially, politically, and affectively—than I, my colleagues, or perhaps even Schechner himself realized. At the crux of many of the works Schechner presented, and arguably of Schechner’s presentation itself (driven as it seemed to be by a desire to provoke and unsettle his audience) is the issue of what Doyle describes as “difficulty” in art. The concept of difficult art is certainly nothing new to art historians. As Doyle suggests, the difficulty of a Picasso painting, a Duchamp readymade, or a Donald Judd box sculpture is an intellectual one. The work may challenge the viewer with its austerity or critical complexity. It may require a certain degree of historical knowledge and conceptual rigor to access. It is not, however, incomprehensible. Indeed, as Doyle suggests, the difficulty of abstraction and conceptualism is not only addressed but also monumentalized within the institutional spaces of fine art. My choice to turn away from Schechner’s screening was born precisely of my art historical sense of intellectual mastery over such conceptual gestures as Duchamp’s and Judd’s. However, the “difficult” art that Doyle is interested in (and the kind of art in Schechner’s video montage) is difficult for a very different reason. It is often defined, either by intention or by prejudice, by its externality to conventions of the museum, the gallery, and art history as a discipline. The artworks addressed in this slim but formidable volume are works that defy clear, rational interpretation, operating instead in the terrain of feelings and emotions. How one might approach such work without resorting to either an overly schematic literalism on the one hand or a knee-jerk dismissal of sentimentality on the other, and what we stand to gain by threading this difficult needle are the critical lessons of this study. By learning to better engage works that operate in the realm of affect, we not only get a more accurate and socially inclusive understanding of the field of contemporary art as a whole, but we also begin to better understand affect itself a site of social and political possibility.
     
    At the center of Hold It Against Me is an examination of the function of affect in contemporary art. The artists she writes about, among them Ron Athey, Nao Bustamante, James Luna, and Franko B, generally employ some aspect of performance in their work, and the affect Doyle is interested in is manifest both in the artist’s performance itself and the audience’s reaction to it. Many of these works—Ron Athey’s masochistic endurance piece Incorruptible Flesh: Dissociative Sparkle (2006), for example, or Franko B’s bleeding performances—may provoke dramatic and visceral affective responses in the audience member who may struggle witnessing and engaging with the artist’s body in pain. But not all works in Doyle’s book are so extreme. James Luna’s History of the Luiseño People, La Jolla Reservation Christmas 1990 (2009), for example, is alienating, but only because the drunken, hostile persona of Luna’s performance was off-putting and awkward. Similarly, Doyle begins the book with an illuminating anecdote about her own resistance to participate in the late Adrian Howells’ performance Held, a work that centers not on feelings of pain and suffering but rather on the mundane pleasures of domestic cohabitation. The piece invited a single “viewer” to spend an hour at home with the artist, drinking tea, watching TV, holding hands, and spooning in bed. That a scholar like Doyle, who is tough enough to assist Athey throughout the six-hour duration of Dissociative Sparkle by placing eye drops in his eyes while his lids are held open by fish hooks, would feel such profound discomfort with the domestic comforts offered by Held is revelatory, and gets to the heart of Doyle’s argument. The works in question are important not because they require us to feel a certain way—indeed Doyle’s own affective response to Held prevented her from participating in the piece at all. Doyle highlights the critical point, citing Irit Rogoff, that such resistance or the act of looking away need not be understood as a failure to engage the work. Rather, the heterogeneity of audience responses constitutes a vital part of what Doyle describes as “the fleshy complexity of viewership and audience” (14). These affectively difficult artworks are significant because of the way that the feelings they provoke, whatever they may be, offer a different, more embodied and more socially engaged way of thinking about art and the world it inhabits.
     
    This alternate approach is particularly important because so many of the works under consideration here are by female, queer, and/or artists of color (the one key exception is an idiosyncratic but fascinating discussion of Thomas Eakins’ 1875 painting The Gross Clinic).  Echoing the work of José Esteban Muñoz, Darby English, and others, Doyle’s complex attention to the difficulties of emotion in contemporary art highlights and undermines the literalism so often employed in reading the work of artists of color, queers artists, and woman artists. James Luna’s famous 1986 Artifact Piece, in which the Native American artist “installed himself” in a glass vitrine in an anthropological museum, is a particularly potent commentary on this art historical tendency toward “literalization.” Artifact Piece cannily and critically presents artwork and artist as static, artifactual, relegated to the past with all other Native culture. However, by engaging the emotional terrain of these works, Doyle suggests that we may find a way out of the regressive critical tendency to rationalize and reduce these kinds of artwork to a mere representation of race, gender, or sexuality. Acknowledging feeling in contemporary art draws attention to that which is obliterated, when, for example, Ron Athey’s work is framed simply as “art about AIDS” because Athey is gay and HIV positive. Furthermore, engaging affect offers a different way to think about the conceptual project of such work, to realize its full complexity, as Doyle does when she delves into the physical, psychological, social, historical, and iconographical richness of a critically ignored and misunderstood artwork like Athey’s Dissociative Sparkle. In the process, she reveals Dissociative Sparkle to be, on both a personal and a public level, a work “haunted … by its history [and] an act of determined political defiance” (68).
     
    What makes this book so brilliant and challenging (both for the reader, and I suspect, for the author) is that engaging these affective responses from a scholarly position is in itself a difficult task. Doyle is explicit about the social meaning of affect. Emotion, she notes, is produced through social convention and it is “where ideology does its most devastating work” (xi). But this fact does not make our feelings any less authentically or individually felt. To write a scholarly work about feelings, then, places the author in the tricky position of thinking and feeling simultaneously, of acknowledging public convention alongside private impulse, of rationalizing the sometimes irrational, and, often, of leaving things open ended. In response, the structure of Doyle’s book is demonstrative of this difficulty. It is episodic, meditative, even meandering at times, but it is also incisive and remarkably accessible for a work of such complexity and depth. As she weaves together a variety of disciplinary perspectives (art history, literary studies, and music theory among them) with her own first person encounters with provocative performance works, Doyle offers the reader a rare glimpse into not just the logistics of the works but the experience of them: interpretations convey feeling. Reading her description of Frank B’s performance I Miss You! (2003), I, too, found myself deeply unsettled, haunted by a performance I had never seen.
     
    Such a maneuver is certainly significant for the way it does justice to the genre of performance art that is the primary focus of the work. While certainly less visually comprehensive than the video document, Doyle’s book offers a different, but I think equally important form of documentation of the works she has participated in or witnessed first hand. But perhaps most important to this art historian is the way Doyle’s attention to parsing feeling in contemporary art unsettles foundational assumptions in the history of art. What makes this book required reading for any scholar of modern and contemporary art is the way it complicates conventional art historical distinctions between formal innovation and narrative based or “literal” work. Modernist art has generally privileged the former over the latter, championing those artists who create difficult art by examining the ontology of the art object itself and simultaneously dismissing those who engage content and narrative as too straightforward to be considered avant garde. Doyle cannily reveals the way that this modernist notion persists even in the contemporary moment by revealing the way supposedly “literal” art is equally engaged in complexity through the feelings it produces. It is hard to overstate the significance of this move. The book challenges the instincts of many critics (myself included) to dismiss sentimentality in art as narcissistic, maudlin, and, ironically, too accessible. Thinking back to Schechner’s presentation, I realize that what I missed was the way that my own sense of intellectual mastery over the history of modern art, my cultivated scholarly “coolness” in the face of the difficult work in Schechner’s presentation, distracted me from my own affective response to the work and my emotional need to turn away. Doyle’s book is both an endorsement for and an example of what might happen once we venture away from the assurance of that cool scholarly detachment and into the less transparent but perhaps more revealing terrain of affective response. What Doyle discovers in that realm of feelings is not only personal sentiment, but also a complex site where ideology, aesthetics, social convention, and political possibility intersect.
     

    Catherine Zuromskis is Associate Professor of Art History at the University of New Mexico. She is the author of Snapshot Photography: The Lives of Images (MIT Press, 2013) and The Factory (La Fabrica, 2012), a catalog for the exhibition From the Factory to the World: Photography and the Warhol Community which she also curated as part of PhotoEspaña 2012. Her writings on photography and American art and visual culture have appeared in The Velvet Light Trap, Art Journal, Criticism, American Quarterly, and the anthologies Photography: Theoretical Snapshots (Routledge, 2008) and Oil Culture (forthcoming from University of Minnesota Press).
     

  • The Persistence of Realism

    Ulka Anjaria (bio)

    Brandeis University
    uanjaria@brandeis.edu

     

    Review of Fredric Jameson, The Antinomies of Realism. New York: Verso, 2013.

     

     

    Against the myriad negative definitions of realism advanced by scholars—realism as not naturalism, romance, modernism—Fredric Jameson suggests a dialectical model in which realism emerges by means of its opposites: at one end, from récit, “the narrative situation itself and the telling of a tale as such” (10) and, at the other, from “the realm of affect,” in which the present overshadows other temporalities “with impulses of scenic elaboration, description and above all affective investment” (11). These antagonistic forces—narrative and affect—are constantly at play in the continuous production of realism, not reconciling in individual texts but appearing as contradictory pressures productive of meaning. This provocative approach proceeds beyond the analysis of individual texts to grasp realism as a whole, a level of theorization often absent from readings specific to one place or historical period.
     
    In Part I, Jameson elaborates the nature of these opposing forces in more detail. Récit, he reminds us in Chapter 1, is not only a naïve reliance on a Barthesian preterite, but any acceptance of underlying narrative motivations such as destiny or fate, “the mark of irrevocable time, of the event that has happened once and for all” (21). Yet even when realism appears indebted to this narrative logic, time past begins to shift to time present in the course of its telling. As this shift occurs “from tale to daily life” (27), we see realism distinguish itself from its narrative predecessors; however, the pressure to fall back into the preterite—to make destiny operative in the narrative sense—continues to haunt the mode, and is thus constitutive of realism itself.
     
    Chapter 2 initiates a discussion of the other side of realism—its perceived dissolution into modernism, or the “perpetual present,” which Jameson sees more productively for its affective rather than solely temporal dimension. This is affect as opposed to emotion; while the latter can be named, affect “somehow eludes language” (29). The tension between “the system of named emotions” and “the emergence of nameless bodily states” (32) is visible in Balzac and Flaubert; thus Jameson offers a refreshing new perspective on the Lukácsian distinction between realism and naturalism by rewriting it as between an allegorical and an affective impulse. (Although Jameson does not engage extensively with Lukács, the Hungarian philosopher seems to be his primary interlocutor throughout the book.) Jameson’s focus on intensity rather than essence is also useful for thinking about music and the plastic arts.
     
    The discussion of affect leads to a compelling rereading of Zola outside the general disdain of his writing in studies of realism following Lukács. When read in light of the antinomies of realism, Zola’s “sensory overload” is not a rejection of realism but a consideration of “the temporality of destiny when it is drawn into the force field of affect and distorted out of recognition by the latter” (46). Zola’s description, unlike Balzac’s, does not stand outside of time but is subject to it, compiling an aesthetic critique of the affective nature of capitalism. This makes him closer to Tolstoy than Lukács is willing to allow—Tolstoy whose “anti-political” novels revolve around a variety of moods, a “ceaseless variability from elation to hostility, from sympathy to generosity and then to suspicion, and finally to disappointment and indifference” (85). For Jameson, these moods are not contingent elements of War and Peace’s narrative but constitute its very realism, particularly as they surface in tension with the novel’s inordinate number of characters who, despite Tolstoy’s realist promise, do not function as a unity but as a heterogeneity, “held together by a body and a name” (89). It is as if Tolstoy found himself constantly distracted, eager to move from one character to another—and this movement ends up forming a new aesthetic that “effaces the very category of protagonicity as such” (90).
     
    The depletion of protagonicity becomes central to the realism of Spanish novelist Benito Pérez Galdós, whose protagonists constitute the background of his novels, and “whose foreground is increasingly occupied by minor or secondary characters whose stories (and ‘destinies’) might once have been digressions but now colonize and appropriate the novel for themselves” (96). This is the inverse of classical realism in which, as Alex Woloch (2003) describes, the protagonist emerges from the mass of minor characters, all potential protagonists themselves; in Pérez Galdós, “even the protagonists are in reality minor characters” (108). This diffusion of narrative attention is also visible—more counterintuitively, perhaps—in George Eliot; for Jameson, what appears to be Eliot’s incessant moralizing is in fact her “weakening the hold of ethical systems and values as such” (120). Immorality, for Eliot, is not to be found in one or more loci of badness, but in potentially anyone and everyone, in the network of relations that constitute community. Thus a more melodramatic evil dissipates into a mauvaise foi, which rewrites malevolence as ill will—arising in positioning rather than essence—and allows characters to transform themselves in what amounts to a radically democratic worldview.
     
    The last three chapters in Part I point to a number of ways realism collapses into itself as it struggles to maintain its integrity in the face of the ever-increasing pressures of melodrama, modernism, mass culture and the journalistic fait divers. Cataphora—an unnamed or unidentified narrator—is the realist novel’s response to the tension between first- and third-person perspectives; the style indirect libre resolves the blocked dialectic and constructs a new relationship between reader and character that avoids the pitfalls of subjectivism on the one hand and straightforward récit on the other. The affect-less anecdotes of Alexander Kluge, which mark a seeming return to pure récit, devoid as they are of irony or any other means of interpretation, concern the Coda of Part I. Jameson reads them as “the result of the dissolution of both realism and modernism together” (192)—but in a direction that offers little in the way of literary futurity.
     
    Part II brings together three chapters that cover a wide range of textual material and demonstrate how the approach outlined in Part I might be put to use in understanding the recurrence of particular plots or genres all the way up to the contemporary. Thinking through the role of the providential allows Jameson another entry point into realism as constituted by its putative others—in this case the novel of fate. Covering Robinson Crusoe, Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, Our Mutual Friend, Middlemarch and finally Robert Altman’s film Short Cuts, Jameson argues for “the form-generating and form-producing value of the providential within realism itself” (202). The subsequent discussion of war narratives suggests that despite their appearance across high and “low” literatures and in a number of generic variations, war plots insist on the unrepresentability of war. Thus “acts and characters” cede to the representation of space. Reading Kluge’s “The Bombing of Halberstadt” allows Jameson to identify the tension between “abstraction” and “sense-datum”: “these are the two poles of a dialectic of war, incomprehensible in their mutual isolation and which dictate dilemmas of representation only navigable by formal innovation, as we have seen, and not by any stable narrative convention” (256).
     
    The final chapter takes on the problematic of the historical novel and traces its permutations as it moves away from its narrow Lukácsian apex. For Lukács, the difference between Walter Scott and Balzac is a difference of epochs: while Scott perfected the historical novel as such, his most significant contribution was to become “the vehicle for the historicization of the novel in general” (264)—whose master is Balzac. Balzac marks a moment “in which the present can itself be apprehended as history” (273). This reading of Lukács allows Jameson to consider the fate of the historical novel in periods beyond those of Scott, Balzac, and the post-1848 writers—for whom, according to Lukács, facts about history come to stand in for true historical engagement, resulting in “the extinction of the historical novel as a form” (275). Jameson, by contrast, goes on to discuss the epic historical realism of Tolstoy, the modernist historical novels of John Dos Passos, Hilary Mantel, and E.L. Doctorow, and the postmodernist “historical novel[s] of the future (which is to say of our own present)” (298), such as David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas and other science fiction texts. Cloud Atlas is “historical” in counterintuitive ways: in its use of pastiche, in which “historical periods [are] grasped as styles” (307), and in its representation of the materiality of reading in the different “apparatus[es] of transmission” (309) that constitute each narrative segment.
     
    This last chapter is a fitting end to an impressive discussion, as it is here that Jameson most vividly demonstrates—through insightful readings of texts rather than more abstract philosophical rumination—the stakes of his analysis in dismantling the rigid oppositions between realism and its seeming antitheses. Lukács’s limitations are evident here; by reading naturalism and modernism as the breakdown of realism, he leaves no frame for understanding those forms or the worlds from which they emerge. For Jameson, by contrast, postmodernism reflects the unbalancing of realism’s constitutive tensions in a way that is entirely continuous with realism’s own struggle to maintain those tensions, sometimes at significant political and epistemic costs. Postmodernism is neither a triumphant escape from the shackles of mimesis nor a dismal failure of the revolutionary political program, but a continuation of the realist project in a changed world. We see this throughout the book in the deft way Jameson incorporates readings of Zola, Faulkner, and Kluge among discussions of Balzac and Eliot; the breakdown of realism at its later endpoints is not, for Jameson, the end of the story but precisely where a new story begins.
     
    Antinomies will interest scholars of realism, modernism and contemporary literature and film—as well as critics looking for language to dismantle the walls that have separated our discipline into neatly bounded sectors: modernism, the twentieth century, American, British, and so on. Add to that a nuanced reinvigoration of the dialectical method, which continues to be misconceived in some literary criticism as vulgar class analysis. In a scholarly environment fraught with increasing alienation between scholars interested in cultural studies and those dedicated to close analysis of texts for aesthetic and formal qualities, Jameson’s work continues to set the standard for rich, theoretical engagement within a larger historicist paradigm.
     
    That said, the pervasive Eurocentrism of this book is startling, particularly considering the span of the author’s scholarly reach. It remains unclear what interpretive thread binds England, France, Russia, Spain, Germany and the US—the national origins of the writers discussed—that could not include writers from the non-white world. (“Europe” is a problematic justification at best.) China and Latin America are briefly mentioned but with no discussion of authors or texts by name. The reader is left to imagine how truly expansive this analysis could have been, and how the questions of historical representation, genre, and mass culture could be enriched by an analysis of the unique pressures put on these terms by the surprising aesthetic forms and imagined futurities to which the reshuffling of the world-system has given rise. Jameson’s afterword to a recent special issue of MLQ on the topic of Peripheral Realisms begins to address this concern, indicating that it is not entirely outside the author’s formidable intellectual range. Despite this shortcoming, Antinomies will generate significant excitement, not only because it is written by one of the foremost literary critics of the day but, more importantly, because it pushes beyond the quagmire in which studies of realism seem stuck—a quagmire largely born of Lukács’s rigidness, which has left its traces on the term “realism” even for those for whom Lukács was never a significant interlocutor. Jameson’s book is an open-hearted gesture toward the futurity of the field.
     

    Ulka Anjaria is Associate Professor of English at Brandeis University. She is the author of Realism in the Twentieth-Century Indian Novel: Colonial Difference and Literary Form (Cambridge University Press, 2012) and editor of A History of the Indian Novel in English (Cambridge University Press, under contract). Her articles have appeared in Novel: A Forum on Fiction, Journal of South Asian Popular Culture and Modern Fiction Studies (forthcoming). She won an ACLS/Charles A. Ryskamp Research Fellowship in 2014 to work on contemporary turns towards realism in Indian literature and film.

     

     

  • “Today I am worth”: K. Lorraine Graham’s Graph

    Judith Goldman (bio)

    The State University of New York at Buffalo

    judithgo@buffalo.edu

     

    In The Making of the Indebted Man, Maurizio Lazzarato presents “the increasing force of the creditor-debtor relationship” in the world remade by financial capitalism since the late 1970s (23). “Debt acts as a ‘capture,’ ‘predation,’ and ‘extraction’ machine on the whole of society,” he writes (29); “the creditor-debtor relation concerns the entirety of the current population as well as the population to come” (32). If, in the last chapter of Debt: The First 5,000 Years, David Graeber exculpates contemporary working-class debtors, subject to decreased wages and plied continually with credit opportunities, for incurring debt to live life above the level of mere survival, floating consumption as conviviality or social participation, Lazzarato perhaps more absolutely deindividuates debt, for in this neoliberal epoch it always already profoundly conditions any given economic circuit, whether one’s transactions are mediated by payment plan or not.[1]
     
    One concern that emerges from these excerpts from K. Lorraine Graham’s Graph – with its unstinting demonstrations of the subject’s inextricability from debt, the degree to which debt saturates social relations – is the strange morphology of economic non-agency in debt culture, the extended mutations of (the alibi of) the sovereign subject of contractual exchange.  In this contemporary working class universe, a work “ethic” has become even less about sacrificing for the future than about a futurity already intractably mortgaged to or sold out for a still-precarious present: how to maneuver among seemingly non-negotiable vectors of hyper-exploitation that not only enjoin and profit from labor, but require life itself to be rented?  As Graham lays bare the intricacies of this ruthless system, she puts on display the surplus exactions of (gendered) affective labor, but more so the affect and social judgment generated around each reticulation of an ever-complexifying debt network.  What Graph finally portrays is not canny, street-smart manipulations of what exactly must be rendered – would-be debt-defying feats – but the very impossibility of being a “good” subject of debt, of navigating labyrinths designed to be so difficult to negotiate that the debtor, regardless of fidelity to dues, is dug continually deeper in arrears.
     
    Take, for instance, Graham’s appropriation text (outright expropriation of pre-fabricated language or sublet?), comprised of select search results for the phrase “is not easy” combined with those for the term “austerity.”  Here the grotesquerie of the neoliberal suffocation of the welfare state posed as natural fact meets the sleazy, faux-sympathetic come-on of coping mechanisms for hire: Graham pinpoints and plays up the debt-service industry’s massaging rhetoric—“we’re here to help”—with its promise to understand rather than condemn the debtor who must pay by exposing herself if she is ever to get out of the hole, as it lures her to meet the class antagonism of debt redeemingly re-branded as life challenge.  Graham’s reframing perfectly captchas the paradox of the creditor’s invocation of bygone civility in the very act of describing a most uncivil insistence: “You can write us a letter and we will stop contacting you.”  If its inclusion of protest (“thousands of people in Lisbon protest austerity measures”) opens onto a possible opposition to working with austerity—indeed, of profiting from it—the piece also exemplifies the affective dynamics that overtax working-class virtues, preying upon vulnerability, an aversion to being beholden, and the willingness to pull the belt tighter, even as the debt economy works over labor only to extrude it. “In capitalist logics of askesis,” as Lauren Berlant observes, “the workers’ obligation is to be more rational than the system, and their recompense is to be held in a sense of pride at surviving the scene of their own attrition.” Or as Graham says: “Life is not easy for any of us, but what of that?”  Another appropriation text, on “office automation,” reads as a counter-exemplar of actor network theory: the repeated imposition of the word “automation” in discourse cribbed from corporate ad copy serves to mystify precisely which tasks the technology will perform, as human causality continually slips logics in these triumphalist formulations.  Such deskilling, dehumanizing efficiency strategies make workers mere mechanized adjuncts to operating systems: “Use office automation hardware and make action-based systems a habit. Automation design systems through supervision and labor that uplifts humanity.”  More chilling, though, is the managerial class-position in which the system stands.
     
    Graph offers up its mediated representations of class epistemology through compassionate but unsparing insight into damaged identity.  In a move akin to conceptual writing, Graham’s devastating opening list poem – auto-populated by a bank statement – contrives a post-lyric for an unforgivingly evacuated precariat subjectivity: the place of self-expression has been usurped by monetized predicates of self-worth, glaringly posting their I’s proximity to economic disaster on an unremitting daily basis.  In verse reduced to the self’s bottom line, Graham reveals the brutal economistic lens seemingly internalized by the post-lyrical subject (if such flatness can signal interiority), yet her initial volley complicates that reduction insofar as it presents the self as an elusive value-field: “Value: One’s self cannot be anywhere.”  If this suggests the essential dislocation of the contemporary self, traceable only through the virtual flux of the electronic transfer of funds, it also points to the ways in which the self-as-value is continually re-generated through motion, circulation, and exchange: earnings and expenditure.
     
    And yet Graham’s depiction of this volatility does not give onto a sense of more wholesome, alternate circuitries; it is rather the courage of ressentiment that frames minor but nonetheless loaded resistances. Indeed, it is the voicing of class resentment, barred from public discourse in a culture that worships and exculpates wealth, that Graham stages as a form of affective resistance.[2]  “‘Don’t be the partner that follows’”: the universality of tough love and the feminist advice dispensed by a graduate advisor is undercut by the uncounted benefits enjoyed by its purveyor (no need to follow when one receives free plane tickets to visit).  Graham’s persona spits unabashedly in the face of entitlement by reversing its epistemic hegemony: “Her employer was astonishingly perceptive though wealthy from birth. Money from birth is a lack.”  Here debt is, for once, transferred up.  That persona similarly expresses scorn for the wealthy patron at the “fancy yacht club restaurant” on whom she, as “horrible waitress,” “[dumps] a rack of lamb with blackcurrant coulis.”  The affective labor demanded of the hospitality worker is refused (so, too, any unwaged guilt or shame in the aftermath), as is a sense of debt for a ruined pair of “travel pants.”  This bad debtor, who wishes to be a better waitress only to earn better money, espouses an “antiproductivism” that “allows us to see work as a form of violence,” spurning the sentimentality, moralism, and drive to self-improvement that forced work seeks to incur (Berg 162).[3]
     
    Readers of Leslie Scalapino will recognize citations of her work in several of these excerpts, as well as Graham’s own homage to Scalapino’s style and to her preoccupation both with class disparity and with representing (Buddhist) phenomenology, dislocations of agency, and uncannily decentered subjective awareness of those dislocations.[4]  In composing Graph, Graham researched Scalapino’s correspondence in the UCSD Archive for New Poetry, while reading Zither & Autobiography and The Return of Painting, The Pearl, and Orion: A Trilogy. The latter incorporates descriptions of some of Scalapino’s first jobs, such as indexing (Graham, “no subject”). Though Graham had initially thought to “trace an economics” in Scalapino’s texts, what emerges are framings of her brief investigations into the dehiscence of agency and intention in social exchange, into the primal indebted condition of human vulnerability and mortality, and into the scene of writing considered as (non)action: “Going out for a walk because she felt sick and lonely and had to go out…She just sat at the juice stand, shivering with sunstroke. The man there suspicious, wanting her to move on from her appearance”; She knew she could die, that she would. Actions are nothing – this is impossible.  Have used them up – and writing isn’t anything.”  Scalapino is present, too, in Graham’s affecting, disjunctive text on social security payments, in which a series of statements linking the speaker’s future monthly social benefits to salary, years worked, age at time of retirement, disability, etc. is interlaced with fragments of flat, jagged, Scalapino-derived narration of conflictual incidents (e.g. a mugging), marked by metanarrative temporalizing of events and interpretations of agency within them.  Despite the actuarial complexity of Social Security, its account of a lifetime of paid work can only be a massively impoverished summation, given, for instance, its failure to reflect so much affective labor: the debt repaid by the nation-state is hardly what is owed, a disjointedness here embodied in form.
     
    Instead of a more frontal stridency, Graham’s work operates through telling elision, and especially through a flattened tone filiated much more strongly with Scalapino than with other contemporary experiments in affective neutralization;[5] often, however, this yields an elegant, paradoxical equipoise, as in her final poem:
     

     

    I have no spouse. I have no children. I do not intend to ever have a spouse. I do not want to ever have children.

     
    This persona may be responding to an interviewer (sizing up the applicant, one imagines, as suitably hyper-exploitable live-in help), yet even if she speaks without such pointed solicitation, one wonders whether these statements express preference or coercion: has precarity robbed this subject of coupledom and reproductive futurity, such that evincing negative desire towards it can only express a weak agency rebounding from the system’s prior refusal?[6]  Or does she queer and resist the highly gendered “social necessity debt” (Berg) by opting out of the affective, symbolic, and political economy of the Child?
     
    As potent in its ambivalences as in its clarities—“My birthday is June 11, and I’d appreciate a phone call or a card”—Graham’s Graph x-rays debt culture’s warping and crumpling of affective life and its implosion of life potential as peculiar to the post-2008 situation of the American working-class, in the expanded, variable modalities that class has come to assume precisely through the debt economy.  Graph not only directs a keen, critical gaze at scenes and facts of gainful employment, even the wage nexus itself; most crucially, it exposes the obscenity that those who are most exploited are also those rigged to owe, and those forced to pay, the most.  Thus Graham affords us greater purchase, and perhaps even leverage, on capital’s uneven distribution of risk and liability downwards to those already most vulnerable: Graph protests what capital takes without paying, and gives credit where credit is due.

    Judith Goldman is the author of Vocoder (Roof 2001), DeathStar/rico-chet (O Books 2006), and l.b.; or, catenaries (Krupskaya 2011). She co-edited the annual journal War and Peace with Leslie Scalapino from 2005-2009 and is currently Poetry Feature Editor for Postmodern Culture. She was the Holloway Poet at University of California, Berkeley in Fall 2011 and is currently Assistant Professor in the Poetics Program at the University at Buffalo.
     

    Footnotes

    [1] See Graeber, 376-378.

    [2] This sense of ressentiment as courageous and potentially effective responds to Wendy Brown’s claims to the contrary in “Wounded Attachments,” the third chapter of States of Injury.

    [3] My thinking on the “bad debtor” also draws from T. L. Cowan and Jasmine Rault’s essay, which relies on Fred Moten and Stefano Harney’s The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning and Black Study.

    [4] Leslie Scalapino was a strikingly innovative Bay Area poet, novelist, playwright, memoirist, and essayist; she is often grouped with the West Coast Language school, though the strong influence in her work of her Zen Buddhist practice also sets it apart.  Scalapino has written many influential works, among them way (1988), which won the American Book Award.

    [5] See Hannah Manshel for an incisive discussion of this recent tendency.

    [6] On “reproductive futurism,” see Edelman.

    Works Cited

    • Berg, Heather. “An Honest Day’s Wage for a Dishonest Day’s Work: (Re)Productivism and Refusal.”  Women’s Studies Quarterly 42.1-2 (Spring/Summer 2014): 161-177.  Print.
    • Berlant, Lauren. “Affect & the Politics of Austerity. An interview exchange with Lauren Berlant.” With Gesa Helms and Marina Vishmidt. Variant 39/40 (Winter 2010). Web. 1 August 2014.
    • Brown, Wendy.  States of Injury: Power and Freedom in Late Modernity.  Princeton: Princeton UP, 1995.  Print.
    • Cowan, T. L. and Jasmine Rault.  “Trading Credit for Debt: Queer History-Making and Debt Culture.”  Women’s Studies Quarterly 42.1-2 (Spring/Summer 2014): 294-310.  Print.
    • Edelman, Lee.  No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive.  Durham: Duke UP, 2004.  Print.
    • Graeber, David.  Debt: The First 5,000 Years.  Brooklyn: Melville House, 2011.  Print.
    • Graham, K. Lorraine.  “(no subject).”  Message to the author.  31 July 2014. Email.
    • Lazzarato, Maurizio. The Making of Indebted Man: An Essay on the Neoliberal Condition.  Trans. Joshua David Jordan.  Los Angeles: Semiotext(e), 2012.  Print.
    • Manshel, Hannah.  “Depthless Psychology.”  The New Inquiry.  July 7 2014.  Web. 1 August 2014.
  • Undead-Ends: Zombie Debt/Zombie Theory

    Fred Botting (bio)

    Kingston University

    F.Botting@kingston.ac.uk

     

    Abstract

    This essay examines the ways in which contemporary economic discourse uses the zombie metaphor. It situates these uses in relation to the current resurgence of zombies in popular fiction and film, and distinguishes zombies from vampires: while the former signifies global debt and stagnation, the latter connotes credit and consumer boom. It argues that the arc of desire and fear engendered by these figures of horror discloses a continuity in the affective trajectory of neo-liberalism as it supplants traditional philosophical distinctions between material and symbolic forms of debt. Rather than operating with a distinction between spiritual and financial modes of guilt/debt, an economic absorption of cultural values circumvents the need for subjective or symbolic inscriptions, and institutes the debt-relation directly and materially.

    Attack of the Zombie Debt

    “Attack of the Zombie Debt” is not the title of a topical horror movie, but the headline of an article in an online financial magazine that warns of a new danger lurking in financial markets: the return of outstanding and long-term debts owed to credit card issuers, mobile phone providers, public utilities, and loan companies. Though uncollected, these debts are not simply written off after a limited period, but remain on the books for years before being sold – at very low rates – to specialized collection agencies. These agencies then pursue debtors for the outstanding amount, often operating at the edge of consumer legislation and with limited electronic information. In the aftermath of the financial crisis, this relatively new business earned around 3 billion dollars in the US in 2011. Where vampires became the poster-monsters of new patterns of consumption in periods of financial prosperity, zombies manifest an economy that, having bitten off more toxic debts than it can chew, just keeps on chewing….
     
    Zombie debt is another manifestation of an apparently contagious association between finance and the walking dead. Like zombie economics, zombie banks, and zombie capitalism, the phrase seems to follow the logic of Ulrich Beck’s “zombie categories” of modernity, in which old ideas, institutions, or practices persist despite having little currency, relevance, or credibility. The figure’s return, however, also takes its generic bearings from a longer-standing gothic political-economic lexicon that goes at least as far back as Capital’s images of industrial monstrosity and dead labor feeding on living, working bodies (Marx 506, 342). At the same time – and with the pop cultural nous of reflexive political media – its sense of a shifting financial mood responds to recent transformations in the political meanings of vampirism: the exciting figure of a voracious consumerist euphoria of unlimited desire (and credit) cedes to depressive stagnation and elegies for neoliberal fiscal strategy. But the figure of the zombie extends beyond its habitual popular cultural associations and locations to occupy space in financial columns and on big-budget movie screens, suggesting its increased significance in politicized cultural commentary. Less a figure of mass, mindless and destructive culture that ought to be destroyed like all monsters, the energy called up by the zombie figure is more dispersed and more difficult to identify and target in political terms. Embodying polarization and ambivalence without resolution, the zombie is both the mass numbed into robotic subservience without higher aims or aspirations, and the system that mindlessly accumulates without human consideration or sense of value (other than share-value, of course). Zombies – fictionally and discursively – enact a practically closed circuit of persistence, paralysis, and indecision: political and humane horizons are repeatedly imagined to collapse in apocalyptic meltdown at the same time as the fears and fantasies they evoke serve to defer actual creative-destructive decisions. Significantly, however, zombies present a more material form of undeath than the specters or vampires conjured in quasi-spiritual or phantasmatic forms: zombies are dead bodies. Hence their link to economic and material conditions is stronger, as is their relation to material rather than symbolic connotations of debt.
     
    Zombies draw out the current primacy of economics, manifesting the effects of the absorption of culture and the determination of politics by unforgiving market rhetoric, in which money becomes the only law, reason, or mode of judgment. A cultural – and fictional – figure from another age of imperialism, the zombie tracks global capital’s expansion across and incursion into previously distinct social and symbolic spheres. Here, horror is significant: where economic modes of credit and debt seemed to require social, symbolic, and subjective correlates in the form of belief, trust, confidence, and desire (with debt and guilt marking the complementary poles of material and symbolic investment), the globalization and technologization of capital’s circulations are less and less dependent on anything other than material inscriptions of the debt relation. The material and symbolic relation that historically distinguished and articulated the economic and political contours of debt is stretched if not severed as economy becomes the dominant factor: not only is it a question of the extent to which economy can operate without recourse to symbols, subjects, and State (all the expensive trappings of ideological apparatuses, infrastructure and investments in social bonds and consensus), but of directly controlling and affecting subjective and financial registrations of debt. Under these conditions, articulations of desire and fear replace circuits of identification and ideological investment, bypassing the necessity for credit and debt in a symbolic sense. The polarization of desire-fear is the affective trajectory marked by the axis of vampire-zombie: if the former figures capital’s expansive, individualistic, and aesthetic flights of aspiration, liberal desire, and consumption, the latter exhibits social implosion, global disaster, and political repulsion or paralysis in the (gnawed) face of precarious markets and fearful futures. Desire and fear operate in relation and oscillation, not opposition. They operate within – and in the service of – the same system, acknowledging a continuity of debt crises and credit booms. Whether “liberating” markets from regulations and state mechanisms or demanding austerity (another name for limiting State expenditure in the interests of financial freedom and responsibility), neoliberalism’s employment of desire or fear plots an arc that inscribes market politics at extensive and intensive levels: debt is global and personal. Indeed, debt becomes just another more frightening and perhaps more primal form of credit; if the latter was promoted in terms of belief and desire, the former, through fear, accomplishes the same task of securing the bonds that tie individuals not within any consensual, social, or symbolic circuit, but directly to a world defined by and as a financial system. When the control exercised almost automatically by debt works through fear alone, does this “new order” even require individual desire, belief, or symbolic and political values?

     

    Un-debt

    Debt-credit, desire-fear, vampire-zombie: these hyphenations suggest a shift from the antimonies sustained by modern symbolic and political formations to the rapid fluctuations of capital as it soaks up social and cultural spheres that were relatively autonomous. Indifferent to opposition and separation, its polarities are surface effects of an underlying but shadowy system: Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri’s Empire, or Fredric Jameson’s immense network and cannibalistic monster of finance capital. It remains both vampire – a hideous monster sucking all life’s surplus – and zombie – palpably dead but continuing to consume. And it works on two parallel or doubled levels, like Jean Baudrillard’s version of “neo-capitalism,” which undergoes phases of “systematic alternation” (expansion, consumption, liberation, contraction, restraint) as an “immense polymorphous machine” that has little need of extra-economic factors to sustain it: “the symbolic (gift and counter-gift, reciprocity and reversal, expenditure and sacrifice) no longer counts for anything.” Instead, “political economy itself only survives in a brain-dead state, but all those phantoms continue to plague the operational field of value” (35). While symbolic exchange survives as phantom and zombie, the vampire is both the immense machine that works by and for itself and the cause of zombie brain-death infecting all (human) judgments.  Zombie debt is a debt that will not die, that cannot be repaid; it signals an almost total absorption into a world financial market carrying on without thought or concern for anything other than accumulation. Hence the horror: one can neither kill nor escape the global network that circumscribes planetary existence and the zombie effects of producing so many debt-bound automatons.
     
    In two recent books entitled Zombie Economics, the double relation of economy and horror turns on an axis of bad in-finitude: one plotting cycles and change, the other imagining endless debt. In both, horror tropes trace global and individual poles of financial undeath. John Quiggin’s discussion of twentieth-century economic theories and policies traces how each one – whether models of efficient markets, trickle-down, or privatization – comes to a dead end. It advertises itself as “a chilling tale” and repeatedly plays on movie lore: “for the zombies in the movies, the most common such word is ‘Brains.’ For economic zombies, the equivalent is surely ‘privatization’” (174). Each section ends optimistically with a consideration of what happens “after the zombies”; for example, the redundancy of models of privatization is succeeded by a return to a mixed economy of state and markets. In contrast, the other Zombie Economics, subtitled A Guide to Personal Finance, urges individual consumers to internalize and respond to depressive economic conditions; its “zombie economy” turns global crisis into a permanent and individual matter of protecting one’s “personal economy” (Desjardins and Emerson 5). Chapter titles blast inescapable imperatives: “no one can save you”; “save yourself by saving money”; “shooting Dad in the head”; “Ending your relationship with the financially infected”; “there is no cure.” A financial survivalist handbook, life plan, and conduct guide, it urges healthy living and implies a strict morality while reiterating the need to take care of bills and control expenditure: “every one of your bills is a zombie. Every debt, every loan, and every missed payment – they’re ghouls, and left alone, they will attract more of their kind” (Desjardins and Emerson 10). Key to this zombie model of good household management is the stimulation of fear. Zombies are already on the lawn or at the door: “there’s a mass of biting, squirming death waiting to pour itself into the house” (Desjardins and Emerson 2). Finance, credit, and debt will eat you or infect you if you do not take appropriate action. Similar threats, however, pervade the wider zombie economy; market liberalism promises prosperity on the condition that “the wrath of the ‘Electronic Herd’ of interconnected global financial markets” is never incurred (Quiggin 9).
     
    Zombie banks also elicit fear, frustration, and a properly neoliberal urge to destroy. Describing financial institutions that would be unable to function and repay their debts without the injection of State credit, Yalman Onaran defines the zombie bank as a “dead bank . . . kept among the living through capital infusions from the government” (2). Crippling the global economy and potential recovery, the problem reignites arguments from the onset of the credit crisis about the correct neoliberal reaction to failing institutions. One view holds that they should be killed off rather than kept on state life support; another suggests, jump-starting the “financially undead” by freeing up the money supply. “Zombie balance sheets,” zombie companies, and zombie consumers, however, all seem to impede what Cowen calls capital’s “creative-destructive process.” The crisis should have been used as an opportunity “to clean out the system” rather than supporting “inefficient institutions” (Onaran 2). Like a videogame player confronted with a horde of zombies, there is mindless pleasure in destruction. But creation is a more problematic act, in which the paralyzing effect of the zombie comes to the fore. In fear, frustration, and impatience, the urgency of the crisis demands standard zombie movie reactions: do not hesitate; aim for the brain; kill off the undead that threaten survival and growth and open the future to more speculation. But because the complex and interdependent network of global finance works on an idea of the future (at least insofar as it predicts likelihoods of continued repayment) and operates with indeterminate “subjective” investments, there is hesitation and in-decision—moments of unpredictability suspended between advocating (creative) destruction and deferring an always-imminent meltdown. In this respect the zombie is no pharmakon, no poison-cure or effect-solution, but the very persistence of systemic and subjective in-decision and ambivalence, an un-dead-end that thrives on desire or fear, whether surfing the crest of credit or bearing the weight of debt. Zombies in this guise do not mark a breaking point, but the condition of living on after being broken. That is, they mark the condition of global, irredeemable or infinite debt without recourse to symbolic or spiritual forms.

     

    Cultural Death

    Zombies are mindless messengers, media figures that repeatedly return to dead-ends; doubles of divided cultures and dehumanized creatures; half-turned mirrors of vanishing subjective, social, symbolic, and political horizons. Their history in popular culture begins in the 1920s and 1930s as one of colonial and industrial enslavement: White Zombie (Victor Halperin, 1932), set in a repeatedly ravaged Haiti under US occupation, replays the will-sapping mechanization and exploitation of workers under factory regimes in visual echoes of the dehumanized mass of Metropolis (Fritz Lang, 1927) and its suppressed subterranean proletariat (Williams). Less than human, consumed by machine, modernity’s workforce is reduced to a condition of total subservience of mind, body, and collective strength. From the late 1960s, in George Romero’s series of films, zombies move from associations with mass, industrial culture and, more than side-effects of social conformism, rational bureaucratization, and voracious consumption, signify how, in the 1970s, mass culture, mass hysteria, mass media, and mass conformism mark deadlocks in the development of international capitalism. Robin Wood’s account of cinematic horrors from the 1960s to 1980s suggests how the counter-side of counter-culture connects the supposed primitivism and overt cannibalism of destructive drives to the turmoil and tension of a world in which permissiveness and market liberalization vie with conservative social and familial moralities. Zombies thus come to mark a shift in political and economic values, displaying, as Steve Beard and Steven Shaviro variously argue, how the West’s lumbering industrial workforce becomes obsolete in the face of shiny post-industrial complexes of service, technology, and consumption. The mass is now a revolting image of the past, of state and industrial society, a site of revulsion and the springboard to a new vampire world of privatized, creative, immaterial and precarious labor in which the individual is his or her own brand or business, and freedom is the potential to buy and sell on the basis of one’s human capital.
     
    Return to the worker-zombies of Metropolis after the factory has closed, the gigantic machine quiet and rusting and the cavernous halls of production empty, ruined, and still; they have been sacked and left with nothing to do and nowhere to go, vacantly roaming the streets, malls, and non-spaces of a new society in which they play no part. Cast-offs, rejects, non-people, they are as obsolete and redundant as the system they used to feed. Pathetic and seething with rage, they are repackaged as the detritus of a humanity and modernity that has been superseded. All their revolting features compose a monster of physical (rotting, slow), intellectual (thoughtless, speechless), moral (cannibalistic, will-less), natural (dead) and aesthetic (pale, bloody, malformed) degradation, establishing a negativity so repellent that it thwarts any feeling or desire except horror, destruction, or flight. This monster propels a movement away from (now base) materiality, mass, social, human, industrial, modern orders of existence and toward the newly attractive world of vampiric individualism, desire, and consumption, a deregulated flight beyond economic stagnation, inefficiency, and materiality, and into flexible financial freedoms, soaring profits, and unlimited credit. This new vampire moves from bat to wolf to eerie vapor, from barbaric, bloodsucking  (foreign) aristocratic invader to puffed-up, cigar-chuffing fat bastard capitalist predator and impersonal, distributed global accumulation machine for the exploitation of surpluses with which everyone remains on close, even hospitable terms. Its negativity is repolarized according to a perfectly commodified difference poised between brand and identity: the commodity that is one’s self.
     
    A-cultural (pre-modern) and a-Cultural (postmodern) barbarism conjoin in the commerce of countercultural protest and (neoliberal) economic reconfigurations. Individualistic, self-fashioned, self-reliant, unique, talented, competitive, bellicose, romantic, fast, flexible, desirable, vigorous, free, saleable, immortal and, above all, consuming, the new vampire subject and neoliberal everyperson feeds, like the bloodsucking machine, on the life and labor sold to agribusiness, on outsourcing and sweatshops, luxuriating in an unearthly existence sustained by credit, cheap loans, creative and immaterial labor. The free market remodeling of the vampire has been variously documented by Rob Latham as a figure for the technological consumption of youth and, by Jules Zanger, as the consumerist practices of the West. It extends to technical rewirings of military and queer desire, as A. R. Stone observes, and the genetic potential of rewriting bodies discussed by Donna Haraway. Moreover, as vampire-empire, it distinguishes the “spectral reign” of a network, an “apparatus of capture that lives only off the vitality of the multitude” in which “fear is the primary mechanism of control” (Empire 48, 62, 323). At the same time, Hardt and Negri’s vampire is double bound to an image of monstrous multitude in and in excess of empire: the “unruly character of the flesh as multitude,” manifests “the monstrosity of a society in which the traditional social bodies, such as the family, are breaking down” and “new, alternative networks of affection and social organization” begin to form (Multitude 193). Amid in-distinction, there emerges the difficulty and necessity of any ethical or political action: one must love some monsters and combat others, enhancing the former’s excess and attacking “the monstrous, horrible world that the global political body and capitalist exploitation have made for us” (Multitude 196).
     
    Global and individual, systemic and subjective, feared and desired at the same time, these doubled figures of monstrosity are both too distant and too proximate to know which to kill and which to save. Where over-circulation (and crisis) discredit popular consuming vampires, zombies increasingly occupy the dissolving and explosively paralyzed zones of in-decision and in-distinction between uninhibited global flows and depressive subjugation. They mark the pressures of excessive liberalization of markets and the increasing porousness of psycho-geographic boundaries: apocalyptic presentations of global change in which viral epidemics, genetic experimentation, ecological disaster, demotivated populations, media violence, urban unrest, military pacification, immigration, and poverty signal a total breakdown in social relations and human(e) bonds (see, for example, Romero’s Diary of the Dead). Not simply collapsible into categories of and against posthuman developments (from biotechnological to post-industrial), the fears that imagine the reduction of bodies to raging, ravenous hordes are reactions to change in which breakdown is less a return to modernity and humanity than a descent into survivalism or barbarism. Images of small bands of people struggling against undead masses and more barbaric survivors may be dressed up as a fantasy of natural self-sufficiency to end the degeneration of contemporary existence, but they also hold up a mirror of the anti-social contract of neoliberal competition and individuation that exhausts social ties, human energies, and planetary reserves. Zombie metaphors are, in part, modes of deflection and misdirection, fantastic and nostalgic expenditure. They are also figures of an in-decisive present, in thought, image, and action, of self-consumption in increasingly rapid, vicious, and implosive spirals of in-security.
     
    Recent zombie fictions (rapidly filmed by Hollywood) depict collapsing global formations and thrive on the imagination of apocalypse or trace the interminable dead-end manifested by the undead. While Isaac Marion’s Warm Bodies (2010) draws out the diminishing differences between zombie and human habits amid the ruined non-places of consumer society, Max Brooks’s 2006 World War Z critiques global flows and cultural decline, imagining a return to an American communal order at the cost of billions of dead. Elsewhere, zombies go to the heart of capitalism’s reliance on the power of the credit-debt relation; more positive renditions of the zombie as cultural critique accompany bitterly satirical images of contemporary finance capital’s obscenity and savagery in Jaspre Bark’s Way of the Barefoot Zombie. Set on a small island close to Haiti (an island that has historically witnessed disproportionate exploitation and debt), the story opposes a group of rich teenagers, calling themselves the ZLF (Zombie Liberation Front), to a group of super-rich investors. The island is owned by an exclusive management training company that teaches investors to shed their humanity (including conscience) and become as passionately single-minded about accumulation as zombies are about fresh organs. Zombies articulate a continuum of power and resistance: the undead are freed, activists return to their comfortable homes or find themselves, and management excesses are exposed. But the continuum is not altered. In two particular episodes, however, the all-encompassing zombie of debt is evinced. Published post-sub-prime collapse in 2009, Bark’s novel illustrates capital’s genius at getting something for nothing through the mortgage system: a buyer receives a credit note, takes possession of bricks and mortar, defaults on the loan, and cedes possession of actual things to creditors who only staked values. Of course, creditors at the time suffered drops in value, getting nothing for nothing. The example, however, remains timely in its interrelation of credit and debt in material and symbolic, economic and subjective terms. A mortgage wires person and private space directly into a financial network of fluctuating interest rates. Indeed, the rhetoric of household management was part of the highly effective political sales pitch of neoliberalism, directing Britain’s “Right to Buy” policy that sold off state-owned housing and promoted the privatization of national utilities in the 1980s. Home-owning became a motor of the consumer boom and was connected to greater availability of loans, credit, and mortgages enabled by the de-regulation and technologization of financial markets. Moreover, it bound individuals to an economic project in a more concrete fashion than ideology, plugging them directly into the global fluctuations of share prices and interest rates through credit and debt. Such a direct personal tie to the movements of the world economy short-circuits the need for ideological investment. Privatization also inaugurated a process of economizing all areas of life, from culture to education and care, thereby eroding – and exploiting – the difference between symbolic and social values (belief and guilt) and economic worth (credit and debt). A second episode in Way of the Barefoot Zombie goes to the heart of debt’s material and spiritual axis: Vodun ritual enables investors to dispense with the humanity that impedes the efficient acquisition of obscene wealth. Conscience—which sustains guilt with respect to symbolic, moral, and human values—can be excised, held in reserve, and then, at a price, can be redeemed, untarnished, when enough wealth has been accumulated. Not only does this move suggest that capital and humanity are inimical; it also plots a trajectory in which the former is finally relieved of its human weight, imagining a separation between debt and guilt in which one operates more efficiently without any recourse the other.

     

    Spectral Debt

    Debt establishes the foundation of morality and culture, both materially and economically. In Genealogy of Morals, Friedrich Nietzsche argues that the relation between debtor and creditor holds a primary position: “the major moral concept Schuld [guilt] has its origin in the very material concept Schulden [debts]” (498-99). Where guilt is a means of socialization and subjection interlaced with moral, legal, and religious codes, debt underpins the way those codes are inscribed and enforced. Breeding “an animal with the right to make promises” requires painful training to ensure that humans pay their debts, remember their desires, keep their word, and plan for and anticipate the future. “Man himself,” writes Nietzsche, “must first of all have become calculable, regular, necessary, even in his own image of himself, if he is able to stand security for his own future, which is what one who promises does!” (494). Debt demands a relation to time, mnemotechnical skills, and models of equivalence, rights, and exchange. Throughout, however, the social bond remains a direct and material effect of debt: training renders creatures subject to morality, custom, community, conscience, and word. It is traumatic and terrifying and the basis of all symbolic rituals (497). It forges obedience and identification in pain and blood, binding individuals to structures of exchange, obligation, and law (500). Both intensive – the consequences of debt are concentrated on individual bodies or even body parts – and extensive — encompassing every exchange, possession, thing, word or value – debt covers life and its aftermath. Under Christian morality, guilt and symbolic debt come to the fore, displacing the pain of material inscriptions with redemption, value, exchange, and reciprocity. Debt, however, does not disappear: instead it is deepened, as Gilles Deleuze argues, a shackle of suffering that “now only pays the interest on the debt”; it is “internalized” and universalized, rendered “inexhaustible, unpayable” (Nietzsche 141).
     
    There are two complementary and countervailing trajectories implied in the relation between debt and guilt. Material and symbolic dimensions of debt shadow each other in accounts of cultural development: the one line culminates in modernity and stresses human values and progress; the other – superseding modernity – tracks material and machinic inscriptions, new forms of training, desire, and capitalization. In the first trajectory, psychoanalysis, of course, embraces guilt. But it, too, begins, in terror, pain, and trauma, in the myth of the primal father, where crime and murder forge the basis of symbolic relations—an ambivalent site of law, ritual, custom and culture that produces guilty and indebted subjects. As Jacques Lacan observes of the “Freudian myth,” “the order of the law can be conceived only on the basis of something more primordial, a crime” (42). With it comes “punishment, sanction, castration – the hidden key to the humanization of sexuality” (43). In the symbolic realm, debt is always something for the subject to worry about, a matter of responsibility and guilt provoked by the traumatizing effects of signification, a punishment in advance – “that self-sacrifice, that pound of flesh which is mortgaged [engagé] in his relationship to the signifier” (28). That gap, moreover, constitutes the locus of loss and mourning at the core of subjective-symbolic relations, the “place for the projection of the missing signifier” whose absence provokes a host of spectral and actual reverberations: the “phallus” – the paternal signifier to whom all debts are owed in the reintegration of group, community or psyche – “is a ghost” (Lacan 35, 50).
     
    The symbolic advanced in psychoanalysis remains too closed – too phallic and logocentric – for deconstruction. Yet when it comes to matters of debt and mourning, Jacques Derrida repeatedly looks to an excess that escapes purely material or economic value, whether in the form of the “immaculate commerce” liberated by poetry, or in terms of the gift situated “aneconomically” outside all  equivalence, substitution, and circularity (“Economimesis” 9; Given 111). “Impossible” and “essential,” the gift “interrupts economy,” “system,” and “symbol,” but is not a “simple ineffable exteriority.” To give back is to “amortize” giving, a dead gift, a mortgage (Given 7, 12, 30). A symbolic equivalent returns a value in place of a thing; recognizing a debt draws any idea of giving back into a system of calculation: “the symbolic opens and constitutes the order of exchange and of debt, the law or the order of circulation in which the gift gets annulled” (Given 13). Economy, then, is not “suspended” in the move to the symbolic but manifests an “incessant movement of reappropriation of an excess” (Given 111). Something excessive, however, lies beyond appropriation—an infinite, impossible, inexhaustible debt beyond the “‘bad infinite’ that characterizes the monetary thing,” value or exploitation (Given 158). Like the gift, such a debt, if there is one, would hold open a radical alterity of time, death, mourning, and being. Yet gifts, in Given Time, remain increasingly threatened by monetary things: counterfeit money – its falsity apparently neither an impediment to the operations of capital and credit, nor requiring recourse to faith and belief – engenders a vertiginous economic overwriting of differences that occludes the possibility of an outside-gift or heterological space. That aneconomic element which sustains a relation to an outside increasingly finds itself within “the restricted economy of a differance, a calculable temporization or deferral” (Given 147). That pattern of encroachment, appropriation, and economization operates on an increasingly abstracted and global scale: the “new world order.”
     
    The new world order: economic obliteration of borders, expansion and imposition of market logic, relentless capitalization, technologization, and mediatization, it absorbs domains once outside its purview, including the law, the nation-state, and culture. Its “plagues” are laid out in Derrida’s Specters of Marx (81). Running counter to the gift, the speeds at which it operates and the calculations and codes it imposes follow the “other reading” suggested in Given Time: that of “economic closure” (26-8). The reduction of temporal and geopolitical horizons threatens the possibility of sustaining some kind of history, humanity, or hegemony (the “hauptgespensts” of modernity whose “hauntology” holds on to gifts of time, death and being) and forecloses “a certain experience of the emancipatory promise” (Specters 74). The site of deconstruction and politics is “a present never identical with itself,” a “phantasmatic, anessential practice” the aim of which is “to reactivate the moment of decision that underlies any sedimented set of social relations” (Laclau 70, 78). Specters perform two related operations in deconstruction’s defense of modern values: in moving across and opening occluded borders and stagnant differentiations (“spooking” as a kind of disturbance and alert), they return to founding and impossible questions and dis-continuities that form the basis for subjective, democratic, and emancipatory decisions. But, like Hamlet before the ghost of his father, they also hesitate and question, prompting deferral rather than action. Nonetheless, there and not there, specters sustain the idea of something like historical difference and futurity, holding onto the effective memory of the possibility of some kind of symbolic system. Conjured up and mourned in order to keep alive that which has been buried, opening solidified structures and relations to the (aneconomic) decisions that animate and expose them to time, gifts, debts, promises, justice, horizons (and monsters), deconstruction works as a counter to the reductive pressures of capital’s accelerations, calculations, and expansions.

     

    Debt Machine

    As immaterial entities and effects, specters are conjured up as an animating difference between incorporation and institution, body and phantasm. In contrast, as excess materiality, zombies manifest body without will, soul, spirit, or consciousness. Their training is traumatizing, numbing, automatic, and suggests an inscription of debt’s more brutal and basic mnemotechnics: figures of debt-death suspended, existence given over to death-in-life, its course closed down, paralyzed and without horizon. Given their materiality and their associations with work, death, and the theft of life, it is not surprising that zombies feature in Deleuze and Guattari’s account of the transmutations of debt under capital. Following Nietzsche’s assertion of the primacy and materiality of debt, Deleuze and Guattari’s zombies embody the painful inscription entailed in breeding slaves without sovereign consciousness plotted in anti-oedipal deployments of debt from filiation (stock-breeding) and alliance (mobile debt). With the rise of bourgeois capitalism, a “primitive inscription machine” becomes “an immense machinery that renders the debt infinite,” a “debt of existence” that subjects never cease paying (Anti-Oedipus 192, 197). Infinite debt involves a spiritualization at the level of a despotic state apparatus that turns debt into social and symbolic values, and an internalization within the capitalist field through which the creditor-debtor relation becomes the motor of accumulation, surplus exploitation, and drive. It produces torpor, hatred of life and freedom, depression, guilt, and neurosis: its mechanism is the “death instinct” (Anti-Oedipus 268-9). It delivers institutional, symbolic, productive stasis, causing libidinal exhaustion, turning life against itself while celebrating a “mortifying, imaginary, and symbolic theater” (334).  A “wedding of psychoanalysis and capitalism,” the death instinct indicates how much the latter has drawn from “a transcendental death-carrying agency,” the “despotic signifier,” how much the “absorption of surplus value” that governs its expansion depends on the incorporation and exploitation of the excesses of life, energy and time into its system (335). Capital in this guise is a “death enterprise” (335).
     
    Blockage, paralysis, frozen desire: it is easy to see the kinds of workers produced under the productive-symbolic regime: “the only modern myth is the myth of zombies – mortified schizos, good for work, brought back to reason” (Anti-Oedipus 335). The encoding of mnemotechnical training – the inscribing, branding, mutilating, taming and herding of bodies into a uniform and regulated mass – constitutes the cruel, painful and numbing signifying work of death, operating  intensively as debt becomes extensive:
     

    Above all, the State apparatus makes the mutilation, and even death, come first. It needs them preaccomplished, for people to be born that way, crippled and zombielike. The myth of the zombie, of the living dead, is a work myth and not a war myth. Mutilation is a consequence of war, but it is a necessary condition, a presupposition of the State apparatuses and the organization of work (hence the native infirmity not only of the worker but also of the man of State himself).  (Deleuze and Guattari, Plateaus 425)

     
    Bonds become binds that tie life, desire, and time to the regular circulation and rhythms of production and reproduction. In contrast, as Deleuze and Guattari develop their gothic theme in A Thousand Plateaus, the vampire manifests uncontained flows and desires, a figure of becoming unsubordinated to regimes of work, alliance, and reproduction; it is asymbolic, anomic, aneconomic, outside patterns of filiation and evolution. A co-mingling of heterogeneous forms, associated with packs, bands, and multiplicities, the vampire operates as epidemic, contagion, infection (Plateaus 241-42). Schizovampirism seems to escape the despotism associated with organized production and State-symbolic subjection and debt-death, but it also heralds “life” modulated, recoded, and dividuated by Deleuze’s notion of “control societies,” rebranded by informatics, recast as commodity and patented by financial, global, and networked powers. Depending on “floating rates of exchange,” the move to control societies sees a further extension of the hand of debt, more abstract and yet more direct because it permeates every area of life, intimately and from afar through the vast decentered network its fluctuations inhabit: “the operation of markets is now the instrument of social control and forms the impudent breed of our masters. Control is short-term and of rapid rates of turnover, but also continuous and without limit” (“Postscript” 6).There is no outside to this network and no outside-debt in this erasure of horizons and supersession of limits: “Man is no longer man enclosed, but man in debt” (6).
     
    Global control obliterates distinctions of outside and inside, allowing neither boundaries nor bodies – geopolitical, planetary, subjective, genetic or symbolic – to impede its flows and transformations. Finance, biotechnology, and digital media have established an almost total economization. It is a horror story that has been told repeatedly: “biopolitics” charts neoliberalism’s “unlimited generalization of the form of the market” (Foucault 243); economics “becomes the explicit discourse of a whole society” (Baudrillard 33-4); stocks and share calculations have “invaded . . . our notion of value” and require all questions – not only economic but aesthetic, semantic, and metaphysical – to be “posed from within the logic of the financial (in)security of mobile values” (Goux, “Values” 160); and everything, sacred or profane, falls into the “magnetic field of the political economy (of market exchange-value)” in a “total bankerization of existence, by the combined powers of finance and computers” (Goux, Sacred Economies 202; “Cash” 99). Now “dependency upon the market extends into every area of life” (Beck and Beck-Gernstein, 203), while economic thinking “undoes the major oppositions of traditional thought” (Goux, “Values” 165), and “techno-mediatic powers,” political “good news,” and financial calculation supplant the basic concepts and oppositions of critical discourse (Derrida, Specters 67, 75). Or they enact their own “practical deconstruction” (Derrida and Stiegler, Echographies 36). Even the capacity to think critically and effectively is problematic, some positions seeming little more than “dead ends” in that they fail “to recognize adequately the contemporary object of critique:” given that the object has “mutated,” critique seems “depotentialized” in advance (Hardt and Negri, Empire 137-8).
     
    What remains is “symbolic misery”: Bernard Stiegler’s term for the reduction and economization of life under control, consumption, and technological mediation. The term signifies the cultural and symbolic impoverishment and proletarianization of existence as a “herd-becoming of behavior and loss of individuation,” a saturation of memory and diminution of spaces of “symbolic sharing” (“Suffocated Desire” 54-7). Anticipation and desire are eroded as planning, calculation, and control reduce the future to questions of predictability and short-term management: subjectivity, Stiegler underlines, is depressed and desire demotivated in the face of “generalized discredit” (Decadence 88). Short-term financial investment undermines other social, symbolic, and individual futures defined as the “investment in common desire” (Stiegler, New Critique 6). Speculation, in contrast, “freezes time” by trying to cancel out any past or future that cannot be measured or predicted in terms of the present (New Critique 107). The question of the future returns to debt, to its power of harnessing and delimiting futures based on calculations of profit or return. Against the economic absorption of libido, belief, and time, Stiegler proposes a return to longer-term, symbolic investments, invoking models of gift and the sacred to open horizons to exchanges “not enslaved to immediate subsistence” (Decadence 89).
     
    Recent economic discourse had already – and inimically – reworked the very terms invoked by Stiegler to hold open another path of symbolic credit, investment, and desire: their opposing trajectory pointed towards completely opposite ends and implications, dragging aneconomy more tightly within an expanded orbit of exchange and speculation. George Gilder argues that giving and ideas of the gift become central to the new entrepreneurial economy of risky, creative, and generous investment. As Goux glosses the process, gift-giving now forms the model for rather than the exception to economic expenditure, providing capital with “legitimation” as a “theology of chance” (“General Economics” 213). Gilder’s creative, altruistic entrepreneur, romanticized as capitalist hero, came to prominence during the neoliberal 1980s: part of the project of transforming work and economy in terms of “human capital.” Individuality and life as a whole can thus be reformulated according to calculations that aim to optimize the potential manifested in the analysis of “human capital:” an individual’s life becomes the object of speculation, training, self-fashioning, and invention aimed at making “him into a sort of permanent and multiple enterprise” (Foucault 242). As Maurizio Lazzarato develops the idea, technologies of the self thus involve “the mobilization, engagement, and activation of subjectivity through the techniques of business management and social government” (37-8). As stated in management guidebooks and practices, individuals must identify with the entirety of the consumer and corporate mechanism that encompasses existence and embrace all its codes. In order to perform to one’s potential, one must think of and invest in oneself as a brand – what management guru Tom Peters calls “the brand called you” – and engage all the techniques, skills, training, and networking necessary to promote, differentiate, manage, and market that brand.

     

    Fear Management

    One figure of this injunction to entrepreneurial internalization, self-fashioning, and flexibility – a figure, appropriately enough, returning to cultural prominence in the 1980s – is the vampire. Reinvented as fabulously speculative and immaterially potent, the vampire is oblivious to any final debt repayment (death) or any natural, material and physical limitation (transmogrification). Like triumphant neoliberalism, it exists beyond all borders (domestic, ideological, cultural or, national), its unreality a figure for an immanent expansion of capital’s incessant reinvention. As a figure of the euphoric economic transvaluation of all social, individual, and political positions, its only role lies in feeding and feeding on the vital flows of global circulation: blood must keep flowing. To be otherwise, of course, is to be a zombie. The move to a crisis-consciousness dispatches any euphoric identifications with and internalizations of the vampire figure, along with an entrepreneurial rhetoric of credit, growth, and endless immaterial expansion. Financial crisis signals the “failure” of neoliberal business models and the exploitation of “human capital” (Lazzarato 109, 113). Yet, as zombie, this system just carries on, exploiting the crisis it engendered. How does one put a bullet in the brain of a decentered network of electronic, emotional, and economic impulses?
     
    The move from euphoria to depression, from vampire to zombie, might discredit but does not mark the end of neoliberalism. Nor does it temper excess except in the way that credit reappears as the debt it always was. For all the manufactured differences, rises and falls, or shifts in mood, a systemic continuity remains in place: credit is just another name for debt. Debt does not relinquish its hold easily, pressing for a continued and expanding neoliberal program of social transvaluation. Austerity becomes the means for extending the power and control exercised by financial markets over the State to ensure continued adherence to, even further internalization of, the debtor-creditor relation: “finance is a war machine for privatization, which transforms social debt into credit, into individual insurance, and rent (shareholders) and thus, individual property” (Lazzarato 113). If credit, vamped-up in the 1980s, encouraged everyone to “buy in” to this power relation through mortgages, privatized shares, loans, and credit cards, global zombie debt makes plain the other-same side of the coin, requiring individuals to take on any costs, responsibilities, and risks previously assumed the State, whether  welfare, education, housing, health, unemployment, or pensions: “not only – far from it – those of innovation, but also and especially those of precariousness, poverty, unemployment, a failing health system, housing shortages, etc.” (Lazzarato 51).  Extensive in the form of global markets and global debts, the power relation is also highly individuated and intensively modulated through specific networks of control, access, and lending. Debt becomes the mechanism to engage every body, every role, and every relationship, permeating every sphere beyond banking, especially those associated with social bonds:
     

    All the designations of the social divisions of labour in neoliberal societies (“consumer”, “beneficiary”, “worker”, “entrepreneur”, “unemployed”, “tourist” etc.) are now invested by the subjective figure of the “indebted man” which transforms them into indebted consumers, indebted welfare users, and finally, as in the case of Greece, “indebted citizens.” (Lazzarato 38)

     
    A universe of debt is literally installed through the extension and internalization of financial models. Debt is realized rather than spiritualized, its subjectivization manifesting a de- or dis-spirited indebtedness based on performance, finance, and credit-worthiness rather than on the socially- and symbolically-framed investment of individual desires, aspirations, and beliefs. Debt knows no bounds and employs only direct bonds of control; it has no outside except the penury of no credit rating, and even then it administers its controls according to the same procedures and principles: mothers, children, and the unemployed receive all sorts of benefits – renamed as “credits” – for health, education, wages, and insurance; immigrants are judged according to (economically calculable and redeemable) point-values, thereby locating their existence within the power relation of debt and subjecting them to a variety of procedures of assessment, monitoring, accreditation, and regulation.
     
    These procedures enact a kind of training, inscription, and coding akin to inaugural debt. But they seem to have little need of symbolic or spiritual coordinates. Increasingly, too, this training is inscribed automatically, without the production of belief, the evocations of desire, or the long-term investments in structures that sustain relations that are more than economic. The separation of symbolic and economic structures, for all their isomorphism, has a history: from the paternally-sanctioned realities of exchange founded on gold to paper currency and virtual share value, the story has been one of abstraction and autonomization in banking. In line with the Big Bang that deregulated markets and accelerated technological exchanges, Goux argues that the shift to stocks and financial capitalism manifests an “abstract operational symbolization” at a remove from any human world of symbols (Symbolic 130).  Direct human intervention is increasingly removed from decision-making processes as the credit card installs an “autonomization of operations” that replaces human labor insofar as it “internalizes” banking operations (Goux, “Cash” 120-121). Credit cards directly approve or refuse funds so that debt is individuated, general, and inevitable: “we carry with us the creditor-debtor relation – in our pockets and wallets, encoded on the magnetic strip of plastic that hides two seemingly harmless operations: the automatic institution of the credit relation, which thereby establishes permanent debt” (Lazzarato 20). No decisions have to be made, no thought; it is an automatic subjugation manifesting “a molecular, intrapersonal, and pre-individual hold on subjectivity that does not pass through reflexive consciousness and its representations, nor through the self” (Lazzarato 146-9). As an “Automatic Teller Machine”, the “subject” has only to remember a few responses and insert a short personal numeric code calibrated to that card alone, a “dividual” responding to the modulations of an automated network.
     
    A symbolic and transindividual framework sustaining subjectivity through desire, motivation, and belief becomes unnecessary when the credit-debt power relation has been inscribed automatically: responses are pre-coded just as futures are predicted. Desire cedes to fear; thought to reaction- and real-time. Horizons close; no one cares. Ideological apparatuses that shape productive individuals and social consensus become obsolete and expensive. Guilt, a debt beyond exchange, is supplanted by material inscriptions and control procedures that define and maintain “indebted man.” Neither will nor desire, consciousness or self-reflection remain in play. Alternatives are foreclosed:  “the logic of debt is stifling the possibilities for action” (Lazzarato 71). One can readily see the revolting outlines of a new zombie. All that is required for the operation of the credit-debt relation is fear, a mechanism sustained by training and threats of loss, by technological disconnection or non-ranking from ratings agencies. Fear attends financial markets; it signifies our being wired into an affective and economic network, a nervous system. Writing in the 1990s, Goux observed how the mobility of share values involves a “vulnerability” to thousands of direct and indirect variables, an incessantly alternating present that is never quite present, flickering rates of return or loss outlining fragile, uncertain, and nerve-wracking fluctuations of existence: “life overwhelmed by the globalization of value” (“Value” 159-60). Permanent in-security is evinced in fluctuating circuits of exchange and the reactions they prompt, an electro-emotional network in which machine, human difference, and temporality are reduced to near zero, vacillations of affect accompanying oscillations of digits. As Goux describes it, this network is
     

    a constant, driven time of anxiety, hypersensitive to worldwide information, tense, unpredictable, irrational, subject to the whim of ungovernable impulses, brief crazes that spread like a viral infection, a paradoxical time that balances the most weighty matters of the economic and political life of nations upon the most delicate and febrile factors of human psychology (euphoria, depression, optimism, confidence, anxiety). (“Values” 160)

     
    Without objects to stabilize or ground its flows, its default setting is anxiety and insecurity.
     
    Fear, at least temporarily, settles on some figure. Where anxiety underpins the circulations of global financial capitalism, undead and unreal figures from popular culture provide familiar forms through which to reshape, contain, or direct the inherent instability of an abstracted yet all-too real system in relentless pursuit of surplus. Like the mathematical modelling of disaster scenarios using zombies (for example, exercises in “Zombie Preparedness” undertaken in the US by the Centers for Disease Control), cultural forms deploy their own modes of planning, predicting, and retraining; if not calculating futures, these modes occlude, habituate or divert those futures in fantastically apocalyptic dead-ends that keep on returning. Born of frustration, in-decision, and stasis, these urgent fantasies of destruction and creation, disaster and survival are played out and held at bay, precarious (non)precipitation meeting (in)decisive (un)dead-end: kill-kill-kill; pay-pay-pay; spend-spend-spend; save-save-save. But who, what, and where are the zombies? Capital, banks, political-economy, debt, shareholders, stakeholders, creditors, investors, managers, oneself?  Fear opens onto unpredictable possibility, monstrosity, or event, and quickly closes again. If rapid global fluctuations, uncertainties, and anxieties are, in fear, downloaded in an automated debt relation, the result may be the kind of pacification that shocks and numbs en masse like it did to workers in modernity. Constantly exposed to images of financial apocalypse, the zombies roaming streets and clicking on screens may be too habituated, too inoculated by familiarity or numbed by fear, to see beyond the material and imagined disasters of global debt. Trained to feel, perform, and react, their automation allows no time for reflection, action, or motivation. Like life and desire, time is paralyzed in a present that calculates and closes off any future other than that of the market privileging accumulation over expenditure, and is denied any final expenditure or vital-destructive opening: it is zombie, neither living nor dead but frozen between the two, life in stasis, death arrested, in debt forever. In constant electronic flux, an overstimulation of organisms, it may also generate a hyperactivity, restlessness, and undirected overflow that comes from immersion in and resistance to the multiple and divergent messages of media-managed capital’s debt impulse. A tension might remain between new procedures controlled more directly by economic debt, and the expectations and aspirations associated with forms of subjectivity defined in symbolic, social, and historical terms. In that tension—a space of incomplete transition and in-credulity—there is some hope of resistance, as Lazzarato notes: confronting “subjectivities that consider public assistance, retirement, education, etc., as collective rights guaranteed by past struggles is not the same as governing ‘debtors,’ small business owners, and minor shareholders” (114). If the transition allows space for disaffection, the general “herdification” identified in symbolically immiserated economies and techno-media also produces energies in excess of control; Stiegler’s disindividuated herd is permanently unsettled, disquieted, without form and identity, yet irrepressibly “furious” (“Suffocated desire” 55). Enter the “zoombie”: the fast-moving, voracious and extremely contagious mutation for an age of speed and sensory overstimulation. In 28 Days Later (Danny Boyle, 2002) and 28 Weeks Later (Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, 2007), the zoombie is an entity born of global media and urban violence, of biotechnical experimentation and militarized control: the name of the virus it spreads across the world is “RAGE.”

    Fred Botting is Professor of English Literature and a member of the London Graduate School at Kingston University, London. He has written on cultural theory and horror fiction and film. His books includeGothic (Routledge 2013), Limits of Horror (Manchester UP, 2008) and Gothic Romanced (Routledge, 2008).
     

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  • False Economy

    Abstract

    When we speak of the credit crunch of 2008-14, we are really referring to a debt crisis.  Far from the aberrant outcome of an economic failure, however, debt is a necessary condition of all economy.  This essay opens up the present banking crisis through a reading of Jacques Derrida’s Given Time.  It addresses issues such as Credit Default Swaps and inter-bank lending through an understanding of finance as counterfeit money, and examines the question of credit as a problem of both faith and fiction.  It concludes by attending to Baudelaire’s “Assommons les pauvres!” which Derrida describes as a “symmetrical counterpoint” to “La fausse monnaie,” the Baudelaire text that guides his own seminar.

     

    They have signed our I.O.U. and we can no longer not acknowledge it.  Any more than our own children.  This is what tradition is, the heritage that drives you crazy.  People have not the slightest idea of this, they have no need to know that they are paying (automatic withdrawal) nor whom they are paying …  when they do anything whatsoever, make war or love, speculate on the energy crisis, construct socialism, write novels, open concentration camps for poets or homosexuals, buy bread or hijack a plane, have themselves elected by secret ballot, bury their own, criticize the media without rhyme or reason, say absolutely anything about chador or the ayatollah, dream of a great safari, found reviews, teach, or piss against a tree…  This story, the trap of who signs an I.O.U. for the other such that the other finds himself engaged before having known a thing about it, even before having opened his eyes, this children’s story is a love story and is ours—if you still want it.  From the very first light of dawn.

    -Derrida, “Envois” 10th September 1977

    (Post Card 100-101)

     

    The Purloined Future

    What then, to paraphrase Derrida in Spectres of Marx, is the state of the debt?  When in 2008 we began to speak of a credit crunch, what we really meant was a debt crisis in which repayment of substantial loans became attenuated, and banks and other financial institutions became insolvent. This complex situation is not, however, merely a case of a few large debtors defaulting on payments.  Allow me to spend a little time unpacking the aetiology of everything that has resulted from this crisis, including the bankruptcy of global financial institutions and of sovereign states.  Debt and credit are not the fortunate or unfortunate outcomes of banking practices; they are the very point of banking and indeed of capitalism itself, perhaps of all economy as such.  The classical purpose of a bank is to lend money on the basis of the deposits of its so-called customers (individuals and companies who have placed their money in the bank for what Rousseau’s Discourse on Inequality might identify as security reasons).  Using depositors’ money or money borrowed at a low rate of interest from another bank, the bank lends to others at a greater rate of interest. As long as these loans are repaid on schedule, theoretically the bank will initiate an infinite chain of profit.  In so doing, banking as such both introduces credit into the economy—enabling growth, employment, and wealth creation—and initiates indebtedness, which ties individuals to the bank and the system of capital in general.  On this view, credit and debt are not merely necessary, but essential to the operation of the entire capitalist system.  Once the bank lends money to an individual or company, that money is deposited back in the bank.  The bank has thereby increased its deposits base by leveraging its capital without any actual “new” money coming into circulation.  Having increased its deposits, the bank is free to repeat this process ad infinitum within the limit of retaining the cash ratio required by law for capitalization.  In this way, banks generate large balance sheets of assets (loans and advances) and liabilities (customer accounts) from a relatively low deposit base and minimal cash ratio; at its height in 2008, the Royal Bank of Scotland had assets of £1.9 trillion (greater than the entire GDP of its sovereign guarantor of the United Kingdom, making it the largest company by asset size in the world at that time).[1]  This form of phantasmagoria makes the commodity fetish look like a concrete tower block, and calls to mind Aristotle’s distinction in the Politics between economy and chresematics: the former is the management of goods essential to the maintenance of life; the latter, as the accumulation of wealth for its own sake, is the originary ruin of the former.[2]  According to this distinction, it makes no sense to speak of economics in relation to banking; perhaps universities today should rename their Business Schools, trapped within the curriculum of orthodox economic theory, along Aristotelian lines.

     

    The banking business model is unique within capitalism because it requires minimal equity (the difference between assets and liabilities). As a result, and despite appearances, banking is a less than secure enterprise.  In this situation banks must manage the risk of loan defaults, and one might say that the business of banks is precisely the management of risk.  Banks are placed at risk when liabilities begin to exceed equity in an unmanageable way.  In 2008, at the start of the financial crisis, Barclays had sixty times more assets (due loans) than equity.  The median leverage ratio of banks in the US in 2008 was 35 to 1, and 45 to 1 in Europe.  What this meant was that only 1/35th of US bank assets had to go bad before the banks would be insolvent, and 1/40th in Europe. If only 2.5% of loans were defaulted on, in other words, the European banks would collapse.  This is exactly what happened with the subprime mortgage collapse in the US housing market, when it became clear that money had systematically been loaned to those with little prospect of making their repayments.  As this market began to unravel, banks sitting on over-leveraged positions began to collapse in a domino effect—from Bear Stearns to Lehman Brothers in the US and Northern Rock to HBOS in the UK—resulting in bailouts for the system by Central Banks (i.e., the State) as the guarantor and lender of last resort.  These collapses and the so-called credit crunch in personal and company finances arose when banks quickly attempted to deleverage by contracting their assets without harming their equity ratios.  This means offering less credit and calling in as much debt as possible; because this is the exact opposite of the banking business model, the entire system came close to collapse when financial institutions stopped lending even to each other, viewing one another as risky prospects and potentially bad debtors.

     

    Banks are equally keen to obviate risk within the banking system, and financial markets have developed sophisticated financial products to do just this.  The trade in derivative products (options and futures) exceeds tenfold the total value of the world’s economic output.  Derivatives are designed to hedge risk and take out insurance against uncertainty by fixing prices in the future. Like the leveraging of a bank’s capital, however, trade in derivatives generates financial transactions based on the original asset price, but far in excess of it; when those transactions begin to unfurl, derivatives have the opposite effect of magnifying risk rather than hedging it.  For this reason, in 1989 J. P. Morgan pioneered the Credit Default Swap that allows one to both leverage capital and hedge it against risk.  Swapping positions in the market is a relatively recent method of alleviating potential uncertainty by mitigating exposure to risk. This makes it much more likely that you will be able to repay the money borrowed from the bank for your business activity, making you a sounder debtor and so able to borrow more money.  Credit Default Swaps (CDS) allow banks to lend money and insure themselves against default by making someone else take on the risk associated with the debt.  Suitably insured, the bank can relax about holding onto enough capital reserves, and so can continue to lend again and again based on its assets register (which, we recall, is really the outstanding loans owed to it).  Regulators accepted the argument for CDS because they were thought to spread risk throughout the financial system rather than concentrate it in one place, thus making individual banks safer prospects.  However, the first difficulty with CDS is that they are designed to produce an economic impossibility, i.e., to make lending risk free. But the profit derived from an investment is unfortunately directly related to the risk involved.  The second difficulty is precisely that CDS spread risk throughout the system in undetectable and unmanageable ways; this risk is multiplied by the practice of securitization, in which bundles of debt are sold to off-shore shell companies, which take on the bank’s risk, break it up, re-engineer it, and sell it again to investors, with each re-sale deliberately designed to disguise the debt’s riskier aspects.  The shell company enables the bank to remove the loan from its balance sheet and thereby appear to decrease its asset to equity ratio, making the bank look less leveraged and more credit worthy, and allowing it to lend further money (that again will be risk-free through further CDS).  As Derrida says in Given Time, “the counterfeiter will have figured out how to indebt himself infinitely, and will have given himself the chance of escaping in this way from the mastery of reappropriation.  He will have figured out how to break indefinitely the circle or the symmetry” (150). In other words, the producer of counterfeit money can never lose; counterfeit money is risk free money.  The practice of repeatedly packing and securitizing debt makes it practically impossible to keep track of the quality of that debt.  AIG collapsed and was bailed out by the US Treasury at the cost of $173 billion because it underwrote the insurance for the majority of the world trade in CDS.  If AIG had not been bailed out by the Federal Reserve, a long and distinguished list of companies faced astronomical loses, including Goldman Sachs, Merrill Lynch, Deutsche Bank, Barclays, BNP Paribas, and Société Générale.  The market capitalization of AIG was only $2 billion dollars, meaning that it cost eighty-five times its value to bail out (Lancaster 62). When governments (or Central Banks) bail out commercial banks, they do so not by transferring capital from their own reserves, but by selling their own debt, or, more strictly speaking, by selling their own capacity to repay debt in the form of bonds.  The more secure the nation and the higher its credit rating, the lower the interest paid on bonds and the safer the investment for bond buyers.  The more stretched the nation-state, the more it will cost in interest payments to attract bond investors.  When the bond market stops believing in a nation’s capacity to repay the debt, that country quickly runs into trouble. Unable to borrow money in the form of bond issues, it is forced to seek its own bailout to meet its obligations, notably its guarantee to underwrite the debts of its own banks.  As a condition of the bailout, international lenders—such as the International Monetary Fund and the European Central Bank—insist on the nation-state making itself more credit-worthy by spending less on public services in order to be better able to repay their international debt.  This is the situation experienced across Europe, where the citizens whose borrowed deposits in banks made the entire system possible now face austerity measures to prevent the collapse of the system.  They are paying the price of someone else having borrowed their money.

     

    Money Worries

    This is exactly what Derrida proposes in Given Time: that any economic exchange involves the production of a certain reciprocity of debt. This is especially the case with the gift.  Any gift, however freely given, indebts the recipient to the giver and so initiates further exchanges, whether of material goods or of more abstract considerations like gratitude and clienthood.  The giver is involved not in an excessive generosity without reserve but in a relation of sacrifice, in which there is always the return and the expectation of return of a certain credit to the giver.  The question of sacrifice in the gift is significant in his 1977-78 seminar; sacrifice later becomes the predicate through which Derrida begins his sustained deconstruction of sovereignty in his analysis of the death sentence and the animal.[3]  The business of sacrifice is always the business of the sovereign—the one who is allowed to put to death without legal consequence—whether the sovereign who commutes the death sentence, or the sovereign human subject who sacrifices animal life in order to sustain human development.  In thinking capital punishment and the continuum of planetary life, Derrida attempts to think an economy without sacrifice in which no other is subordinated to the utility of any other.[4]  The seminar on the gift is therefore an important nascent step in the development of Derrida’s thought on sovereignty.  Here he distinguishes the “pure gift (if there is any)” from sacrifice:
     

    The sacrifice proposes an offering but only in the form of a destruction against which it exchanges, hopes for, or counts on a benefit, namely, a surplus-value or at least an amortization, a protection, and a security. (Given 137)

     
    The purity of the gift itself is always a matter of compromise, but what interests me in the context of systemic debt is the idea that securitization disarticulates sacrifice; namely, it turns a sacrifice from a gift into an offering that expects a return.  In the case of CDS, we have a sacrifice (the lending of money) that is immunized against risk and already deconstructs its own sacrificial status.  In the case of student loans, for example, the ideological trick is to appear to be making a sacrifice, even offering a gift, by paying the loan up-front for the student, but already to have calculated the return in the form of future interest payments, the indebtedness of citizens, the capacity to sell further debt, and the credit for having reduced the sovereign deficit, even if in fact it is accelerating sovereign debt.

     

    Rather than the gift itself as the main focus of Given Time, I would like to turn to the Baudelaire text that informs the second half of Derrida’s seminar, to worry through certain philosophical problems. (I mean “worry” here in the philosophical sense that one worries a knotty topic rather than worry in the sense that one lies awake at night worrying about the mortgage.)  I want to consider the fictional nature of debt, given that, as Derrida says, “the symbolic opens and constitutes the order of exchange and of debt” (Given 13). Were it a product of the novelistic imagination, the banking business model described in the first half of this essay would surely be condemned as an improbable fiction.  The relation between accounting and recounting is one of the important subtexts of Derrida’s book, and I think there are two important strands to follow, given the debt crisis.  The first is the question of counterfeit money versus “real” money:
     

    We can no longer avoid the question of what money is: true money or counterfeit money, which can only be what it is, false or counterfeit, to the extent to which no one knows it is false, that is, to the extent to which it circulates, appears, functions as good and true money. (Given 59)

     

    Derrida here is thinking of Baudelaire’s La fausse monnaie, which tells the story of two friends who meet a beggar in the street, one of whom gives him a substantial gift only to reveal to his friend (the narrator) that it is a counterfeit coin.  The narrator wonders at his friend’s motives and imagines that he has offered the coin in order to create an event in the otherwise desperate life of the beggar, speculating about what may result in the circulation of and speculation on this counterfeit money to the benefit or possible detriment of the beggar.  The narrator is horrified to discover that in fact his friend is motivated to do the beggar good (and earn the moral credit of alms to the poor) by offering him a large donation, while resting secure in the knowledge that he has not given away any of his own real money. The question that imposes itself today, however, is whether a financial product derived from leveraged or packaged debt constitutes real money or counterfeit money, that is, the simulacrum of money.  When CDS are spread throughout the global financial system, how far can we say that this system is based on real money or not?  Might we say that the whole of banking depends upon the fictional structure of money, every bit as fictional as Baudelaire’s text?  The business of what is real and what is virtual in the financial system has surely brought us quite quickly to the border of the gift and the economy of sacrifice.  The future is a fiction invented by those who have lived in the past.  The circulation of student loans, for instance, is a perfect example of counterfeit money become true capital:
     

    Is not the truth of capital, then, inasmuch as it produces interest without labour, by working all by itself as we say, counterfeit money?  Is there a real difference here between real and counterfeit once there is capital?  And credit?  Everything depends on the act of faith… This text by Baudelaire deals, in effect, with the relations among fiction in general, literary fiction and capitalism, such as they might be photographed acting out a scene in the heart of the modern capital. (Given 124)

     

    The untested and risky assumption concerning the borrowing and repayment of tuition loans, say, is precisely the equivalent of the fausse-amie who throws a counterfeit coin in the beggar’s bowl: it will create an event but not for the reasons lenders think, justify to themselves, or hope for return on.

     

    The second and related strand is the question of the link between the modern phenomenon of literature, the financial system, and religion, namely, “credit” or, as crédit is usually translated from the French, “faith.”  An enormous and unspoken act of collective belief is required every morning in order for the stock market to open and for banks to continue trading.  Who, other than a true believer, could possibly tolerate the use of his bank account to fund CDS?
     

    Everything is [an] act of faith, phenomenon of credit or credence, of belief and conventional authority in this text which perhaps says something essential about what here links literature to belief, to credit and thus to capital, to economy and thus to politics.  Authority is constituted by accreditation, both in the sense of legitimation as effect of belief or credulity, and of bank credit, of capitalized interest. (Given 97)

     

    Derrida is writing here in 1977, four years after the establishment of the Chicago Board Options Exchange, which institutionalised the trade in futures and options, but four years before the introduction of swaps into the financial system and twelve years before the construction of the first credit default swap (engineered by J.P. Morgan to cover Exxon’s exposure following the environmental disaster of the Exxon Valdes in Alaska). Derrida, like Marx and Mauss before him, has nevertheless correctly and presciently located the fictional nature of credit.[5]  One accepts a fiction on trust, on the basis that it is nothing other than a fiction; we take the narrator’s word. Literary fiction contains a referential system that maintains the literary aporia throughout, accounting at the same time for the truth and the falsehood of the knowledge literature conveys about itself, distinguishing rigorously between metaphorical and referential language, and delineating a difference between speech acts in books and speech acts in the real world.  The referential system of money, in contrast, would seem to be much more shaky than literature because it both requires a greater trust and fails to properly delineate the difference between money and counterfeit money, the real and the virtual.  Derrida takes this question further in an aside to the final chapter of Given Time:
     

    Let us locate in passing here the space of a complex task: To study for example, in so-called modern literature, that is, contemporaneous with a capital—city, polis, metropolis—of a state and with a state of capital, the transformation of monetary forms (metallic, fiduciary—the bank note—or scriptural—the bank check), a certain rarification of payments in cash, the recourse to credit cards, the coded signature, and so forth, in short, a certain dematerialization of money, and therefore of all the scenes that depend upon it.  “Counterfeit Money” and Les Faux-monnayeurs belong to a specific period in the history of money. (Given 110)

     

    Derrida is referring to Gide’s novel but we should note in passing that in French les faux-monnayeurs comes to stand by metonymic substitution for all fakery and all counterfeiting in general.  This might well be an example of what Derrida would call a white mythology of credit, one of the coins erased in Nietzsche’s pocket whose fictional structure we no longer recognise.  The history of banking since Derrida’s seminar has been shaped not only by the accelerated dematerialisation of money from the virtuality of credit cards and checks into the imaginary structure of CDS, but also by the eclipse of the author, if I might play on Roland Barthes for a moment.  The entire difficulty of the financial crisis since 2008 has been based upon the inability to distinguish between good and bad debt due to the anonymity of debtors and to debts being packaged, securitised, and swapped.  It simply became impossible to decide whether one was dealing with a reliable narrator or not.  In fact the story of the narrator (i.e., the debtor) had ceased to be important, and what came to matter was the mediating extra-diegetic narrative of the financial institutions that sold on the debt and the credit rating agency that confirmed the provenance of the story.  Since both were interested parties, they were by definition unreliable narrators. There is no discrimination between the narratives of debtors, banks, central banks, public expenditure, and government. Everyone will be given the benefit of the doubt; the assumption behind student loans and sovereign bailouts is that everyone is a good debtor.  This is the story that the national governments are telling themselves and the international bond market, and much will depend upon this credulity.

     

    The question of debt is closely related to both literature and philosophy. Dickens’s Little Dorrit provides a good example of the way that debt is a considerable question for literature itself, of counting and recounting, of credit and faith, of debt and obligation, all of which would require a longer and closer reading than is possible here.  The narrative account draws upon the reserves of a debtor in the Marshalsea prison, William Dorrit, who is freed as a consequence of the intervention of Arthur Clennam.  Clennam is an ostensibly disinterested Dickensian hero who wishes to see justice done to the Dorrits without expectation of gratitude or return.  He pays the debts of Edward Dorrit, the wastrel son, and assists in the discovery of an unclaimed inheritance that enables William Dorrit to leave the Marshalsea. In turn, for this is a Dickens novel, Clennam is ruined by bad investments in a seemingly risk-free stock venture, and is imprisoned in the Marshalsea. Clennam’s mother reveals to Amy (Edward’s daughter) that she is heir to a great legacy, but Little Dorrit refuses her inheritance, and when Clennam’s business partner returns a rich man from an enterprise in Russia, he pays off Clennam’s debts.  Of course, Clennam’s previous motives do not constitute a pure gift, consciously or unconsciously: he acted out of his love for Amy and at the end of the novel they are married as debt-free equals.  Dickens’s narrative is provocative today because the narrator of the novel characterises Amy as the “child of the Marshalsea,” that is, the child born into debt and who only ever knows a life of debt, just as Barthes once characterised the subject as un bilan de faillite.[6] George Orwell criticised Dickens because he thought Dickens was unable to see a world beyond individual philanthropy, i.e., a society beyond the pure gift (“Can Socialists be Happy?”).  He was unable to see a welfare state that would take responsibility for Little Dorrit and educate her, perhaps even send her to a public university rather than leave her to achieve social mobility through, first, the inheritance of a gift and, secondly, through marriage.  Given Little Dorrit’s socio-economic origins, prior to 2012 she probably would have received state-funded bursaries to attend a London university. And although the Marshalsea was historically situated in Bermondsey, within a few miles of the Houses of Parliament and the site of the 2010 “tuition fees riots,” she probably would not have been charged with horses and beaten with batons in the pursuit of her future.

     

    A different fate, however, is indicated by Baudelaire’s “Beat Up the Poor!” (Assommons les pauvres!),” which Derrida describes as a “symmetrical counterpoint” to “La fausse monnaie,”[7]  Derrida spends much less time on this narrative but it is worth dwelling on today. Baudelaire’s narrator recounts: “For fifteen days I had shut myself up in my room and had surrounded myself with the most popular books of the day… that treat of the art of making people happy, wise, and rich in twenty-four hours” (101).  One can readily imagine the contemporary equivalents of these books on what is now fatuously described as “well-being.”  It is enough to make one sick: “I had digested—or rather swallowed—all the lubrications of all the purveyors of public happiness—of those who advise the poor to become slaves, and of those who encourage them to believe that they are all dethroned kings” (101). Neo-liberalism now would like the professional classes of tomorrow to be indebted to the state and then to measure their “well-being” as an indicator of national success:[8] “It will be readily understood that I was in a dazed state of mind bordering on idiocy” (101).  What intrigues me here is that the narrator, the being (re)counter (as opposed to a bean counter) has been brought to the state of ideologically induced stupidity through reading, and a marathon of reading at that: fifteen days locked in a room on his own, like an academic researching the condition of well-being.  He leaves his room “with a terrible thirst” because “the passion for bad literature engenders a proportionate need for fresh air and cooling drinks” (101).  Having consumed vast quantities of idiocy, he must now wash it away, exchanging a thirst for non-knowledge with a need for the disinfectant of alcohol and oxygen.  In other words, he enters into a credit default swap in which he hedges the time spent on bankrupt ideas against his faith in fresh air.  He has earned his drink after the sacrifice of solitary reading.  As he is about to enter a bar, he comes across a beggar.  Unlike the two friends in “La fausse monnaie,” he does not give the beggar alms but, encouraged by the voices in his head, decides instead that “a man is the equal of another only if he can prove it, and to be worthy of liberty a man must fight for it” (102).[9] Accordingly he beats up the beggar, “pounding his head against the wall… sure that in this deserted suburb no policeman would disturb me for some time” (102).  While “kettling” the beggar (to borrow a culinary metaphor from London’s Metropolitan Police Force), a philosophical miracle occurs: “O bliss of the philosopher when he sees the truth of his theory verified!” The beggar proves himself the equal of the narrator by retaliating: “[he] proceeded to give me two black eyes, to knock out four of my teeth and … to beat me to a pulp” (102).  The narrator describes himself as satisfied as “one of the Porch sophists,” and declaring the beggar his equal, shares out his purse, telling him that should another beggar ask him for alms, he ought to apply the narrator’s “theory” and teach the other the same painful lesson concerning equality (102-103).  The text ends with the beggar swearing that he understands the theory and vowing to follow this advice.

     

    By any reckoning this is a remarkable text; how shall we read it?  On the one hand, we might take it as a neo-liberal allegory of tough-love for the poor, who must not be satisfied by handouts but should learn to stand on their own two feet and take on board the lessons of a sacrificial economy in which equal status is attained through beating the other to a pulp.  On the other hand, and in contrast to “La fausse monnaie,” the moral of this story might be that awakening from the torpor of idiocy-inducing ideology, the narrator has the revelation that not only must he give to the beggar but also—as Derrida says in his brief reading of this text—he must give well (“il faut bien payer”) (Given 139). The narrator gives a gift to the poor that does not merely offer money in return for indebtedness or spiritual advancement but goes beyond the material benefit of the gift to give added value in the form of a theory of giving.  This would be the excessive violence of the pure gift or a gift without conditions that taught the poor a lesson.  In this sense it is the perfect allegory for school children, university applicants, and student protesters whose futures have been mortgaged before their education has even begun and who are for their troubles beaten up by the state that is offering the gift of a student loan.  Perhaps, rather than suffering like Dickens’s children of the Marshalsea, they will prove themselves equal to their creditors by being worthy enough of liberty to fight for it.

     

    Let me conclude by way of reference to the epigraph from The Post Card that has overseen this paper from the very beginning.  Here Derrida has in mind the Platonic tradition to which we are all indebted in every aspect of our daily lives.  I think the striking sentence in this paragraph is the first one: “They have signed our I.O.U. and we can no longer not acknowledge it.”  It is not that we have signed an IOU for the debt that we owe to Socrates and Plato but that they in advance of us have mortgaged our future, signed “our I.O.U.” for us before we have even begun to live and think in the world.  Derrida specifically names this structure as a fiction, “a story, the trap of who signs an I.O.U. for the other such that the other finds himself engaged before having known a thing about it.”  In this way we are all infinitely indebted to the philosophical tradition before we have even begun to read or started to take up our place of study.[10]  Derrida calls this a “children’s story” and a “love story.”  It is certainly the story of our children today, who have had their IOU signed in advance by a generation of politicians who have thrown them into debt before they have even begun to read.  As we saw above, inhabiting capitalism is never a question of “paying off the debt”; it is always a case of having had the IOU signed for us in advance of our entry into capital.  The task then is not to refuse debt but to affirm another register of debt, an infinite and un-payable debt: our debts to the western tradition, to philosophy, and to the university.  One cannot live without faith or debt.  Today we need to articulate a counter-faith: a belief in the public realm, publicly funded institutions, the idea of the university, and a belief in the necessity of critical thought.  This would be a catechism so simple that it would be worthy of the phrase “a child’s story.”  If the IOU is also a love story, it is a tale of how we do not fall in love but of how love instead falls upon us, smothering us with its dialectic of our infinite debt to the one we love in advance of any engagement with him, her, or it.  In this sense it is also the story of university managers and higher education policy leaders who are indebted to the very idea of the institution they serve prior to any understanding of what the institution might mean.  They have had their IOU signed for them in advance of their entrance into the Principal’s Office, and in this way their debts and duties are infinite.  These Chancellors, Vice-Chancellors and Presidents have a choice today, to accept the credit default swap that passes the debt of the university from state to student, or, to affirm the gift of higher education by refusing this sacrificial economy.  They may well predominately choose the former and so, like Baudelaire’s narrator, beat up the poor, but they will not do so from the same theoretical motivation.  Rather, they will be like the somnambulant friend in “La fausse monnaie,” thinking they are doing good by offering counterfeit money and seeking advancement while hedging themselves and their institutions against loss.  They, like Baudelaire’s false alms giver, deserve our contempt: “I will never forgive him the ineptitude of his calculation… The most irreparable of vices is to do evil out of stupidity” (qtd. in Given 164).

    Martin McQuillan For details such as these I am indebted to John Lancaster’s Whoops! Why everyone owes everyone and no one can pay.  The chapters of this book first appeared in The London Review of Books and should be read as an autobiographical novel, a form of testimony from one who lived through the crash.  Other helpful non-academic introductions include Philip Coggan, The Money Machine: How the City Works (London: Penguin, 2002), Charles R Morris, The Trillion Dollar Meltdown: Easy Money, High Rollers, and the Great Credit Crash (New York: Public Affairs Press, 2008), and Frank Partnoy, F.I.A.S.C.O.: Blood in the Water on Wall Street (London: Profile Business Press, 2009).

    [2] Derrida addresses this distinction in Aristotle’s Politics, 1257b and 1258a, suggesting that it can only ever be strategic and provisional and that it quickly dissolves in any reading of economy; see Given Time 157-9.

    [3] On the animal, see Derrida’s The Animal That Therefore I am.  On capital punishment see also The Death Penalty, Vol. 1, Derrida also discusses both at length in For What Tomorrow…: a dialogue.

    [4] In reading the gift through sacrifice, we should also attend to Derrida’s The Gift of Death.  Here Derrida famously asks why should he only feed his own cat when so many other cats across Paris are starving, leading him to suggest that “tout autre est tout autre” (translated by Wills as “every other (one) is every (bit) other”) in an attempt to understand the impossibility of a calculation as to who or what is to be sacrificed to the greater good.

    [5] See Marx, A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy.

    [6] Un bilan de faillite is a register or index of debts produced for the assessment of bankruptcy.  I am grateful to Celine Surprenant for this reference.

    [7]La fausse monnaie” is reproduced in dual language copy as an appendix to the English edition of Given Time.  “Beat Up the Poor” is available in Paris Spleen.

    [8] Along with Nicholas Sarkozy in France, David Cameron in the UK has proposed that policy decisions be informed by a “well-being” index that measures national happiness rather than by, say, the measurement of GDP.  Since, as Danton asks, “who is to be happy if not all?”, this seeming measure beyond market calculation is of course the most cynical of sacrificial economies.  I discuss the question of well-being in relation to Rousseau’s “On Public Happiness” in the introduction to The Paul de Man Notebooks.

    [9] At this point in the text, the narrator invokes the good demon who advised Socrates: “There is, however, this difference between Socrates’ Demon and mine, that his Demon appeared to him only to forbid, to warn or to prevent, whereas mine deigns to advise, suggest or persuade. Poor Socrates had only a censor; mine is a great affirmer, mine is a Demon of action, a Demon of combat” (102).  In this way we might add to Derrida’s list of debts to Plato and Socrates in the epigraph from The Post Card with which we began, “piss against a tree, beat up the poor…”

    [10] I am grateful to Simon Glendinning for directing me towards Derrida’s “Of the Humanities and the Philosophical Discipline” in which he discusses Kant’s “The Idea of Universal History from a Cosmopolitical Point of View.” Derrida closes the essay by citing a long passage from Kant, which he titles “Of Philosophy: debt and duty.”  I reproduce it here because it seems germane to all that has been said above:

    …This enlightenment, and with it a certain sympathetic interest which the enlightened man inevitably feels for anything good which he comprehends fully, must gradually spread upwards towards the thrones and even influence their principles of government. But while, for example, our world rulers have no money to spare for public educational institutions or indeed for anything which concerns the world’s best interests (das Weltbeste), because everything has already been calculated out in advance for the next war, they will nonetheless find that it is to their own advantage at least not to hinder their citizens’ private efforts in this direction, however weak and slow they may be. But in the end, war itself gradually becomes not only a highly artificial undertaking, extremely uncertain in its outcome for both parties, but also a very dubious risk to take, since its aftermath is felt by the state in the shape of a constantly increasing national debt (a modern invention) (Schuldenlast [einer neuen Erfindung]) whose repayment becomes unforeseeable (unabsehlich) [repayment is Tilgung, the annulation, the erasure of the debt, the destruction which Hegel distinguishes from the Aufhebung which erases while conserving]. (20-21)

    Derrida concludes, “With this citation I wanted to suggest that the right to philosophy may require from now on a distinction among several registers of debt, between a finite debt and an infinite debt, between debt and duty, between a certain erasure and a certain reaffirmation of debt — and sometimes a certain erasure in the name of reaffirmation.”

    Works Cited

    • Baudelaire, Charles. “Beat Up the Poor.” Paris Spleen. Trans. Louise Varèse. New York: Norton, 1970. 101-103. Print.
    • Derrida, Jacques. The Animal that Therefore I Am. Trans. David Willis. Fordham: Fordham UP, 2008. Print.
    • The Death Penalty, Volume 1. Trans Peggy Kamuf. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2013. Print.
    • —. The Gift of Death. Trans. David Willis. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1995. Print.
    • —. Given Time: 1. Counterfeit Money. Trans. Peggy Kamuf. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1994. Print.
    • —. “Of the Humanities and the Philosophical Discipline. The Right to Philosophy from the Cosmopolitical Point of View (the Example of an International Institution).” Trans. Thomas Dutoit. Surfaces IV (1994): 5-21. Web. 20 Aug. 2014.
    • —. The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond. 2nd Ed. Trans. Alan Bass. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1987. Print.
    • —. Spectres of Marx: the state of the debt, the work of mourning, and the new international. Trans. Peggy Kamuf. New York: Routledge, 1994. Print.
    • —. “White Mythology: Metaphor in the Text of Philosophy.” Margins of Philosophy. Trans. Alan Bass. Brighton: Harvester Wheatsheaf Press, 1982. 207-271. Print.
    • Derrida, Jacques and Elizabeth Roudinesco. For What Tomorrow…: a dialogue. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2004. Print.
    • Dickens, Charles. Little Dorrit. (1857). Ed. Stephen and Helen Wall. London: Penguin, 2003. Print.
    • Lancaster, John. Whoops! Why everyone owes everyone and no one can pay. London: Penguin, 2010. Print.
    • Marx, Karl. A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy. Ed. Maurice Dobb. New York: International Publishers, 1970. Print.
    • McQuillan, Martin, ed. Introduction. The Paul de Man Notebooks. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2014. Print.
    • Orwell, George. “Can Socialists be Happy?” (1943). Available as “Why Socialists Don’t Believe in Fun.” Observer 28 June 1998. Web.
  • The Debt of the Living

    Samuel Weber (bio)

    Northwestern University

    s-weber@northwestern.edu

     

    Abstract

    Listening to a tape recording of Paul de Man’s Cornell Messenger Lectures on a ride from Paris to Strasbourg, the author found himself unable to determine if de Man was saying “debt” or “death.” This confusion, and Walter Benjamin’s sketch, “Capitalism as Religion,” together provide the point of departure for rethinking recent economic developments in light of what might be called an “economic theology” that allows both debt and death to be seen as symptoms of a persistent cultural incapacity to acknowledge finitude.

    Although the background of our topic is to be found in the concrete and urgent economic, social and political crisis that Europe and the United States are undergoing, and although the immediate causes of this crisis are by no means shrouded in mystery, I will take a somewhat more philosophical approach to the question of debt, and to the question from which it cannot be separated—that of credit. A crisis as severe as this one, despite or because of the suffering it produces, should be the occasion for rethinking engrained attitudes, behaviors and practices, as well as the notions that inform them. Such a rethinking is one of few positive opportunities offered by the current crisis, even if the reflections it provokes remain unable to provide for its positive resolution. In any case, to the extent that this crisis involves systemic issues, any potential solution will require an understanding not just of immediate causes, but also of longer-range contributing factors. It is in this direction that the following remarks seek to move, albeit in a preliminary and tentative manner.
     
    Since I will be discussing texts and attitudes not usually associated with economics or politics, let me begin by stating my conviction that modern economic policies, attitudes and behaviors are decisively informed by factors that derive from the Judeo-Christian theological tradition—and that this holds true for an age that prides itself on being secular. I will argue that discussions of debt, and of the present crisis to which it contributes, can benefit from taking into account a dimension of the problem that is usually ignored or minimized, and that could be designated “economic theology”—a term meant to call attention to its relation to the notion of political theology, dating from the eighteenth century but today largely associated with the writings of Carl Schmitt. I do not present either of these perspectives as definitive or exhaustive, but I do want to suggest that they can provide insights into an economic and political situation that seems ever more irrational and dysfunctional—possibly even suicidal—with every passing day. It is a situation in which members of “democratic” societies—not just policy-makers and representatives but also substantial segments of those victimized by these designated “decision-makers”—continue to endorse the parties, policies and institutions directly and indirectly responsible for the deterioration of their living conditions. My hope is that by contributing to our understanding of how such behavior can persist in the face of what should be the dissuasive effect of the policies it endorses, an economic-theological analysis of political behavior and attitudes can perhaps prepare the way for modifying these dominant tendencies—although I harbor no illusions about the power of discursive analyses to translate directly into critical transformative action.
     
    Since what I am calling an economic-theological perspective is foreign to most approaches to the question of debt today, let me begin by briefly reviewing a text that convinced me of its relevance. In a fragmentary essay, written around 1921 and never published in his lifetime, Walter Benjamin argued that capitalism should be considered not just the product of Christianity, as Max Weber elaborated in his classic study, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (1905), but as its direct successor and heir. In other words, capitalism is to be considered not only as a socio-economic system but as a religion. The basis for this assertion is to be found in the fact that capitalism “serves essentially to allay the same cares, torments, and troubles previously addressed by the so-called religions” (Benjamin, Selected Writings 1: 288, trans. modified). I will not go into Benjamin’s significant qualification of such religions as “so-called”, since that would lead us too far afield from our present concerns. By “so-called religions” we can safely assume that Benjamin meant most established, institutionalized religions – in short religion as it has been known and practiced. With this caveat in mind, Benjamin goes on to argue that the essence of capitalism is that it is “a purely cultic religion”, i.e. in one that consists less in dogmatic tenets or beliefs than in ritual practices. What distinguishes this new religion from its predecessors, he continues, is that it is “probably the first instance of a cult that creates guilt, not atonement” (288)—indeed that produces, extends and universalizes (today we might say globalizes) guilt. The word that Benjamin uses in German to describe what he takes to be the essential effect of capitalism as a religion is Schuld—more exactly, verschuldend: culpabilizing. As is well known since Nietzsche wrote his Genealogy of Morals, Schuld can mean not just “guilt” in the moral, religious and legal sense, but also debt or obligation. If Nietzsche sought the origins of the moral-religious-legal sense of the word in what he took to be the inborn tendency of thinking to seek out or produce equivalences (e.g. GM 2.20); Benjamin in this fragment is content to emphasize “the demonic ambiguity of this word,” which he sees epitomized in the works of Freud, Marx and, above all, Nietzsche (SW 1: 289). This “demonic ambiguity”—bringing together a concept that is primarily economic, debt, with one used in religious, moral and legal discourses, guilt—is symptomatic of the relevance of economic theology. However contingent such a fact of linguistic usage may seem, the convergence of economic, moral, religious and legal significances in a single word, other examples of which can be found in many languages, demands our attention. Precisely because no one individual or institution decides about the meaning of words, such “spontaneous” verbal usage should be seen as reflecting experiences, conflicts and problems that official agencies have not successfully censored and are often even reluctant to acknowledge.
     
    The first question that Benjamin’s argument implies, but does not explicitly address, has to do with those “cares, torments and troubles” that capitalism qua (so-called) religion allays. On the basis of this 1921 text, as well as his study of The Origin of the German Tragic Drama, written only a few years later—I want to suggest that these cares, anxieties and troubles are the result not just of general aspects of human existence, but rather are historically and culturally specific. They have to do with a crisis in what can be called the Christian Salvational narrative, one which becomes particularly acute as a consequence of the Protestant Reformation and subsequent Wars of Religion. The Christian Good News, its message of possible grace that would overcome the finitude of what Benjamin calls die Lebenden or die Lebendigen—“the living”— becomes increasingly problematic in the aftermath of this internal crisis. The “cares, torments and troubles” mentioned at the outset of Benjamin’s fragment are thus historically marked by the crisis of a culture that sees itself faced with a religious problem for which it cannot find a religious solution (Origin 79).
     
    Like Max Weber before him, Benjamin distinguishes sharply between Luther’s extreme antinomianism, which questions the salvational potential of all human action—“good works”— and Calvin’s more moderate position, which allows worldly success to be interpreted as a sign of election. The Lutherian “storming of the work,” as Benjamin puts it in the 1924 version of the text, attacks the redemptive potential of good works—epitomized by, but not limited to, the sacraments administered by the Church (Gesammelte Schriften 1.1: 317). This critique of good works can also be seen as operative in the cult-religion of capitalism, since according to Benjamin the celebration of the cult no longer seeks atonement, but rather the globalization of guilt and debt. Indeed, the capitalist cult drives this tendency so that not even the Divine Creator is spared:
     

    A monstrous guilty conscience that does not know how to expiate, seizes upon the cult, not in order to atone for this guilt but to universalize it … and finally and above all to include God Himself in this guilt. (GS 6: 101, my trans.)

     

    It is of the essence of the religious movement that is capitalism that it endure to the end, to the final and complete culpabilization of God in a world of consummate despair, which is precisely hoped for. Therein resides what is historically unheard-of in Capitalism: that religion no longer seeks to reform being but rather to reduce it to ruins. (SW 1: 288-89, trans. modified)

     
    If you recall that the German word I have translated as “culpabilization”—Verschuldung—also means “being or becoming indebted,” you will begin to see that what today has become known as the “sovereign debt” crisis of nation-states, was already at the heart of Benjamin’s discussion, written in 1921, i.e. in the immediate aftermath of the reparations payments imposed on Germany and its allies by the victorious powers at the end of World War I. For Benjamin’s argument it is not insignificant that the justification of such reparations, which plunged Germany into debt for years to come, resided in the so-called “Kriegsschuld” (War-Guilt) theory, ensconced in Article 231 of the Versailles Peace Treaty theory, ascribing sole responsibility for the War and its destruction to Germany and its allies.
     
    Benjamin, to be sure, seems to want to see in the globalization of debt and guilt through capitalism a kind of nihilistic—or Apocalyptic—preface to what might be a radically new, perhaps revolutionary world. Although I will not dwell on this aspect of his text, I note in passing that it bears comparison with Derrida’s fascination in his later writings with the concept of “auto-immunity”—that is, the tendency of organizations to turn their protective mechanisms, initially directed against everything foreign, against themselves, potentially and paradoxically reopening access to hitherto excluded alien factors and thus introducing the possibility of a deconstructive self-transformation.
     
    By contrast, what is more directly relevant to Benjamin’s notion of “the demonic ambiguity” of the German word, Schuld— is an experience I had many years ago, while driving from Paris to Strasbourg on a near-deserted highway. The trip took about five hours and so to pass the time, I played several tapes I had been given of the “Messenger Lectures” held by Paul de Man at Cornell University in February-March of 1983. As I listened to one of those lectures, I was puzzled by a single word, which despite repeated attempts I found myself unable to decipher. I remained hung up then, as now, on another “demonic ambiguity” – this time not in a single word, but in the homophonic proximity of two ostensibly quite different words. I could not decide whether de Man, speaking almost perfect English but with a slight Flemish accent and intonation, was saying “debt” or “death.” I have never bothered to look up the printed versions of these lectures, since the confusion of these two words turned out to be the most important message I took away from de Man’s “Messenger Lectures.” And it remains a useful guideline for reading Benjamin as well. For the inseparability of the two words is already anticipated by “Capitalism as Religion.” If guilt and debt are inseparable in the German word, Schuld, then a possible cause of their convergence resounds in the near-homophony of “debt” and “death.”
     
    Let me try to indicate where I see this configuration at work in “Capitalism as Religion.” Benjamin describes capitalism as a cult-religion that strives to attain permanente Dauer, or “permanent duration” (259). This formulation already signals how the cult “allays the cares, torments and troubles” it addresses: it does so by demonstrating its own ability to survive. Although it is difficult not to associate Benjamin’s phrase with the Marxist notion of “permanent revolution” made famous by Trotsky, Benjamin’s term is closer to Marx’s original meaning, which designates the ability of the proletariat to maintain a revolutionary position for an extended period of class struggle. Benjamin simply inverts the terms: it is not the Proletariat whose struggle is ongoing, but rather the capitalist cult. Its “permanent duration” is also exhausting and self-consumptive: it seeks to establish an interminable holiday, one that Benjamin appears to describe, using a French phrase, as “sans rêve et sans merci [without dream or mercy]” (SW 1: 288) — but which more likely is a misprint for a quite different phrase, namely “without truce [trêve] or mercy.”[1] (Marx uses almost the same phrase in the French version of Capital to describe the way in which capital extends the workday “sans trêve ni merci” [Le Capital I.X]). But whereas Marx uses the phrase to designate the tendency of the system to extend the workday, Benjamin by contrast applies it to the “holiday” – Festtag – a day that is both holy, but also supposed to constitute a respite from work. There is thus the implication that the perennialization of the capitalist cult no longer relates to work, i.e. to productive activity, but to consumption. I will return to this shortly.
     
    At any rate, the phrase suggests that the practice of the capitalist cult is part of an ongoing battle, in which the worshippers exhaust themselves in the effort to survive. The impossibility of their achieving permanence, or unlimited duration, clashes with the impossibility of renouncing it. The result is a war without end, truce or mercy. One is reminded first of the current “war against terror”—by definition without end, since terror is a feeling that can never be eliminated, much less by force—and second, of the perpetual “sales” that in the United States, by contrast with Europe, have become quasi-permanent. Like the rituals that constitute the practice of a cult, each “sale” must be at once of limited duration, in order to promote a sense of the irrevocable passage of time, and at the same time endlessly repeatable. Through this convergence of temporal restriction and unlimited repetition, such a cult can create the impression of infinitizing finitude, and thereby contribute to allaying, temporarily, those “cares, torments and troubles” that arise when the path to grace (or survival) appears to be blocked. The American institution of endless “sales” gives new meaning to the notion of salvation: one “saves” by spending, by acquiring commodities, increasingly on credit—with the result that the private indebtedness of American consumers is among the highest in the world. The master-word of American advertising, “save,” says it all: only by spending on credit—only by increasing one’s indebtedness—can one save, and thereby be saved.
     
    While this mixture of increased debt and promised redemption as a way of assuaging anxieties may be specific to the American cult of consumption, its roots go back a long way. And it is here that the perspective of economic theology proves particularly illuminating. This perspective suggests that certain recent discursive events should be taken more seriously, more symptomatically, than they have been. I am thinking of the famous or infamous statement of Lloyd Blankfein, CEO of Goldman Sachs, who, in response to criticism related to the 2008 banking crisis, in a much-quoted interview with the Times of London (Nov. 7, 2009) declared that he and other bankers were “doing God’s work”. Or when Eli Wiesel, at a roundtable held at NY’s exclusive 21 Club on February 27, 2009, explained the boundless confidence he and others placed in Bernie Madoff by recalling that, “We thought he was God.” I want to suggest that these statements are neither simply verbal exaggerations nor mere jokes, as Blankfein himself later claimed, but rather symptoms of the way a tradition, whose sense of self-identity and of value remains rooted in the founding myth of monotheism, continues to inform the ways in which many people have responded to financial and political threats. If Madoff could appear as God to his clients and victims—many of whom were raised in a culture that is proud of its messianic origins—and if Blankfein could claim that bankers are doing “God’s work,” it is because a certain faith in the inseparability of debt and deification still has the power of allaying the “cares, torments and troubles” that continue to haunt people today.
     
    One further point that Benjamin makes in “Capitalism as Religion” that seems relevant here is that the God who is drawn into the human network of guilt and debt is one that is unreif—“unripe” or “immature”and who therefore can be worshipped only while hidden: “Its God must be hidden from it and may be addressed only when his guilt is at its zenith. The cult is celebrated before an unripe deity; every idea, every conception of it offends against the secret of this immaturity” (SW 1: 289).
     
    It is as if the Creator himself has taken on the characteristic of a debt that has not yet arrived at “maturity.” In the age of speculative finance capitalism, profit appears to be created often through the maturing of interest-bearing debt, just as Bernie Madoff’s wealth, success and power were all based on his ability to manipulate and to conceal indebtedness—the so-called “Ponzi scheme” that some, including Paul Krugman, have suggested could be applied to many of today’s legal financial speculative activities. In this context it is illuminating to reread Blankfein’s remarks that led up to his comparison of the bankers’ mission with the “work of God.” Bankers, he argued, are vital to the life of society insofar as they “help companies to grow by helping them to raise capital. Companies that grow create wealth. This, in turn, allows people to have jobs that create more growth and more wealth. It’s a virtuous cycle” (Carney).
     
    In this supply-side economic perspective, Blankfein takes up an argument that Benjamin already noted in his description of capitalism as religion: if the cult produces debt and indebtedness, it is not just for its own sake but as a way of producing “interest.” Debt, in short, produces life. But only insofar as its debt is repaid – “redeemed” — with interest. “I know that my Redeemer liveth” here translates as: I know that I will be repaid with interest.” In both cases it is a question of a profitable “return”. What is truly productive, in Blankfein’s eyes, is the movement of capital, which today generally consists in a cycle not just of lending and reimbursement, but of indebtedness calculated to produce a productive return (and of which “hedge funds” are just one more prominent institutional example). By facilitating the circulation of capital, bankers and other financial speculators claim to contribute to the “virtuous cycle” of growth and more growth; the proliferation of wealth is the major expression of this virtuous cycle. In Capital, but even more in the Grundrisse, Marx exposes this view as ultimately theological: not labor, but the circulation of capital appears to produce and reproduce life. Capital, for Blankfein, enables companies “to grow,” which “in turn, allows people to have jobs that create more growth and more wealth.” In the German language today, the capitalist entrepreneur is almost universally designated as the “work-giver”: Arbeitgeber. He “gives” or creates work, albeit never gratis. In the same lexicon, the worker is called the Arbeitnehmer: literally the “taker of work.” The tradition that informs such discourse can be traced back to the first book of Genesis. Blankfein’s virtuous cycle of the production of wealth, labor and life itself through capital is modeled on the story of a creation that is not simply ex nihilo but rather eo ipso. It can be debated whether God created the universe out of nothing or whether something – the wind upon the waters, for instance, was already there, but the very notion of a creation of an articulated world presupposes a Creator who antedates the creation just as a subject antedates his deliberate action. The notion of creation, then, enthrones the idea of a self-identical being free of any constitutive or irreducible obligation or indebtedness. The Divine Being of the Creator thus serves as a model for property in its purest form. The being of a monotheistic Creator-God belongs to Him exclusively, since it depends on nothing outside of Himself. And if that God is considered to be a living being, the same must be said of his life: it has no antecedents, is sui generis.
     
    It is not surprising, then, that the story of Creation as told in Genesis is designed to demonstrate that this self-referential structure has to be seen as the ideal model for all living creatures even if for various reasons, they cannot “live up” to it. All created creatures thus remain informed by and indebted to—their origin.
     
    Let me highlight what I consider in this context to be the most relevant aspects of this story. On the third day of the Creation, God begins to create living beings, namely, “herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself” (King James Version, Gen. 1.11, emphasis added). This conveys an image of life that reflects the self-identical being of the Creator: life is described as self-reproducing (seed-bearing), requiring no external intervention, since it already contains the seeds of its future within itself. This conception of life as self-reproductive determines a second trait of the Creation. Every creature, vegetable, animal or human, is created “after his kind.”  This formula is repeated seven times during the Creation story (Gen. 1.1, 11, 12, 21, 24, 25). Creaturely life is thus designated as generic life, but not yet as gendered, since gender in Genesis is inseparable from division, alterity and ultimately singularity. Living creatures are created as what Feuerbach and, after him, Marx call Gattungswesen, or “species-being.” As such they can be considered exempt from the finitude of singular living beings (the possibility of species extinction has no place in this prelapsarian world, although it will return with a vengeance after the Fall).
     
    In short, the creation of the living qua “kind” suggests a conception of creaturely life that is not limited by death. This does not mean that the living are not indebted, for they are. They owe their lives to their Creator—just as the debtor will owe his debt to the creditor. But the only payback demanded at first is that they reproduce themselves: that their lives grow and multiply. So doing, they continue the process of creation, not ex nihilo, but ex vivo: life, conceived as independent of death, reproduces itself with interest, just as credit conceived to create debt reproduces itself in its reimbursement with interest. Life is represented as a self-identical process of spontaneous augmentation, deriving from the self-presence of the One Divine Creator. Throughout this process, Life remains what it was, namely self-identical, defined only by its own movement of self-expansion and never by its termination.
     
    With the Fall, everything changes. Everything—and nothing. One must begin by asking why there should be a Fall at all. Often interpreted as the first act of human freedom, this act does not take place in a vacuum. It is not recounted as purely spontaneous, but as the result of a dialogue with the serpent. When Eve is first approached by the serpent, she repeats the interdiction of God, not “to eat” or even “to touch” the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, “lest ye die.” The serpent responds by assuring Eve that “Ye shall not surely die: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil” (Gen. 3.4-5). The serpent tempts Eve with the possibility of becoming like the gods, to be accomplished by acquiring knowledge of good and evil. But why should knowledge of Good and Evil put the knower in a position akin to that of the gods? The question is especially intriguing, since in the Garden of Eden there was only good and only one God. To know good as something different from evil, then, is to know something that exceeds the boundaries of the prelapsarian state of Creation—it is to know something radically other—or to know nothing at all. Such knowledge is reserved for a being that transcends those boundaries—in short, for God as Creator. The fact that the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil is placed in the midst of the Garden of Eden can be interpreted as a sign of the internal limitation of the earth, even in its pristine state.
     
    The presence of that tree refers to something that is excluded from Eden, namely Evil. In a different way, the presence of the Tree of Life alongside it refers implicitly to what is also excluded from Eden, namely, death. Without being able to develop this further, let me recall that the Biblical narrative links the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil to the Tree of Life, and both to the gendering of Man. A gendered form of life is one  that does not reproduce itself spontaneously out of purely internal causes, as with the seeds of the plant. Moreover, the details of this gendering, far from confirming Man as an autonomous, homogeneous being, suggest his incompleteness, his “loneliness,” his need for others — and hence, a heterogeneity that from the start troubles the appearance of pure homogeneity implied by the idea of a self-identical, monotheistic Creation.  If Adam names “Man” as an ostensibly unified genre or species being, Eve appears as a response to and offspring of the inadequacy of a living being to live its life alone. Eve, in Hebrew Hawwâh, means “the living one” or “source of life”, is the living demonstration that to live and reproduce, a genre cannot remain identical to itself. Thus, the notion of a gendered “self” is revealed to be constitutive divided, dependent on its indebtedness to others, and therein irreducibly distinct from the notion of an identical and homogeneous Self as the source of all Being including that of living  beings.
     
    It is precisely this dimension of life—as a process of living that cannot divest itself of its singularity and hence of its concomitant dependence on others—that makes Eve the ideal interlocutor for the serpent. What the serpent’s temptation appeals to is not simply a general desire to know but a singular anxiety of not knowing, and hence of not surviving. It is this anxiety, barely visible but nevertheless legible in the Biblical narrative, that leads to the Fall. This legibility, I want to suggest, appears in the justification given by God for the punishment he is about to inflict on the transgressive couple:
     

    Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever: [I send] him forth from the Garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken. (Gen. 3.22-23, emphasis added)

     
    God demands his due, refusing to allow the debtor to forget his debt to his Creditor. For there to be debt and credit, there must be a difference—a difference dependent on property, understood as the ground of self-presence. The monotheistic God is exclusive, jealously and zealously denying any relation to or parity with other gods (the ban against idols). All the more, He must jealously enforce the difference between the One God, who lives forever, and human beings, who—although created in his image—do not. Humans must learn the meaning of this image: they must acknowledge that it separates as well as joins. Humans must accept themselves as mere image. To want to be like God, on the contrary, is to want to dissolve the image into that which it images, to collapse the discontinuum of creation into identity. This tendency is expressed in the desire to touch and ingest—the tree and the apple—rather than remain satisfied with merely seeing them. Hence, divided man, Adam and Eve, must both must be punished. For they seek to dissolve the invisibility that separates every image from what it represents, and instead to collapse the two into self-sameness.
     
    What is called the Fall is thus driven by the desire of the living to overcome their finitude through the acquisition of knowledge. This is confirmed by the final manner in which God completes the act of banishment: “And so he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubim, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life” (Gen. 3.24, emphasis added). “To keep the way of the tree of life” means above all to keep man away from that tree: to keep him at a distance from a life that seems to reproduce itself spontaneously. Having eaten from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, man is condemned to leave the Garden that such knowledge already transcends, since there is no Evil “in” the Garden of Eden, where everything is Good.
     
    Man is thus condemned to return to the earth as to his origin that has now demonstrates its alterity. For the earth is now not a garden that grows on its own, as it were, but a soil to be tilled and worked, a ground of toil, trouble and torment. He is thus condemned to a world of work, which has to acknowledge the alterity and opacity of its surroundings, and as such is radically different from the world of creation. It no longer involves the spontaneous production and reproduction of life, but rather the heterogeneous deferral of death: “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground” (Gen. 3.19). In the postlapsarian world, life emerges as a suspended death-sentence: as the effort to repay an unredeemable debt. Work, far from being the realization of the worker, signifies his consumption. If for Hegel, in his famous dialectic of master and servant, work involves a reactive acknowledgement of finitude that ultimately promises freedom, in the postlapsarian world of Genesis this promise is far more difficult to discern.
     
    What I want to suggest by rereading this religious myth of creation is: first, that it provides a paradigmatic form in which those “cares, torments and troubles” mentioned by Benjamin are both allayed and reproduced; and second, that this paradigm retains more influence today, in our “secular” society, than might at first be apparent. It does so by defining human (and natural) life as a debt that must be repaid, but that also must remain unredeemed. It is this conundrum that gives rise to the messianic hope of a Redeemer, who by paying back the debt with his own life will render life once again livable. “I know that my Redeemer liveth”—words made famous by Händel’s “Messiah” more than by the Old and New Testament from which they are taken (Job 19: 25-26; 1 Corin. 15: 20). With the advent of Christ, this “knowledge” takes on a new reality—and also a new urgency. “For,” in the words of Paul, “since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead” (1 Corin. 15: 21). This “resurrection of the dead” implies the redemption of that Schuld that designates both culpability and indebtedness; but even more, that confirms indebtedness as culpability.
     
    On the one hand, then, the Good News announced by Christianity to all of mankind enables it, in Benjamin’s words, to present itself as a possible solution to the “cares, torments and troubles”—the anxieties and terrors—that plague human existence. The fact that God appears on earth in the form of a singular human being is in this perspective indispensable, since it is at the level of the singular living being that those “cares, torments and troubles” must now be addressed. The appearance of this divine individual nourishes the hope that the debt can and will be repaid. But first, the guilt must be amortized, through sacrifice, which is partial payback and investment in the future. This process takes time. Meanwhile, it allows the profitable circulation of credit and debt to appear as the anticipation of a final redemption. The ultimate repayment of the debt of the living can only come with the apocalyptic end of the world, its “death” serving as punishment for its sins and as transcendence of a fallen Creation. For the Creation remains constitutively indebted to its Creator insofar as the latter’s mode of Being—pure self-identity and property—can never be attained by His creatures, while it nonetheless provides the ideal against which they are measured.
     
    The notions of “soul” and, in more secular terms, of “self” mark this impossible measure. Whether as soul or as self, the effort to name that in human being which corresponds to the mono-theological paradigm of self-identity founders on the irreducible difference between the heterogeneous singularity of living beings and the homogeneous model of identity to which they are required to measure up.
     
    This is why Benjamin’s version of the globalization of debt and guilt—Schuld—through the cultic religion of capitalism rings so true today. According to Benjamin’s remarks in “Capitalism as Religion,” capitalism retains the perspective of an apocalyptic end, providing the theological underpinning of what Naomi Klein has recently described as “Shock” Capitalism—which, while insisting on finitude, also seeks to control and exploit it. It seeks to impose itself as a kind of second nature that would transcend the finitude of natural beings through what appears to be an endless cycle of credit, debt, and repayment with interest—the secular correlative of an interminable spiritual process of guilt and redemption. What Benjamin, writing in the early 1920s, does not sufficiently emphasize is that this perpetual production of guilt and debt is not just endlessly destructive—reducing the world to ruins—but also enormously profitable. To be sure, the profit it produces—as the speculation of recent finance capital demonstrates anew every day—is entirely compatible with the large-scale destruction of the material, social and environmental bases of existence, whether of humans or of things. Profitable speculation can converge with physical destruction since its form of existence has become increasingly virtual: that is, “profit” is never identical with its actualization—no more than “value” in Marxian analysis is simply identical with empirically observable “price,” or “surplus value” with observable “profit.” The surplus is something that can be “realized” only by being put back into circulation, and this ultimately means back into the cycle of credit and debt: surplus-value cannot be “hoarded” as Marx’s reference to the Balzacian figure of the miser and usurer, Gobseck, emphasizes (Capital 1.24). The maximization of profit, which is never an absolute quantity insofar as it always entails a temporal relation, requires a continuous process of “investment” in which the cycle of credit and debt plays an essential role. The contemporary speculative practice of leveraged buyouts is just one of the most conspicuous mechanisms of this process: profitable for creditors and stockholders but often destructive of the enterprises thus bought out, including their employees.
     
    For all of the acuity of his insight into the religious dimension of capitalism, Benjamin’s nihilistic hope that the destruction of being through capitalist universalization of debt as guilt, could somehow make way for a world that would be entirely different appears today not just overly optimistic, but also as a part of the apocalyptic perspective that also informs the cultic practices of the capitalist religion. The notion of an apocalyptic transformation of the world reflects the gnostic dimension of this religious tradition, which, although forced underground by the dominant official dogma, remains all the more active ‘underground’. The redemption of the world, sinful, guilty and indebted, can in this perspective only arrive through its total destruction. The political shift from the Cold War, based on national and super-national conflicts, to a universal “war against terror” is just the most recent symptom of this tendency to globalize the destruction it then seeks to ascribe to “terrorists” as their exclusive and spontaneous product. It should not be forgotten that the War Against Terror was first introduced by George W. Bush in his 2002 State of the Union Address as a War against the Axis of Evil, and that Bush had to be reminded by Christian theologians that on this earth, at least, such a war was never entirely winnable (which may have been precisely its function). From this perspective it is only with the final judgment that all debts will be fully redeemed and all property fully restored. The monotheological tradition reinforces the belief in the priority of the Proper and of the Property-Owner with respect to the relational network both nonetheless require to exist. The belief in this priority dominates economic thinking and political policies today, perhaps even more than it did when Benjamin first identified capitalism as a religion, so-called—at a time when the Bolshevik Revolution still seemed to hold out the possibility of an alternative to the age-old priority of the proper and of private property. This tradition can still dominate today in part at least because it continues to inform notions of identity, personal and collective, even in a secular world where the “self” has largely replaced the “soul,” conserving its theological essence all the while: which is to say, conserving the notion of an autonomy that can stay the same over time and space. It is a Self that feels compelled to adhere to the words with which God responded to Moses when asked for his name: “I am who I am,” (English Standard Version Exod. 3:14); or, in earlier translations, “I will be who I will be” (Cronin). It is this that allows for the “manufacturing” of consent even against the interests of those who espouse it.
     
    Such inherited notions of identity, coupled with their reinforcement through audiovisual media, help create the conditions under which bankers such as Lloyd Blankfein can defend their activities as “God’s work,” as the creation of nothing less than the conditions of life itself. The role of creator today is assigned to the masters of debt and credit, who no longer appear to be nation-states but rather multinational private financial institutions. In recent testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee, US Attorney General Eric Holder admitted that, “some of these institutions [have] become so large that it does become difficult for us to prosecute them” (“Transcript”). The notion of “too big to fail” thus becomes too big to be called to account by the most powerful government in the world.
     
    Unfortunately, I have no consoling statement with which to conclude this analysis—and indeed, no conclusion at all, if not one of those “curious conclusions” advocated by Laurence Sterne in The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (1.20). Let me therefore draw at least one such conclusion from the previous remarks.
     
    If Capitalism is able to assuage, however provisionally, “cares, torments and troubles” even while producing or exacerbating them, the mechanism by which it accomplishes this is through channeling anxiety into aggression. Anxiety, Freud insisted in his later work, was inseparable from the I (Ego), that part of the psyche charged with integrating the divisive tendencies of It (Id) and superego (heir to traditional values and ideals). To understand the success of capitalist politics today in channeling anxieties into aggression—into a “war against terror” that is also ultimately a war against the other (the foreigner, stranger, alien)—one must better understand the genealogy of those ideals which inform the I in its integrative efforts. If anxiety, as Freud suggests, is the reaction of the I to a danger, the system whose operation is menaced by that danger is inseparable from the self-perception of the I. What I have been suggesting is that the self-perception of this I, far from being simply universal, is informed by a distinctively monotheological – and in particular, Judeo-Christian tradition, which, from the start—in its story of creation—places the I in a double-bind, which was perhaps best formulated by Henry James in his novella, “The Figure in the Carpet.” There the patriarchal hero and renowned author, Hugh Vereker, tells his young admirer and budding critic, “I do it in my way…Go you and don’t do it in yours” (234)—a variation on the response of God to Moses: “I am who I am,” and the attendant implication that Moses and his people should go become who they are not. Perhaps a more adequate formulation of the demand that this heritage conveys might be: “Be like me, be yourself!”
     
    This is also part of the message conveyed by the notion of a human being created “in the image” of a creator that can have no (graven) image because he is both singularly inimitable and universal. This universalizing of singularity creates the problem to which most “so-called religions,” including capitalism, have responded by upping the ante of sin, guilt, debt and redemption. The problem consists in the premise that any true identity, whether of God, the soul or the self, must be considered to be prior to all indebtedness to others—therefore implying that all debt can and must be quantified, even monetarized, and thus made redeemable. It is only when this widely held sense of Self as an autonomous, homogeneous property-owner, along with its correlative, a sense of life as spontaneous and self-contained, come to be sufficiently questioned so as to make room for the heterogeneity of life-in-the-singular, that anxiety may cease to be a cause for terror, and instead become a first step toward acknowledging that there are debts that cannot and should not be repaid. Only then will the sin of singularity be overcome.
     

    Samuel Weber is Avalon Professor of Humanities at Northwestern University, and the Director of their Paris Program in Critical Theory. His books include Theatricality as Medium (Fordham UP, 2004), Targets of Opportunity: On the Militarization of Thinking (Fordham UP, 2005), and Benjamin’s-abilities (Harvard UP, 2008).
     

    [1] See Kautzer’s translation note in “Capitalism as Religion” (262) and my discussion in Benjamin’s -abilities (255-257).
     

    Works Cited

    • Benjamin, Walter.  “Capitalism as Religion.” Trans. Rodney Livingstone. Selected Writings: 1913-1926. Vol. 1. Ed. Marcus Bullock and Michael W. Jennings. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1996: 288-91. Print.
    • —. “Capitalism as Religion.” Trans. Chad Kautzer. The Frankfurt School on Religion: Key Writings by the Major Thinkers. Ed. Eduardo Mendieta. New York: Routledge, 2005: 259-62. Print.
    • —. Gesammelte Schriften. Eds. Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1974. Print.
    • —. Origin of the German Tragic Drama. Trans. John Osborne. London: Verso, 1997. Print.
    • Carney, John. “Lloyd Blankfein Says He is Doing ‘God’s Work.’” Business Insider. 9 Nov. 2009. Web. 9 Aug. 2014.
    • Cronin, K.J. “The Name of God as Revealed in Exodus 3:14.” Exodus-314.com 2010. Web. 9 Aug. 2014.
    • James, Henry. “The Figure in the Carpet.” The Novels and Tales of Henry James Vol. 15. Scribner’s Sons, 1922: 217-78. Digital file.
    • King James Version. Bible Gateway. Web. 9 Aug. 2014.
    • English Standard Version. Bible Gateway. Web. 9 Aug. 2014.
    • Marx, Karl. Capital Vol.1. Trans. Samuel Moore and Edward Aveling, ed. Frederick Engels. 1887. Marx/Engels Internet Archive (marxists.org), 1999. Web. 9 Aug. 2014.
    • —. Le Capital Vol. 1. 1867. Marx/Engels Internet Archive (marxists.org), 1999. Web. 18 Aug. 2014.
    • Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm. Zur Genealogie der Moral. 1887. Reprint. Projekt Gutenberg-DE. Digital file.
    • Sterne, Laurence. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman. 1759. Reprint. Project Gutenberg, 2008. Digital file.
    • “Transcript: Attorney General Eric Holder on ‘Too Big to Jail.’” American Banker. 6 Mar. 2013. Web. 9 Aug. 2014.
    • Weber, Samuel. Benjamin’s -abilities. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 2008. Print.
  • What We Owe to Retroactivity: The Origin and Future of Debt

    Abstract

    This essay examines recent writings on debt, notably those by Maurizio Lazzarato and David Graeber. I ask whether Graeber’s Debt: the First 5000 Years is able to resist the insidious logic of a retroactive interpretation of debt that it seeks to overturn. Meanwhile, Lazzarato’s notion of a catastrophic future-without-future of unending debt relies on an understanding of the ever-intensifying asymmetry of power. While this suggestion may derive from a strand of Nietzschean thought, the further implication of a debt so all-pervasive that it leaves no creditor intact opens up the possibility of rigorous thinking about the divisible limits of sovereignty and sovereign debt (an opportunity Lazzarato does not pursue). One can also excavate from Nietzsche the idea that the retroactivity so pivotal to the very possibility of debt is based on a false continuity between past and present, ‘origin’ and ‘aim’, which implies in turn that debt itself aggresses against temporal continuity in general. As such, debt’s ostensible sponsorship of neoliberalism’s violence against all future time itself becomes questionable and resistible.

     

    Graeber’s First 5,000 Years of Debt

    In his much-acclaimed book Debt: the First 5,000 Years, published three years into the recent global economic crisis, David Graeber identifies two “origin stories” that largely dominate commonplace understandings concerning the invention of money and the onset of debt. The first is the myth of barter. According to an idealized view of archaic human communities, before money systems developed, barter predominated as the exchange-form characteristic of basic social relations. People simply swapped goods and services to the benefit of their own interests and, by extension, to the benefit of the community as a whole. However, the barter system had its limits. From the outset, it depended on a double coincidence of wants: I have what you want and vice versa. As societies became more complex, barter required increasingly sophisticated and often cumbersome multilateral transactions and valuations to ensure the desired distribution of a larger number of goods. Thus, the story goes, some consensual medium of exchange was required to simplify the process—hence the birth of money. Graeber shows how this “origin story” of barter is founded on hypothetical language (“suppose you want eggs for your breakfast, and have only bread…”), and argues that ethnographers have yet to find any example, past or present, of a barter economy pure and simple. Rather, he points to the credit-based nature of most basic human economies as the more accurate and prevalent historical context for the development of money systems, anthropologically speaking. Here, barter is merely an epiphenomenon in the story of money—a by-product of money systems, employed by people who for some reason or other cannot use currency and are unprepared to operate within the trust-based world of credit (for instance, whilst trading with strangers or enemies during times of conflict).
     
    Why then is the “origin story” of barter so widely accepted and so little questioned? How did it acquire currency? Graeber suggests that the myth was crucially important to the founding of economics as a discipline, and indeed to “the very idea that there was something called the ‘economy,’ which operated by its own rules, separate from moral or political life, that economists could take as their field of study” (27). From this perspective, money-based economies arose from the more basic situation of barter, which rested in turn upon the idea of the “objective” calculability of the value of goods—and thus the rational basis of the marketplace—outside of and prior to cultural influences or political pressures. Thus, the three (abstract) functions of money identified by classical economics—store of value, unit of account, and medium of exchange—simply built on the two most salient features of barter by adding a third element designed to enhance rather than detract from its essential workings. Graeber tells us that Adam Smith, who “effectively brought the discipline of economics into being,” had particular reasons for upholding the interpretation of money which arises from this “origin story”:
     

    Above all, he objected to the notion that money was the creation of government. In this, Smith was the intellectual heir of the Liberal tradition of philosophers like John Locke, who had argued that government begins in the need to protect private property and operated best when it tried to limit itself to that function. Smith expanded on the argument, insisting that property, money and markets not only existed before political institutions but were the very foundation of human society. It followed that insofar as government should play any role in monetary affairs, it should limit itself to guaranteeing the soundness of the currency. (24)

     
    The story of barter makes possible this elemental image of a world where things are primarily the possessions of individuals, where each “thing” as a form of property may be assigned an innate and rationally transactable value, and where money is less an agent than a neutral medium of exchange, made up of merely abstract units of measurement and designed to serve the entirely felicitous interests of the marketplace. On this view, far from being an expression or function of power, the advent of money is a pure effect of the market in its “free” form, from which it follows that state interference in the economy, if any, should restrict itself to upholding the currency’s essential integrity as an apt medium of exchange. (The paradox, of course, is that within this laissez-faire model, in which the government is merely an honest broker, such threats to the “soundness” of money could only come from unregulated or rogue behavior of just the kind that the free market is supposed to encourage.) For Graeber, then, the attempt to found economics as a scientific discipline on a par with Newtonian physics was not simply a matter of attaining academic credibility; even more crucially, it encouraged an analogy with the physical machinery of a Newtonian universe able to function by its own laws without ongoing divine interference, and relied on the idea of a free market operating spontaneously and effectively (that is, naturally and in everyone’s best interests) outside of state intervention.[1] The difficulty of resisting Smith’s legacy, Graeber tells us, is that by very dint of its pretensions to scientificity, the founding myth of economics offers a single, unified view of the origins and development of money that is hard to dislodge with a more nuanced and differentiated picture drawn largely from anthropological inquiry, which outlines a whole variety of “economic” habits and practices that, historically, often include “mixed-mode” rather than discrete forms of exchange.  (For Graeber, such anthropological attention-to-detail is the best defense against retroactive historical interpretation.)
     
    The second story of origins singled out by Graeber in his re-telling of the history of debt is expounded by proponents of the theory of primordial debt. This comes close to the Nietzschean idea found in the second essay of the Genealogy of Morals (to which we will return), whereby the ongoing prosperity of the community promotes an increasing sense of indebtedness to one’s forebears that intensifies over time, until at last one’s ancestors are elevated to the status of gods. Here, forms of sacrifice within human communities are interpreted in terms of the repayment of debts. Nevertheless, such “gifts,” construed as a kind of payment, paradoxically lead to a heightened rather than reduced sense of debt, becoming ever more lavish in order to acknowledge (and thus reinforce) the very extent of the obligation. Primordial-debt theory suggests that, as history moved forward, governments were able to tax populations because they were able to appropriate the role of guardianship of universal debt. Once more, however, Graeber argues that there is insufficient anthropological evidence to support primordial-debt theory, and that it is itself a backward projection based on a notion of debt that is “only made possible with the advent of the modern nation-state,” the modern conception of society and of societal “duty,” and so on (69).[2] Thus, turning to the Genealogy of Morals, Graeber reads Nietzsche as dabbling in primordial-debt theory not so much to embark upon an historical exposé of the origins of debt, but rather to see what happens when one starts out from “ordinary bourgeois assumptions”—namely, that the basis of human existence is “economic,” and that “man” on earth is indebted man—in order to drive them “to a place where they can only shock a bourgeois audience.” “It’s a worthy game,” says Graeber, but one “played entirely within the confines of bourgeois thought” (79). Whether Graeber’s reading does justice to Nietzsche’s capacity to open history otherwise, his overall argument is that our conception of the origins of debt and money functions retroactively. That is to say, the “origin” is generated retrospectively in order to address or promote the concerns of the present, rather than to uncover and understand the “truth” of the past. In fact, Graeber suggests that these two myths of origin intersect more closely than one might imagine; it is only “once we can imagine human life as a series of commercial transactions that we’re capable of seeing our relation to the universe in terms of debt” (75); certainly in terms of “bourgeois thought,” historically one would have little trouble connecting beliefs about the “economic” basis of life, on the one hand, and the religious sense of “debt” on the other.
     
    To what degree is Debt: the First 5,000 Years able to resist the retroactive interpretation of debt that it is devoted to overturning? Throughout the book, Graeber wishes to counteract its insidious logic; by turning “human sociality itself” into quantifiable obligations that demand repayment, debt inevitably recasts all human relations in terms of fault, sin, and crime, redeemable “only by some great cosmic transaction that will annihilate everything” (387). He endeavors to resist this logic by drawing a distinction between what he terms “commercial” and “human” economies. In human economies, which appear in a variety of historical settings, money acts “primarily as a social currency, to create, maintain or sever relations between people rather than to purchase things” (158). Interestingly, such economies are often founded on historic systems of credit rather than barter, because the former implies “trust-based interactions” and some degree of communal solidarity and mutual aid. In human economies, however, what we owe is not reduced to a quantifiable debt requiring an exact remittance. Instead, in such communities, sociality itself is precisely the incalculable sum of debts which members share, debts to one another that they could not, nor would not wish to, fully repay. Here debt is neither sinful nor criminal, but is instead an apt expression of the bonds of human sociality. Commercial economies, meanwhile, are based on the brutality of the market, the construal of goods as property, the idea of the individual (or, put differently, the severing of people from the context of their human economies), and the abstract logic of equivalence in which even human beings become objects of exchange. As Graeber observes, in commercial economies, the reduction of human life to its market value becomes inevitable as soon as we accept that the exchange value of the object as a commodity is not inherent but merely an expression of its possible functions within the nexus of (property-based) human relations, which are really what is being bought and sold. By dint of a somewhat circular or self-reinforcing logic, then, the economic marketization of human relations breeds an impersonality which fuels “war, conquest and slavery,” and these in turn play “a central role in converting human economies into market ones” (385). Commercial economies, whether in the Axial Age of Greece, India, and China or in the Age of Great Capitalist Empires (to use Graeber’s own headings), are thus characterized by “impersonal markets, born of war, in which it was possible to treat even neighbors as if they were strangers,” thereby allowing “human life to seem like it could be reduced to a matter of means-to-end calculation” (238). Here, the criminalization of unrepaid debt amounts to nothing less than “the criminalization of the very basis of society” as exemplified by human economies (334).
     
    But how exactly does “human” economy give way to the market, if not by a circular process through which the violence inherent theoretically in the logic of the market creates its own historical conditions of possibility? Looking back over his enormous survey, Graeber describes “how all this can begin to break down: how humans can become objects of exchange: first, perhaps, women given in marriage; ultimately, slaves captured in war” (208). Surely, though, the matrimonial exchange of women is a near-universal characteristic of human societies, whether “commercial” or “human”? (Graeber’s own anthropological range offers little against this truism.) And if this is so, it points to something more fundamental about so-called human communities: that they contain in themselves the basis for more or less violent forms of exchange. Such dealings are here restricted to the “origin story” of the trading of women, but surely such exchange depends on the prior existence of some broader sense of market “value,” which Graeber says arises principally with the collapse of human economies and the onset of commercial ones. Graeber’s transition from the trafficking or dealing of “women” to the creation of “slaves” implies an intensifying or worsening onset of market conditions that would only be convincing as an historical narrative if the exchange of women in matrimony were not already fundamentally a type of “slavery.” (What makes this moment all the more odd, and indeed telling, is that throughout his survey Graeber is extremely sensitive to the historic plight of women.) And this fundamental truth disturbs and disrupts the narrative of historical transition from “human” to “market” economy that Graeber wants to offer in place of the “origin stories” of barter or primordial debt.
     

    The fundamental issue here is that two competing conceptions of money vie for primacy throughout Graeber’s book. On the one hand, and more theoretically, money is construed as the product of an abstract conception of equivalence introduced into notions of obligation and worth. This is the source of its violence—a violence born of deep impersonality. On the other hand, and more historically, it is viewed (contra Adam Smith) as a far from neutral medium of exchange produced by market conditions outside of state interference. Instead, in example after example, money is portrayed as nothing less than an instrument of power. (In particular, Graeber shows how the politics of taxation serve in modern times to indebt populations to their governments, destroying locally-based credit-systems and at the same time funding the war machines of the powerful: what he terms a “military-coinage-slavery complex.”) This is where its violence—a motivated violence —comes from. In the one account, then, the violence that accompanies money systems occurs as the expression of particular interests; in the other, the violence that money unleashes happens precisely because it is, to the contrary, unmotivated as such.
     
    While there are moments in the book where Graeber attempts to resolve these difficulties, there are also instances that suggest the problem persists. For instance, in order to clarify his thesis, Graeber writes:
     

    The story of the origins of capitalism, then, is not the story of the gradual destruction of traditional communities by the impersonal power of the market. It is, rather, the story of how an economy of credit was converted into an economy of interest; of the gradual transformation of moral networks by the intrusion of the impersonal—and often vindictive—power of the state. (332)

     
    This “gradual destruction” transforms the “very essence of sociality” into the grounds for “a war of all against all” (335). Here, Graeber underscores his point that “human economies” do, precisely, operate in terms of economic rather than non-economic practices. As he repeatedly asserts, credit operates as the very basis of their social systems. Thus, he is able to suggest that the “commercial” economics of interest and of the market arise on the strength of a certain mutation or perversion of that which grounds human “society” or community in the first place. From this, it seems possible to align the fundamental logic that gives rise to money with the historical emergence of modern forms of power. Nevertheless, just a few pages later, Graeber proposes the following thesis concerning the specificity of capitalism itself:
     

    This would seem to mark the difference. In the Axial Age, money was a tool of empire…. [M]oney always remained a political instrument. This is why when empires collapsed and armies were demobilized, the whole apparatus could simply melt away. Under the newly emerging capitalist order, the logic of money was granted autonomy; political and military power were then gradually reorganized around it. True, this was a financial logic that could never have existed without states and armies behind it in the first place. (320-21)

     
    Something about this assertion seems counter-intuitive. We might expect to be told  that forms and practices of power shaped themselves around money from the very beginning, because there is something originary or fundamental about the “internal” or intrinsic logic of money. (Even if money as defined by the structural element of abstract equivalence developed subsequently to systems of credit, the latter contained the germ of what money is, namely an I.O.U.) But Graeber tells the story the other way around. Where money was in its more rudimentary form a sheer political instrument, only with the onset of capitalism “proper” does money’s own logic come to the fore, remaking the political world around it in its own image. No doubt Graeber has good anthropological reasons to make this case.  But the contention also smacks of the desire to resist what he sees as the foundational idea of disciplinary economics: the creation of a spontaneous free market prior to political or state intervention. For Graeber, it is almost as if power comes first, and money second as an epiphenomenon of power: “True, this was a financial logic that could never have existed without states and armies behind it in the first place.” But such a suggestion threatens to undermine what would otherwise seem the highly plausible headline claim of the book: namely, that credit—as the very basis of human sociality—holds the key to explaining how modern forms of politics and power arise (albeit by means of terrible mutation). One cannot help but wonder whether Graeber’s double and divided narrative of historical origins and development is just as retroactive as the “origin stories” he wishes to oppose; its tensions and contradictions reveal  unresolved theoretical questions in his own thesis, even as he invokes historical or anthropological complexities in order to wriggle free from the supposed demands of the reductively “simple” or “single” story  told by disciplinary economics.

     

     

    Lazzarato’s Indebted Man

    How can we account for this seemingly intractable retroactive impulse where the question of debt is concerned? And what are the risks of thinking, too hastily, that this impulse can be overcome? Let’s turn to another of the many recent writings on the debt crisis currently receiving a great deal of interest: Maurizio Lazzarato’s The Making of the Indebted Man: An Essay on the Neoliberal Condition.[3] Lazzarato shows how, since the energy crisis of the late 1970s, the financial transformation of national expenditure on welfare has resulted in continually rising deficits. For Lazzarato, far from an unwanted or unforeseen consequence of neoliberal policies, such indebtedness has been their ultimate aim. The intensifying privatization of national debt—linked to the ever-increasing dependency of governments on market finance and securitized credit (debt repackaged and resold in terms of tradable securities)—leads not so much to managed or manageable obligations as to a state of permanent and worsening indebtedness.  From Lazzarato’s point of view, debt is the very engine of the politics of neoliberalism. Far from having a simple economic rationale, neoliberalism is fundamentally about power: specifically, the radical polarization of creditors and debtors on a vast scale, such that the principle of asymmetry rather than the economic idea of exchange or equivalence dominates neoliberal social and political relations. Today, “debt is a universal power relation, since everyone is included within it,” even—and perhaps especially—those around the world who are too poor to afford credit or receive welfare (32).
     
    The granting of so-called independence to central banks, which in effect guarantees an ever-deepening recourse to private creditors, means it is now virtually impossible to address public debt through monetary mechanisms. This in turn strengthens the reliance of the state upon the market, to the extent that we have consistently seen governments not only opening themselves to financial institutions, but playing a key role in “establishing the organizations and structures needed for them to thrive” (26). They do so both by ensuring financial deregulation in general, and by contributing in particular to developing the range and volume of public-sector securities made attractive to private investors. Against this background, recent austerity measures are in fact double-edged: on the one hand, they seem to be about restricting welfare expenditure in the interests of debt-reduction on the part of the state; on the other, by extending the privatization of welfare services as an ostensible cost-cutting exercise, they position welfare provision as part of the very same “sell-off” that produced the situation that austerity measures are supposed to address and resolve.  Thus the austerity politics associated with the sovereign debt crisis are not so much a defiant response to the global debt economy, but are themselves a feature of it. Equally, to the extent that bail-outs underwritten by the resources of nation-states draw on funds that circulate or arise in precisely the same financialized structure based on securitized, tradable debt, they do not signify a reassertion of state power over transnational capital, but rather indicate a further technique for syphoning off public money to support a largely privatized system of interests. At such a point, where all money is nothing but debt, monetary sovereignty means very little, and has in any case been greatly eroded over the past few decades by the newly forged neoliberal alliance between the state and private interests, and by the policies this demands.[4]
     
    Recalling Nietzsche’s reminder of the etymological interplay of debts (Schulden) and guilt (Schuld), Lazzarato argues that the subsequent moralization of debt further allows guilt to be more or less violently attributed to the debtor rather than the creditor, whether the unemployed, students, the Greeks, or whomever. Drawing on the work of Deleuze and Guattari, Lazzarato insists that the current debt economy necessitates a theory of money as, first of all, debt-money. According to such a view, money itself arises neither on the strength of the exchange relations required by the circulation of the commodity, nor as an expression of the surplus value extracted from labor. Instead, money is to be understood first of all as a sign of the radical asymmetry of power. (As noted, a similar position is present in Graeber’s work, but remains equivocal.) Lazzarato writes:
     

    Money is first of all debt-money, created ex nihilo, which has no material equivalent other than its power to destroy/create social relations and, in particular, modes of subjectivation. (35)

     
    A key feature of the asymmetrical force from which debt-money derives is “a power to prescribe and impose modes of future exploitation, domination, and subjection” (34–35). In other words, debt-money determines, delimits, commands and controls the future as much as the present. This allows control not only of the debtor’s present, but of all their time to come, establishing an “economy of time” in which the future is reduced to the expression and experience of “a society without time, without possibility” (47).
     
    As the radical asymmetry of power finds its echo and confirmation in infinite and irredeemable debt—one that simultaneously must and cannot be repaid—“indebted man” comes to the fore as both a universal and individual figure. Once again, the relation of religion (specifically, Christianity) to the capitalist debt economy is carefully traced; following Nietzsche, Lazzarato suggests that such a “man” is the one who first of all must promise or vouch for himself in the future—although he restricts the meaning of such promising (which he acknowledges is the “promise of future value”) to an avowed obligation to repay. In other words, the man who “is able to stand guarantor for himself” is simply the one who is “capable of honoring his debt” (39–40). This formulation reduces the rather more complicated story Nietzsche tells about the rise of the “sovereign individual” in the complex interstices of reactive slavish morality and active life. Be that as it may, Lazzarato draws upon Nietzschean thought (specifically, the second essay of the Genealogy of Morals, which Graeber dismisses as merely a period-bound spoof) principally to aid his argument that “[m]odern-day capitalism seems to have discovered on its own the technique described by Nietzsche of constructing a person capable of promising” (42) and thus of owing. For Lazzarato, because such debt should be understood at its source as fundamentally non-economic—that is, based on the irreducible asymmetry of power rather than the transactional equivalences of exchange—promising entails a liability that no future could ever redeem, but which will if anything only intensify in times to come. Put differently, as Lazzarato writes a little later on (according to an argument which is forcefully repeated on several occasions):
     

    Finance is a formidable instrument for controlling the temporality of action, neutralizing possibilities, the “moving present,” “quivering uncertainty” and “the line where past and future meet.” It locks up possibilities within an established framework while at the same time projecting them into the future. For finance, then, the future is a mere forecast of current domination and exploitation. (71)

     
    I want to suggest that Lazzarato’s argument—stridently reasserted as it is—is somewhat complicit with the “force” or “power” it seeks to critique, in that it leaves untouched two questions with which Nietzsche’s own text struggles (questions that, in his rush to identify the text as merely of its time, Graeber sorely neglects): first, the theoretical question of origins, poorly served and tellingly neglected when Lazzarato intimates the more or less accidental discovery by “modern-day capitalism” of the “technique” of debt; and, second and relatedly, the question of the conditions of the future, which is constructed throughout The Making of the Indebted Man merely as the self-identical possibility of mastery projecting itself along an infinite horizon, without difference or remainder. This is a future altogether divested of temporal flux or uncertainty. For Lazzarato, this is the true aim of neoliberalism, but I want to suggest that such a “truth” is far from incontestable.
     
    These questions are strongly interrelated, of course, not just in the obvious sense that both the past and the future imply temporality, or in the banal sense that all causal or teleological thought (including some varieties of Marxism) typically assumes one to depend upon the other. More specifically, they are interrelated because the text on which Lazzarato bases the conceptual elements of his argument—the second essay of the Genealogy—is itself shot through with the uncertain question of retroactivity. For Nietzsche, this concerns the error of mixing up and muddling the “origin” with the “aim” of something, when, as he puts it:
     

    there is a world of difference between the reason for something coming into existence in the first place and the ultimate use to which it is put … anything which exists, once it has somehow come into being, can be reinterpreted in the service of new intentions, repossessed, repeatedly modified to a new use by a power superior to it… all overpowering and mastering is a reinterpretation, a manipulation in the course of which the previous “meaning” and “aim” must necessarily be obscured or effaced. (58)

     
    As we will see, it can be argued that the question of retroactivity is absolutely inseparable from the problem of debt with which Nietzsche struggles. This reveals certain weaknesses or omissions in Lazzarato’s treatment of debt. In particular, his analysis only pays scant critical or philosophical attention to the question of the future and the past, the “aim” and the “origin,” instead viewing them largely as extended forms of the present (which may be more or less projected from the “now”); and he fails to think them according to the highly complicated and perhaps irresolvable structure of retroactivity that makes possible the very horizon or appearance of debt, as Nietzsche’s text implies.  If granting credit opens one up to future “uncertainty,” as he puts it, Lazzarato nevertheless insists rather emphatically that the “system of debt” must “neutralize time”: “that is the risk inherent to it” (45). Money as capital thus “pre-empts the future” (74), such that to talk of a present crisis is misleading because it suggests some hope of resolution or escape, whereas in all likelihood, he suggests, we are in the midst of an irreversible and permanent catastrophe (151). But if, as Nietzsche suggests (sometimes in spite of himself), debt exists for us or appears to us as part of time’s “uncertainty”—indeed, if it takes the very form of time’s uncertainty – one wonders how it could ever secure and extend itself unproblematically beyond time, simply appropriating or objectivizing time according to its own needs. How debt could survive without remainder is a problem that is arguably intrinsic to its make-up, and which in fact only redoubles throughout debt’s perhaps inescapably retroactive interpretation. From this perspective, it appears that the question of the future is pre-empted by Lazzarato himself as much as it is by “money as capital.”
     
    A further question concerns the relation of debt and sovereignty, particularly in regard to the proposition of a calculable future. Such a logic of calculability reduces the subject’s “contractual” relation to the state, and so is not simply of the order of the “economic,” but evinces a power in force. The pervasive figure of “indebted man” who foolishly tries to economize with a debt attests only to his subjection to that power. But even if we grant this logic a non- or aneconomic “origin,” one wonders if such calculation is truly becoming for the master. In Nietzschean terms, does the apprehensive need to control the future genuinely testify to the absolute self-will, the proud aggressivity and war-like venturing of the sovereign? Or does it tie him, instead, to the seemingly unbreakable structure of creditor and debtor? Put another way, on the basis of the intellectual grounds or resources of his own argument, we might ask whether Lazzarato’s God-like figure of the ultimate Creditor presiding over universal debt throughout the catastrophic time of a future-without-future is philosophically tenable.[5] There may instead be a divisible or non-self-identical core to the very structure and temporality of debt, one that could prove useful in thinking about its limits and the possibility of resistance (more so than Lazzarato’s rather poorly theorized allusions to capitalism’s contradictions or to a Nietzschean “second innocence.”)

     

     

    Nietzschean debts

    In the second essay of Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morals, the principle of ressentiment that characterizes the profound break with aristocratic values through the slave revolt in morality operates on the basis of retroactivity. As such, the values derived through ressentiment are retrospectively posited as original. For Nietzsche, of course, slavish nature opts for vengefulness towards noble and higher life to compensate for its own weakness and impotence. Whereas the noble spirit places plenitude and self-reliance at the heart of aristocratic values, slavishness can do no more than found its moral system on the resentful rejection of higher life, reducing its capacity for action to the purely reactive. The image of the powerful man as the origin of evil justifies the wholly reactive moral schema of slavish life. For instance, through its account of ressentiment, the Genealogy questions the historical origins of justice as grounded in a sanctified notion of revenge, as if justice were simply a mechanism for righting wrongs or an apt expression of reactive feeling. For Nietzsche, justice develops not from the vengefulness that always supplements a concern for fairness or rights, but from what is most active in the noble spirit: “the really active feelings, such as the desire to dominate, to possess, and the like” (55). Justice, then, originates in nothing more than “the good will that prevails among those of roughly equal power to come to terms with each other”—that is, their “really active feelings”—through forms of economic and military settlement, bringing war to an end in circumstances of evenly matched force or capacity (and in the process, imposing their settlement on all those less powerful). In fact, Nietzsche suggests that “the active and aggressive forces” compel a settlement in this manner—that is, as an instance of good will among the powerful, rather than an abstractly conceived leveling in the interests of fairness or right—“in part to contain and moderate the extravagance of reactive pathos,” and to stop the spread of its “senseless raging.” Indeed, law itself is established to oppose the resentful interpretation of justice, which seeks redress for an injured party (an interpretation derived retroactively on behalf of injured parties). However, from this point of view, the justice meted out by law is neither a matter of intrinsic right, nor a case of “right and wrong as such.” Instead, “legal conditions” put into historic operation “exceptional states of emergency, partial restrictions which the will to life in its quest for power provisionally imposes on itself in order to serve its overall goal: the creation of larger units of power” fundamentally unchecked by reactive feeling (56–57).
     
    This line of argument chimes well with Lazzarato’s in its emphasis on the constitutive character of power, but it is nevertheless important to recognize at its center a clear connection between reactive morality (debt) and retroactivity. Reactive life is served by the retroactive explanation of origins, in a way not dissimilar to the retroactivity of the traumatic origin with which Freud struggles in “The Wolf-Man” (the idea that the origin may be generated retrospectively by the neurotic’s phantasmatic desire). Perhaps most importantly, retroactivity is not merely one means among others to develop the interests of slavish life. Instead, through its own complicated structure of guilt-debt, retroactivity is the very form that reactive feeling takes.  As Nietzsche writes, the attempt to “sanctify revenge under the name of justice… as if justice were merely an extension of the feeling of injury” posits revenge as the basis for bringing “all the reactive feelings retroactively to a position of honour” (54). To the extent that its devotion to revenge is unremitting, unrelenting, and pitiless, the retroactive honoring of reactive feelings upholds and expresses the morality of the slave (bondage to debt or vengeful reactive/economistic thought); more fundamentally, it seems indissociable from the character of reactive feeling itself.
     
    By its very title, of course, Nietzsche’s essay concerns itself with “guilt,” “bad conscience” and “related matters.”  He begins by noting that active forgetfulness is a particular strength of the man of noble spirit, and contributes to his “robust health”—in contrast to those who, like dyspeptics, are “never through with anything.” Nonetheless, a “counter-faculty” now adds itself to this “strength”: a form of memory that wills the suspension of active forgetting. This form of memory is allied to the “promising” that, from the outset, seems to draw “man” into his own definition. Someone who makes a promise, Nietzsche tells us, does so in order “that finally he would be able to vouch for himself as future” (40).  In the sense that the promiser assigns his name to a promise to open a line of credit to the future, in his own mind “man” has made himself “calculable, regular, necessary.” The “memory of the will” is, it seems, as much a feature of this calculability as the effort to “dispose of the future in advance,” which promising seeks to affirm (as Lazzarato emphasizes). Indeed, Nietzsche opens the second section of the essay by describing the interaction he has just suggested between memory and promise in terms of “the long history of responsibility” (40).  Here, he adds that the calculability of “man” as the subject of responsibility depends not only upon the uniformity or consistency of the past, present and future in the “life” of an individual, but also upon a regularity or uniformity among men, so that each is “an equal among equals.” If this implies the very seeds of slavish morality and reactive feeling (“the morality of custom and the social strait-jacket”), Nietzsche points us “by way of contrast” towards “the other end of this enormous process”: the very possibility of the “sovereign individual” no longer constrained by custom. Through “special consciousness of power and freedom,” such a man grasps his own self-sufficiency more genuinely. He can truly vouch for himself, and on this basis is entitled to promise.  Thus, as previously suggested, the “man” who promises emerges in the more complex interstices of active and slavish life. However, the type of equality demanded by reactive feeling is eschewed to the extent that this sovereign individual “respects those who are like him” only insofar as they, too, are capable of imposing their superiority upon lesser, more contemptible beings – in particular those “dogs” and “liars” who abuse their promises.
     
    Nietzsche traces within this history of responsibility the origin of conscience. The point at which this word occurs—in the transition from the second to the third section of the essay—also returns to the theme that willful memory is indispensable to the self-affirmation Nietzsche wishes to celebrate. If, in order to forge memories for himself, man learnt that “the most powerful aid to memory was pain,” nonetheless Nietzsche also laments the enduring nature of that “psychology” which, conceiving of remembrances as “branded” upon the mind, equates recollection with the persistence of a certain hurt (43). While the origins of asceticism are to be found in this doctrine of painful memory, Nietzsche implies it is also the founding myth of, for instance, Germanicism itself. As such, it is backed by a litany of cruel punishments designed for those who forget their Germanness among or indeed by dint of their various crimes. By the fourth section of the essay, however, Nietzsche finds firmer footing in the question of “bad conscience” or guilt. Here, “our genealogists of morals” are of no use because they think retroactively, imputing origins in terms of derived values and showing themselves incapable of comprehending a past that does not reflect their own moral schemas. As such, they lack the “second sight,” as Nietzsche puts it, which would allow them to trace the moral idea of guilt (Schuld) back to its more material origins in the concept of debt (schulden).  Consequently, Nietzsche insists that punishment as a form of repayment developed prior to and outside of the attribution of blame, which only imposed itself much later. Before this, he argues, punishment was not meted out soberly to repay guilt, but occurred as an apt expression of anger—one that, rather than overflowing itself in wholly gratuitous cruelty and running to the very limit of its power, was instead “held in check and modified” by an equivalence between transgressive damage and the retributive pain which the punisher imputed to the punishment itself.
     
    Punishment, then, took its meaning and definition—its specific form as punishment rather than mere violence—not from guilt, but from anger. And yet the very need to constitute punishment as punishment, leading as it did to the “idea of an equivalence between damage and pain,” gives force to the contractual form punishment takes as an expression of the sort of exchange-relationship one finds between creditor and debtor. Lazzarato, of course, disputes precisely this contractual or exchange form of debt, pointing instead to the more original context of those power relations which, as Nietzsche himself suggests, make “anger” possible. Yet, at this point in Nietzsche’s argument, one may well ask whether contract or exchange establishes itself as the necessary context for a sense of injury, or—vice versa—whether the experience of harm provides the explanation for the emergence of economic or contractual forms and practices of all kinds. Is it that “to repay” is first of all to repay harm done, as Nietzsche himself suggests, so that forms of exchange arise from the prior or more original experience of pain (as perhaps foremost a consequence of power)? Or, alternatively, is the very experience of pain, harm, or damage even possible outside of the very concept of injury that, Nietzsche tells us, stokes reactive feeling? (The latter, of course, is funded by a strongly economistic sense of fairness and equality.) If debts to the past are remembered only upon risk or threat of pain, or if the pledge to repay is from ancient times underwritten by the possibility of harsh bodily sacrifice, is it that pain makes possible the sense of debt and indebtedness? (Is debt indebted to pain?) Or, conversely, does the very possibility of pain emerge only on the strength of a certain set of economic relations? This persistent conundrum raises once more the problem of retroactive thinking: is it the case that Nietzschean thought leaves this matter unresolved as a way to free itself from the retroactive impulse, and thus to rejoice in a time before slavish reactivity (which may in fact serve Nietzsche’s own “retroactive” needs)? Or is it that Nietzsche falters before and thus remains embroiled in the snares of reactive-retroactive thinking?  On this basis, one might speculate about whether the Genealogy remains painfully caught in—and thus cruelly indebted to—precisely that form of thought it seeks to critique or surpass. Is it therefore impossible to approach the question of debt outside of retroactivity’s trap?
     
    In the fifth section of his essay, Nietzsche draws attention to the loosening of a strict equivalence between unrestituted debt and the commensurate bodily sacrifice. This is, for him, the welcome consequence of a “more Roman conception of law” (46).[6] Thus, the “logic of this whole form of exchange” undergoes a certain shift: instead of calculating the sum to be repaid by the stringent measure of actual flesh, recompense is to be calculated in terms of the amount of pleasure extracted from the other’s suffering. The extent of the gratification may intensify depending on the relative social rankings of debtor and creditor—the lower the creditor and the higher the debtor, the greater the delight in inflicting “punishment”—so that the precise value of the pleasure in another’s distress varied according to class position. Nevertheless, in as much as it entailed what Nietzsche terms “the entitlement and right to cruelty,” this departure from a more strictly reactive system of compensation introduced the distinct possibility of a (perhaps more original) uneconomic or aneconomic element into the economy of credit and debt. For surely cruelty distinguishes itself from revenge in that it includes a gratuitous supplement – even if in the Spinozist formulation of “disinterested malice”– that would seem to better serve the sovereign aggressivity of noble life, rather than purely reactive slavish morals.  As Nietzsche observes, “the creditor partakes of a privilege of the masters” by means of a “punishment” based on the extraction of pleasure; regardless of the specific identity of creditor or debtor, this system serves the noble spirit rather than slavish life (46–47). Here again the main tenor of Lazzarato’s emphasis on power  echoes Nietzsche’s own direction of thought. If “man” is indeed the “measuring animal,” if he is developed within and by means of systems of exchange, value, and price, nevertheless this is not the whole story, or at any rate the story is far from simple. For while such apparent economism determines the very possibility of man’s self-estimation and astuteness—his “thinking as such,” Nietzsche ventures to say—nevertheless the principle of mastery that impels such economistic thinking and practice implies the extraction of a surplus that cannot simply be reassimilated to the narrow world of economic values (though, for all that, it remains a crucial part of it): “man’s feeling of superiority” (51). This is because—as the example of a law that is “more Roman” implies—the sense of masterful privilege or sovereign aggressivity extracts its supplement of “superiority” precisely by resisting the more purely economistic attitude of reactive feeling. Somewhat paradoxically, then, this “noble” surplus is able to assert its value in and over a social world defined by economic exchange, by dint of the very fact that it cannot be wholly determined by it. It is perhaps the fact that one cannot easily economize with this paradox that reinforces the enigmatic power of the master.
     
    Yet such an aneconomic remainder of economy finds its mirror image in the power not simply to forgive transgressions rather than punish them, but to overlook them altogether. Such power is perhaps closely allied to the ability to decide exemptions or exceptions to the law—the very same law that, as we’ve already seen, is in any case nothing but an “exceptional state” designed to restrict sovereign will only to furnish its ultimate ambitions more effectively, not least by mediating and thus lessening the “reactive” resentments of injured parties. Despite the seemingly inexorable pattern of credit and debt which determines social relations tout court, therefore, Nietzsche observes that the developed power of the community attests to itself insofar as it no longer needs to punish its debtors—those who, according to a variety of misdeeds, transgress against the community by breaking or by failing to acknowledge their contractual obligation to it. Put differently, sovereign power is in fact the power to eschew debt, to decide against the (reactive) logic that “everything must be paid off.”
     
    This feature of Nietzsche’s argument is insufficiently acknowledged by Lazzarato, even though it fits with his insistence on the non-economic origin of debt. To overlook debt—to ignore the transgressor’s “default” or their un-repaid indebtedness—is to demonstrate that one is powerful enough to survive the “loss” without needing recompense in the (economic) form of a substitution: punishment for debt. It is to assert that one is powerful enough to transcend the exchange-form of life. Indeed, on this basis great strength is affirmed, not threatened, by an ever-increasing amount of unpaid debt. Once again, the “noble” supplement extracted by the master in this state of affairs is in one sense a part or feature of and yet irreducible to the “economy” that is a principal instrument of power (albeit a power that is asymmetric and thus aneconomic in originary terms). Once more, one might contend, this very same paradox lies at the heart of the enigma of sovereignty. Yet such a paradox keeps open the question of whether recourse to the debt economy—immersion in debtor-creditor relations, whether partial or not—enhances or jeopardizes the creditor as a figure of mastery or sovereignty. Perhaps it does both at the same time.
     
    The folly of retroactive thinking is made most explicit in section twelve of the essay, where Nietzsche warns against the error of confusing or conflating the “origin” with the “aim” of punishment. As we have seen, he writes that:
     

    there is a world of difference between the reason for something coming into existence in the first place and the ultimate use to which it is put … anything which exists, once it has somehow come into being, can be reinterpreted in the service of new intentions, repossessed, repeatedly modified to a new use by a power superior to it… all overpowering and mastering is a reinterpretation, a manipulation in the course of which the previous “meaning” and “aim” must necessarily be obscured or effaced. (58)

     
    From the perspective of the will to power, history is not the story of causal development or progression, but one of a succession of more or less violent overturnings; the most rigorous and astute analysis of the usage of a thing, or of its “aims” in the present, is therefore poorly served by the tendency to impute an “origin” based upon the (extended) terms of this same analysis—although, of course, the distortion this implies is never just a weakness, in the sense that such misrepresentation is also part of the project of “overpowering” and “mastering” that such “reinterpretation” itself serves. If this looks to be a case of taking from one hand to give to another (i.e., strengthening and weakening oneself in equal measure), nevertheless it is not quite the same as robbing Peter to pay Paul, because what is involved is not a zero-sum game. Instead, there is a definite interest at stake. If the reactive morality of the slave implies a near interminable debt, retroactive thinking extracts a surplus in precisely this form of interest, making the debt work to its credit. The use of the word “repossessed” is telling here. In English, the term suggests the legally-settled restitution of goods or property to the original owner. The German is somewhat more colloquial and violent; Neu in Beschlag genommen suggests being taken over anew, although Beschlag is constructed from the verb to strike (schlagen). The overall meaning is not so much that of “repossession” in the English sense, but of forever being violently overpowered, mastered, “struck,” albeit struck or forced into service rather than being physically accosted more directly. Still, to the extent that it implies at once an inability to repay debts and a refusal to overlook or write them off, “repossession” has some kinship with retroactivity. Retroactive reappropriation of the meaning of an “origin” at once denies that “origin” by more or less violently transforming its meaning “in the service of new intentions,” yet acknowledges it in the form of the reactive feeling which repeatedly encounters or confronts the “origin” as an almost interminable source of injury, and thus a constant source of debit or debt. Indeed, to deny (indebtedness to) the “origin” by reinterpreting it, while reinterpreting it as the basis for a pervasive sense of liability, debit, or debt—a debt from which, nevertheless, untold credit or interest may be extracted—suggests the highly complex debt economy of retroactive thinking/reactive life.
     
    The Nietzschean economy of debt is further complicated and reinforced by what we might term its diachronic axis, whereby the indebtedness of the present generation to its forefathers increases as the community prospers. For Nietzsche, as the community has more and more to be thankful for, its debts become almost irredeemable. Once more, the debt-form of social life reaches a certain zenith only at the point of near insolvency: that stage at which, in order to be settled, debts could perhaps only ever be written off. While Nietzsche suggests that those of truly noble quality repay their forefathers with interest (the obvious paradox here hardly needs remarking) (70), nevertheless it is difficult in this context not to think the contrary (a la Lazzarato): namely, that the effort to repay only deepens the debt, even and perhaps especially if it is massive. Nietzsche writes of periodic “large lump” repayments (cruel sacrifices and the like), which foreground the extent of the debt and powerfully underline “the fear of the forefather and his power” (until he is, famously, “transfigured into a god”); these payments serve not to lessen or ameliorate but to inflate the debt further, raising the stakes of the entire situation. Yet this spiraling debt does not paralyze the community; on the contrary, it is merely a sign of its prosperity and strength, becoming “ever-more victorious, independent, respected, feared” (69).
     
    The desire to redeem what is owed, and sometimes even to mimic the gods, surely persists so as to complicate the credit-debt structure of the community. In addition, as Nietzsche speculates (perhaps naively), the dramatic rise of atheism may come to liberate mankind from a sense of indebtedness. Nevertheless, that “the sense of guilt towards the divinity has continued to grow for several thousands of years” testifies to the long-standing and near intractable debt structure of modern society. In fact, within the space of a few lines, Nietzsche seems to backtrack on his dream of a “second innocence” born of aesthetic feeling, lamenting that “the real situation is fearfully different.”  Indeed, despite the millennial tone of the essay’s last section, which dreams of the redeeming-godless “man of the future,” Nietzsche is still to be found saying that, in the current circumstances, “an attempt at reversal would in itself be impossible.” In a line all the more striking for its contemporary resonance, he asserts: “The goal now is the pessimistic one of closing off once and for all the prospect of a definitive repayment.” An “iron possibility” takes hold through the ever-more intransigent imposition of an undischargeable duty, a remorseless guilt, “eating its way in, spreading down and out like a polyp.” No penance would be enough to atone, no repayment enough to compensate (71–75).
     
    All of this would seem to be grist to Lazzarato’s mill.  However, in an ironic final twist of expropriation, even the creditor—the master, the god—is at last swept into this nightmarish scenario of total debt. As Nietzsche enigmatically hints, the forefather becomes Adam, divine banishment incarnate. This does not result in the prospect of revolutionary change but instead ushers in a godless afterlife, “essentially devoid of value,” in which the story of the gods’ fall from grace—as pure expediency—is retold in terms of Christ’s sacrifice: God becomes man and takes man’s place, so that if he succumbs to (indebted) man’s plight at all, it is only to redeem his guilt and all guilt (72). By such means, however, God himself seeks redress, seeks to redeem or re-place himself, to restore his credit. In other words, as Nietzsche puts it, he is to be found “paying himself off.” Perhaps only a God can so blithely write off debt, even his own, but one wonders whether this leaves him purely “in the black.”  Through the enigma of God’s self-torture on the cross (a self-torture which, perhaps by ironic reversal, seems to mimic the torments of slavish life), does such a death cancel all debts to the absolute credit of the divine? Or does it signal, too, just this fall into a whole world of debt, into a world that is so debt-ridden it is by now almost beyond debt, one which survives therefore only as “nihilistic renunciation,” “essentially devoid of value”? Nietzsche does not exactly tell the story this way, preferring instead to concentrate on man’s slavish torments before a God to whom all is owed (cruelly felt as “real,” “incarnate”). But the possibility that this debt—in all its impossible cruelty—is premised on the spectrality of an ultimate Creditor lingers, ghost-like, in his text. In view of this phantasmatic scene, the debate into which Nietzsche enters in the last section of the essay—whether or not his writing sets up anew or forever breaks into pieces “the shrine” of an ideal—seems a little beside the point. For Nietzsche’s text suggests that to bring down or to set up a new God may be part of the same picture. What would such an insight do to the dream or vision of a “conqueror of God and of nothingness” yet to come, with which the text concludes?
     
    On the basis of this reading of Nietzsche, two objections arise to Lazzarato’s thesis. First, his idea of a catastrophic future-without-future of permanent debt depends on the analysis of an ever-intensifying asymmetry of power that elevates the creditor to near-Godlike status. While this suggestion clearly derives from a certain strand of thought in Nietzsche’s Genealogy, a debt so pervasive that it leaves no creditor intact can more radically suggest ways to think about the non-self-identical or divisible limits of sovereignty and sovereign debt. Second, and relatedly (because it implies a question of the future that Lazzarato says sovereign debt has cancelled entirely), the idea that the retroactivity so central to the possibility of debt itself is based on a false continuity between past and present, “origin” and “aim,” suggests in turn that debt itself (in the form of reactivity-retroactivity) aggresses against temporal continuity in general. If this is true, then debt’s supposed commitment to the unstinting continuity and continuation of the present for all future time to come (as an unbreakable expression of power) itself becomes questionable and resistible, not just as an idea but in terms of the practical possibilities suggested by the limit or deficit between what debt wants and what it is: in other words, its retroactivity. Once more, such a possibility arises despite some of the more dominant flourishes of Nietzsche’s remarks. Taken together, these objections to the oversimplified conceptions of sovereignty and temporality in Lazzarato’s book point towards other possibilities, other scenarios in neoliberalism’s future, than the ones he is prepared to admit. Thinking both of Graeber and Lazzarato, we might arrive at the following conclusion: Where the question of debt is concerned, taking retroactivity seriously rather than dismissing or rejecting it may prove surprisingly productive for the times to come.
     

    Simon Morgan Wortham is Professor of English in the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences at Kingston University, London. He is co-director of the London Graduate School. His books include Counter-Institutions: Jacques Derrida and the Question of the University (Fordham UP, 2006), Experimenting: Essays with Samuel Weber, co-edited with Gary Hall (Fordham UP, 2007), Encountering Derrida: Legacies and Futures of Deconstruction, co-edited with Allison Weiner (Continuum, 2007), Derrida: Writing Events (Continuum, 2008), The Derrida Dictionary (Continuum, 2010) and The Poetics of Sleep: From Aristotle to Nancy (Bloomsbury, 2013). His book, Modern Thought in Pain: Philosophy, Politics, Psychoanalysis, is forthcoming from Edinburgh University Press (2014).
     

    [1] Of course, as Graeber recognizes, the advent of Keynesian economics marks a certain departure from this type of thinking, opening up an alternative tradition that acknowledges money’s connection to the state, in that the latter establishes the legal grounds and manages the economic basis of modern exchange.

    [2] In particular, because the theory of primordial debt is largely a European rather than an Anglo-American phenomenon, Graeber suggests that its “mindset” is avowedly post-French Revolution.

    [3] A section of this essay appeared in the form of a review article on Lazzarato’s book, “Time of Debt,” in Radical Philosophy 180 (2013): 35-43. Permission to republish this material is gratefully acknowledged.

    [4] In his third chapter, “The Ascendancy of Debt in Neoliberalism,” Lazzarato also suggests ways in which sovereignty has been transformed by debt in terms of its disciplinary and biopolitical horizons and practices.

    [5] Much could be said of Lazzarato’s own debts, not just to Nietzsche, the legacy of the Frankfurt School and other varieties of twentieth-century theory, but also to autonomism and the demands of a post-autonomist account of capital.

    [6] In sections six and seven of the Genealogy, Nietzsche suggests that the bloodiest festivities of cruelty and torture—to the extent that they rehearse not just the possibility of the advent of “man” but also the theodical interpretation of suffering, which in turn makes possible the “invention of ‘free will’” (if only to alleviate the boredom of the gods when confronted with a too-deterministic world) —establish a context for the emergence of “conscience” and “guilt.” They do so partly in the sense that cruelty – albeit despite itself – eventually bred shame and, under the increasing “spell of society and peace” (64), a sickly sensitivity to pain, which for Nietzsche was readily harnessed to the benefit of reactive moral schemas (49–51). Here, man is afflicted by an inner consciousness or “soul,” repelled by the freedom and wildness of the truly active life, and turns against himself, suffers from himself, and is cruel to himself. This is the form “bad conscience” takes: its morality is not unselfish or “unegoistic” but is based, somewhat differently, on a “will to mistreat oneself” (68). At the same time, Nietzsche is suspicious of attempts to explain the origin or emergence of guilt in terms of practices of punishment, arguing that “broadly speaking, punishment hardens and deadens,” while “genuine pangs of conscience are especially rare among criminals and prisoners.” This is partly because, for Nietzsche, punishment—at least in its pre-historical phase—displays no interest in reinforcing blame but merely seeks to respond to the fact of harm, which may have occurred regardless of the intentions of the culprit. Such punishment in fact serves to detach the criminal from a sense of responsibility for his actions, promotes fatalism, and so actually hinders the sense of guilt (62). Meanwhile, in section seventeen, Nietzsche asserts that “bad conscience” can be traced back to the violent reduction and suppression of freedom caused by the active force of sovereign individuals: in other words, the will to power.
     

    Works Cited

    • Graeber, David. Debt: The First 5,000 Years. New York: Melville House, 2011. Print.
    • Lazzarato, Maurizio. The Making of Indebted Man: An Essay on the Neoliberal Condition. Trans. Joshua David Jordan.  Amsterdam: Semiotext(e), 2012. Print.
    • Nietzsche, Friedrich. On the Genealogy of Morals. Trans. Douglas Smith. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Print.
  • Peripheral Visions

    E. Ann Kaplan, Looking for the Other: Feminism, Film, and the Imperial Gaze.New York: Routledge, 1996.

     

     

     

    •      Looking for the Other responds to the charge that white feminist film theories, especially psychoanalytic ones, neglect issues of race. In this ambitious project, E. Ann Kaplan defends a psychoanalytic approach to the racialized subject through examinations of gender and race in mainstream and independent film. Targeted at liberal arts students, the text is a useful introduction to these issues within film, women’s studies, and postcolonial/cultural studies. Unfortunately, Kaplan sometimes sacrifices quality of critique for quantity, and subtlety of argument for scope, in an attempt to satisfy her audiences. The result is a text which ultimately surveys and summarizes more than it stakes out new ground in the ongoing debates about whiteness and feminist film theory.

       

       

    •      The book is divided into two main sections. Part I, “Theories of Nation, Psychoanalysis and the Imperial Gaze,” primarily explores the male and imperial gazes in Hollywood film. Part 2, “Travelling Postcolonialists and Women of Color,” examines the ways in which independent film offers the alternative of “inter- and intra-racial looking relations.” Throughout, Kaplan argues by analogy, risking oversimplification of a number of key concepts. For example, Chapter 1, “Travel, Travelling Identities and the Look” depends on the assumption that race, like gender, operates through internalized binary oppositions. She offers examples from Fanon, DuBois, hooks, and Appadurai which support theories of “a network of diasporic black peoples dislocated around the globe in the late twentieth century who share experiences of the alienating gaze” (10). Kaplan’s theory layers colonialism on top of discourses of the gaze initiated by Laura Mulvey. Thus situated non-dialectically, racial difference becomes little more than another instance of split subjectivity. Combined with the constant deferral of her explanation to later sections in the book plus numerous editing errors, such oversimplifications undermine her argument.[1]

       

       

    •      Chapter 2, “Theories of Nation and Hollywood in the Contexts of Gender and Race” surveys “male theories” of nations as modern, industrial concepts linked to the rise of literacy and popular culture (29). Kaplan continues her reliance on binary oppositions, countering these male ideas of nation with a feminine sphere of culture. Most significant for her later analysis of Hollywood film is the concept of nation as a fiction, and of America as a construct divided between European cultural allegiances and American national ones. Kaplan relies on Jane Flax to support a claim for a womanly perspective on global history, one in which “problems might not be framed as debates about First, Second or Third Worlds but rather in terms of ongoing struggles to connect or not connect with an Other,” to juggle public and private roles, to link local and global concerns, and “to make oneself a subject within national struggles” (46). These are important questions, and Kaplan offers a sampling of fascinating alternatives to the narrow conception of national identity at work in Hollywood film. However, we wonder why her discussion of these alternatives runs to three pages, in comparison with the eighteen or so pages of “male theory.” If it is because, as she states, “the problematic relation of ‘woman’ to ‘nation’… urgently needs more research” (46), we would add that the binary opposition of male nation to female culture also needs deconstructing.

       

       

    •      In Chapter 3, “Hollywood, Science and Cinema: The Imperial and the Male Gaze in Classic Film,” Kaplan tackles D.W. Griffith’s Birth of A Nation, notably its anxieties about the black man’s rape of the white woman, to illustrate interlocking structures of masculinity and whiteness in the imperial gaze. According to her reading, stereotypes of lascivious black men and pure white women “image forth” white supremacy and male supremacy respectively. Through these stereotypes, the film appeals to Southerners to see themselves as part of an American nation preparing for World War I (68). Similarly, masculinity and imperialism collude in a series of 1930s ape movies–King Kong, Tarzan the Ape Man, and Blonde Venus. Devices such as the map of the “dark” continent penetrated by the explorer/hunter, the sexual objectification of the white woman, and the feminization and oversexing of the black man illustrate Hollywood’s continuing attempts to manage America’s sexual and racial anxieties. Kaplan also notes that these films may be seen as attempts to come to grips with national guilt about slavery, or to console “a generation of white males without sufficient opportunities for heroism” (74).

       

       

    •      Kaplan also discusses interesting complications of the stereotypical view that the imperial gaze is solely male. In looking at Black Narcissus (1946) and Out of Africa (1985), she notes that “white women become the surrogates for men when there is a need to show male power waning” (81)–in this case British power in India. The white nuns in Black Narcissus are bearers of the imperial gaze on their mission into Nepal, but that gaze is destabilized by the orientalized sensuality of the place: the nuns’ repressed sensuality emerges at the same time that their strength and independence from men begins to crack; a heterosexual narrative asserts itself. Kaplan argues, following Laura Kipnis, that the construction of “colonialism as female megalomania” rationalizes colonialism’s failures (88). Here, Kaplan participates in ongoing critiques of white womanhood and its interlocking privileges as shown in the work of Jane Gaines, Mary Ann Doane, Rey Chow, Donna Haraway, and others.

       

       

    •      How disappointing then, to read that the main difference between the stereotypes in Black Narcissus and the less offensive depictions in Out of Africa seems to be a matter of characterization: Karen Blixen “cares about [Africans] as individuals” and her “main servant is individualized” and allowed to return her look (89). Kaplan’s assumption that this treatment remains a viable alternative to stereotyping troubles us in its allegiance to liberal humanism. She notes that “something else is going on in these films in regard to images of white women” and wonders “how can [white] feminists enjoy their empowerment” through these images “at the expense of women of other colors?” (92). One answer may be the rewards and pleasures of individualism which structure the major liberation movements of the West, including white liberal feminism. Nevertheless, Kaplan makes an important contribution in Chapter 3 with her understanding that these films forge American identity through European colonial narratives.

       

       

    •      Chapter 4, “Darkness Within: Or, The Dark Continent of Film Noir” further investigates the effect of psychoanalysis on American film when dealing with issues of “othering” that cross race and gender. The chapter starts by briefly describing the possibilities of psychoanalytic readings of film, especially the value of British transcultural psychiatry, and summarily explaining the racist, sexist, and homophobic origins of psychoanalysis. Kaplan then performs a close reading of Home of the Brave, Pressure Point, Candyman, and Cat People. Oddly, considering the chapter’s title, only the latter falls within the normal definition “film noir.” All four films use psychoanalysis within their plots; especially important to this reading is the claim that psychiatry is a “science,” the authority of which is either supported or destabilized by these films. Kaplan attempts to analyze the psychoanalytic readings both of and within these films, which all blur, or attempt to blur, characters’ race and gender. However, Kaplan’s readings rely heavily on plot and character description, possibly because, as Kaplan notes, these older films are likely not to have been seen by her readers.

       

       

    •      Black and white interaction in mainstream film sets up Kaplan’s ensuing discussion of independent films. Before Part II, “Travelling Postcolonialists and Women of Color,” she clarifies her use of psychoanalysis and reads its use in film to construct the white subject. Kaplan argues that “the formation of the white subject as white, as it depends upon difference from blackness, is one area for study” (129). Though not theoretically innovative, Kaplan’s readings of film related to this question and her working through the problematics of psychoanalysis facilitate entry into the second part of Looking for the Other.

       

       

    •      Kaplan asserts that Part II intends “to open a window on how women directors imagine and create fictional worlds about issues of sex, race and the media. And how, in so doing, they dramatically challenge Hollywood male and imperial gaze structures to begin the hard work of moving beyond oppressive objectification within the constraints of inevitable looking structures” (16). Kaplan selects Hu Mei, Claire Denis, Mira Nair, Pratibha Parmar, Alice Walker, Trinh T. Minh-ha, Julie Dash, and Yvonne Rainer for discussion in Part II because, though they all deal with sex, race, gender and class in “cinematic forms deliberately in opposition to classical commercial film” (16), they approach their projects differently.

       

       

    •      Yet Kaplan only partially delivers on her promises for Part II. In Chapter 5 she explores the relationship between white theorists/theories and China. Stressing that cross-cultural exchange is possible both from West to East and East to West, yet not ignoring the power differential, Kaplan uses Trinh T. Minh-ha’s concept of “approaching” to assert that there is a way if not to “know” the Other, at least to “speak nearby.” In her discussion of the relationships between Western and Asian critics and their views toward Western readings of Asian culture, she summarizes the debate between Fredric Jameson and Aijaz Ahmad regarding the possibility of the West “knowing Chinese or Indian culture and politics (17).” Jameson’s construction of three worlds in which First-World texts are related to the public/private split while in Third-World texts all libidinal desires are politicized, is critiqued by Ahmad who posits only one postcolonial world constructed of economic, political, and historical links. Kaplan rereads this debate to show that both Jameson, particularly in his comments regarding allegory’s inherence in Third-World texts, and Ahmad, in underlining Western critics’ arrogant assumption that they can understand an Other culture through partial knowledge, make valuable contributions to the discourses of “knowing the other.” She locates herself between her readings of Jameson and Ahmad, but directs her criticism more strongly toward Ahmad, whose position she calls an “overreaction.”

       

       

    •      From her assumed position of subject-in-between, Kaplan’s second focus in Chapter 5 addresses criticism of her 1989 article “Problematizing Cross-Cultural Analysis: The Case of Woman in the Recent Chinese Cinema.” She argues effectively that in this essay she attempted to position herself as an “outsider” whose readings might untangle one of many strands of meaning to be found in Chinese film texts. Included among Western critics censured for perpetuating cultural colonization, Kaplan reads Yoshimoto Mitsuhira’s criticisms as a reconstruction of Asia as feminine or victim. By turning to the complexities of subjectivity, as many feminists do, Kaplan stresses the possibility of showing “how resilient peoples are to such cultural and capitalist ‘invasions,’ and how they find strategies to divert their impacts” (152). Kaplan is constantly aware that histories of colonization and appropriation cannot be ignored. Her consistent attention to the complexities of the history, economics, and politics of intercultural “knowing” creates, at times, an apparently disjointed argument, but one worth teasing out by engaged readers.

       

       

    •      Kaplan’s selection of Denis’ Chocolat, Parmar and Walker’s Warrior Marks, and Nair’s Mississippi Masala to search for an answer to the question “Can One Know the Other?” is most appropriate. All three non-American films illustrate her desire to explore the possibilities of inter-racial looking and to challenge the dominance of the male and imperial gazes. These challenges contribute to a form of looking which exemplifies a desire to know rather than to dominate. Kaplan astutely explores the processes of looking that occur between spectator and film and between characters within films. In these “looking relations,” Kaplan indicates ways in which women directors alter the subject-object binary; when traditionally subjugated characters look back, stereotypes are challenged, and the gaze, with its inherent anxieties and domination, becomes a mutual process of looking.

       

       

    •      Kaplan states: “There has surely to be a way between the alternatives of an oppressive Western application of humanism to the Other and surrendering any kind of cross-cultural knowing” (195). She sees that for women travelling outside their cultures, the best way to accomplish cross-cultural knowing is “speaking nearby.” She explores Trinh’s Reassemblage and Shoot for the Contents with emphasis on ideas that inter-racial looking relations should be reconstructed as a meeting of multiple “I’s” with multiple “I’s” in the Other. For Kaplan, the women’s bodies that Trinh presents are not objectified but instead become sites for discussions of subjectivity, nationhood, and transnational feminism. She looks conscientiously at the work of Hu Mei, Denis, Parmar and Walker, Nair, and Trinh, all women “in postcolonialism travelling to foreign cultures” (216), revealing ways in which imperial and male gazes are and can be disrupted, finding new ways of knowing, of seeing, and of looking for the Other.

       

       

    •      Chapter 8, “‘Healing Imperialized Eyes’: Independent Women Filmmakers and the Look,” continues to explore how women filmmakers rework the “look” in an attempt to redefine colonial images. Kaplan reads two of Julie Dash’s films, Illusions and Daughters of the Dust, as attempts to redefine audience perceptions of blacks in film and films’ assumptions about audience. Kaplan then moves on to examine Mi Vida Loca, a film on Chicana “gang girls,” by white director Allison Anders. Finally, she argues that Yamazaki Hiroko’s Juxta uses themes of generation and immigration to complicate racialized images.

       

       

    •      Kaplan argues that these films do not confront the imperial and male gazes in an attempt to reverse or undo their effects, but instead involve themselves in an entirely different project: “Other films I call ‘healing’ because they seek to see from the perspective of the oppressed, the diasporan, without specifically confronting the oppressor’s strategies” (221). She suggests that these filmmakers occupy the position of the hybrid, furthering her argument for the subject-in-between. Caught between cultures, their films concern themselves in constructing “‘intra-racial’ looking relations rather than inter-racial ones” (222). Kaplan asserts that while white women suffer from “too much visibility” in Hollywood, black women remain largely invisible or consigned to a narrow range of stereotypes. Her inquiry into Dash’s Daughters exposes the construction of black images that step outside the Hollywood mainstream: Dash creates a strong intelligent matriarch to oppose the traditional “mammy” image. At stake in the idea of healing, therefore, is the possibility that seeing from the perspective of the oppressed produces new points of identification for film audiences.

       

       

    •      Kaplan also notes that formal devices can be used to challenge imperial and male gazes. From film speed, to narrative structures, to genre mixing, these films often reposition their audiences in order to step outside the hegemony of Hollywood film. Kaplan reads all four of these movies, sensitively drawing out how this feat is accomplished. She also notes that these films do not necessarily share the same tones: some are celebratory while others are melancholic. The importance of these films is that they do not reproduce the imperial gaze, but rather strive to find power in “healing” its alienating effects.

       

       

    •      In Chapter 9, “Body Politics: Menopause, Mastectomy and Cosmetic Surgery in Films by Rainer, Tom and Onwurah,” Kaplan detours from film criticism to medical discourse. Her review of plastic surgery texts reveals how parallel constructions of age or race become associated with disease and deformity. Relying on ideas of nation from Part I, she posits a norm of womanhood: young and white. Though we cannot argue against her notions of this norm, we do note that it relies on a collapse of Western thought into an exclusively American “look.” With this assumption, Kaplan reads Tom’s Two Lies and Rainer’s Privilege in terms of a conflict between an “authentic” immigrant body and the American body assimilated through surgical intervention. Her argument recognizes that the “casualties” of the American look need further attention.

       

       

    •      Another important contribution is Kaplan’s argument that aging white women either fall into Hollywood’s typecast characters or do not appear at all. Always careful to acknowledge that these women do not lose all their privileges in aging, Kaplan does however point out that aging further complicates women’s positioning by the male and imperial gaze. By drawing affinities between menopausal white women and women of color, Kaplan invites further discussion of generational differences and their implications for women’s studies.

       

       

    •      Kaplan’s research into plastic surgery and aging reveals intriguing concepts in relation to American film, but her sweeping statements often hinder her arguments. For example, she states, “It is in male interest to keep alive the myth that after menopause women have no particular interest and therefore can be passed over for younger women who still depend on men” (286). Like the “male theories” of Part I, the assumption of “male interest” once again collapses a complex argument into a traditional gender category. Throughout her book, Kaplan attempts not to essentialize various groups while arguing that dominant film does; occasionally she missteps and her statements reinscribe the generalizations which she seeks to critique.

       

       

    •      The risk of reinscription is addressed in the “Afterword” as Kaplan attempts to negotiate the tricky gaps between white and non-white positions on the emerging field of “whiteness studies.” Cautioning her readers not to conflate varieties of alienation, she insists that it is essential that “one recognizes that whites are not necessarily reinscribing whiteness but taking the lead from the peoples whites have oppressed” (294; original emphasis). Is Kaplan prescribing a point of view here, or offering an anti-colonialist strategy? The ambivalence continues in the statement, “Because of white supremacy, it seems to me that it is the responsibility of whites to start the process of recognition of the Other as an autonomous subject” (299). Does this imply that the process has not yet begun outside of “whiteness studies”? Does the notion of responsibility imply a conferring of subjectivity or authority? We are uncomfortable with the vagueness of such “responsibility” because it implies that if whites do not begin this process of recognition, it will not be done at all. In fact, Kaplan hazards misrecognizing the Other when she concludes her book by asserting a belief “that black women may have an incredibly important role to play at this historical moment…. Hopefully, this is a moment when white women can listen” (301). Having just warned readers not to conflate varieties of alienation she subsumes all non-white women under the term “black women.” In this ostensibly conciliatory gesture, Kaplan falls back on a black-white binary that grounds her global survey in America.

       

       

    •      Future discussions surrounding Kaplan’s new work will need to complicate its layered relations between race and gender by adding the undiscussed categories of class and sexuality. Her conception of the imperial gaze largely ignores the dynamics of capitalism within patriarchal and racist structures, and discussions of gay and lesbian contributions are cursory. Nevertheless, we applaud Kaplan’s commitment “to the idea… that the level of signification can impact on the imaginary and produce change in subjects reading or viewing texts” (xv). It is through this ability of texts to change subjectivity that Kaplan sees a possibility for prejudices based on race, ethnicity, color, age, sexual orientation, and gender to be deconstructed. For her, perhaps the best route to change is through the work of women directors of all colors (including white). The value of her text lies in the attention she pays to these women directors, their films, and their changing audiences.

      Department of English
      Universities of Calgary and Victoria
      lhowell@mtroyal.ab.ca
      rrickey@acs.ucalgary.ca
      klaverm@cadvision.co

      Postmodern Culture

      Copyright © 1998 NOTE: Readers may use portions of this work in accordance with the Fair Use provisions of U.S. copyright law. In addition, subscribers and members of subscribed institutions may use the entire work for any internal noncommercial purpose but, other than one copy sent by email, print, or fax to one person at another location for that individual’s personal use, distribution of this article outside of a subscribed institution without express written permission from either the author or the Johns Hopkins University Press is expressly forbidden.

      Notes

      1. The editing errors are frustrating. For instance, in Chapter 1 Kaplan claims she will discuss six directors, though seven are listed (15-16); likewise, she announces that Anders’ Mi Vida Loca will be discussed in Chapter 6, but it appears in Chapter 8.

     

  • If You Build It, They Will Come

    John Hannigan, Fantasy City: Pleasure and Profit in the Postmodern Metropolis.London: Routledge, 1998.

     

     

     

     

    1.      Last year I found myself staggering down the very long sidewalk of the Las Vegas Strip in a somewhat disoriented state, an Antipodean on his first trip to the United States. There I was, during the middle of a scorching Las Vegas July afternoon, foolishly trying to walk from Circus Circus to the Luxor Hotel–a case of culture schlock perhaps? While this moment of pedestrian delusion was partially attributable to the intense desert heat, it was no doubt helped along by some of the “delirious” sights I passed on my foot journey. The structures facing on to the Strip, such as the extraordinary New York New York casino-hotel with its giant replicas of Manhattan buildings and associated landmarks (Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge) neatly wrapped up in a rollercoaster ribbon, present themselves to the contemporary would-be flaneur like purpose-built entries in a giant VR encyclopedia devoted to the subject of the postindustrial/postmodern city. Celebrated urban critic Mike Davis recently described the city as “the brightest star in the firmament of postmodernism” (54),1 and indeed Las Vegas has long provided theorist-tourists with a productive stomping ground for engaging with postmodern urban forms, experiences, and structures, which manifest themselves in this place with a peculiar luminosity and intensity.

       

       

    2.      Among the first to “discover” this exemplary postmodern landscape were the architects Venturi, Scott Brown, and Izenour, whose seminal manifesto Learning From Las Vegas (1972) provided the blueprint for a number of ongoing debates on postmodern aesthetics and the built environment. Almost three decades, however, have passed since that book was published, and Las Vegas itself now exudes quite a different kind of postmodernity. Regardless of whether you prefer the older and seedier Vegas or the more recent “Disneyfied” version, the city continues to exert a strong attraction with new residents, tourists, and cultural theorists (myself included in the latter of these two categories), who continue to travel there in ever increasing numbers. However, as Mike Davis has slyly noted, the philosophers who celebrate Las Vegas as a postmodern wonderland–presumably he is referring to Baudrillard?–don’t actually have to live there and deal with the city’s less appealing aspects. It’s an important critical point, yet as John Hannigan’s suggestive and welcome new book, Fantasy City: Pleasure and Profit in the Postmodern Metropolis, indicates, there is in fact no need for postmodern philosophers to live in Las Vegas because the chances are that many of the urban trends spectacularly visible there will be probably coming to a city near those philosophers soon (if they haven’t already done so). Centrally, Hannigan proposes that we are witnessing a new phase in the development of consumer societies: the introduction of an “infrastructure of casinos, megaplex cinemas, themed restaurants, simulation theaters, interactive theme rides and virtual reality arcades which collectively promise to change the face of leisure in the postmodern metropolis” (1). According to Hannigan, this development trend, which one finds in a heightened form in Las Vegas, will become a fully-fledged global phenomenon as we enter the new millennium. Certainly my own delirious pomo walk on the Las Vegas Strip was not framed just by an experience of the now “clichéd” tropes of simulation, hyperreality, and time-space compression, but also mediated by my own experience of a new casino-entertainment complex that had recently opened a hemisphere away in my home city of Melbourne.

       

       

    3.      Yet while Las Vegas may epitomize many of the elements of this new entertainment infrastructure in the city and is a regular reference point in Hannigan’s book (a pre-redevelopment image of downtown’s Fremont Street graces the cover), the neon capital is but just one stop on a much more ambitious urban tour which ranges across a large number of North American cities and also does a quick comparative circuit of select cities in the Asia-Pacific Rim. At its best, then, Hannigan’s book sketches out a complex differential history of a new kind of “uneven development” in which postindustrial cities are being both reconstructed and trying to differentiate themselves as centers or “hubs” of leisure and consumption.

       

       

    4.      In his introduction Hannigan defines “fantasy city” according to the following six features: it is organized around a marketable theme; it is aggressively branded; it operates day and night; it features what might be termed modular components; it is solipsistic in so far as it ignores surrounding neighborhoods; and it is postmodern. These features then prompt Hannigan to set up some central questions and problematics (some of which seem more useful than others):

      Are fantasy cities the culmination of a long-term trend in which private space replaces public space? Do these new entertainment venues further entrench the gap between the haves and have-nots in the "dual city"? Are they the nuclei around which new downtown identities form or do they simply accelerate the destruction of local vernaculars and communities? And, finally, do they constitute thriving urban cauldrons out of which flows the elixir to reverse the decline of downtown areas or are they danger signs that the city itself is rapidly becoming transformed into a hyperreal consumer commodity? (7)

      This last question is a pivotal one, for the author frames his overall inquiry within a general thesis (to which I shall return) that fantasy city is “the end-product of a long-standing cultural contradiction in American society between the middle-class desire for experience and their parallel reluctance to take risks, especially those which involve contact with the ‘lower orders’ in cities” (7).

       

       

    5.      As a means of plotting the trajectory behind contemporary manifestations of that “cultural contradiction,” Fantasy City strategically opens with a three-chapter section on the historical context of entertainment’s role in the development of the American city from the late nineteenth century to the present day, particularly as it manifests itself in spatial terms (downtown life versus that of the suburbs). Thus in his first chapter, Hannigan discusses the so-called “golden age” of urban entertainment that invigorated downtown city life in North America between the 1890s and 1920s and that provides a possible historical precedent for the contemporary emergence of “fantasy city.” Here the author traces the construction of the notion of a then new commercial leisure culture in the city that while representing itself as “public”–in the sense of it being democratic and affordable to all–still managed to maintain rigid socio-spatial barriers along class, race, and gender lines. This chapter seems especially important because it challenges nostalgic laments by those contemporary urban critics who yearn for an often idealized public realm. The second chapter in this section, entitled “Don’t go out tonight,” moves on to chart the slow and gradual decline of the popularity of central city entertainment precincts from the 1950s onwards, a decline connected to widespread suburbanization and the evacuation of downtown areas by the middle classes. Finally, in the third chapter, Hannigan charts a remarkable return of entertainment developments to the central city. This return begins in the 1970s with the building of downtown malls and festival markets and eventually consolidates and expands into “fantasy city” in the 1990s thanks to a proliferation of “new” forms and technologies such as themed restaurants, sports-entertainment complexes, I-Max theaters, and virtual reality arcades.

       

       

    6.      Having set up this useful historical context, Hannigan directs our attention to the attractions of contemporary Urban Entertainment Developments (UEDs) in a section on “Landscapes of Pleasure” which contains two chapters. In the first of these chapters Hannigan tries to outline the appeal of fantasy city to consumers and argues that this can be summarized in terms of four categories: “the siren song of seductive technology; a new source of ‘cultural capital’; a prime provider of experiences which satisfy our desire for ‘riskless risks’; and a form of ‘affective ambiance’” (10). The author also asks (in a rather insubstantial one and a half pages) how these new environments stack up as sites for the production of identities and lifestyles. The second chapter in this section takes a different tack by highlighting the vital “synergies” or convergences in fantasy city between previously segregated and distinct leisure/consumer practices such as shopping, entertainment, dining, and education.

       

       

    7.      This second section offers some tantalizing insights but is, I would suggest, a bit thinly spread in its coverage (relative to the other two sections of the book). While the material that Hannigan covers in this section is engaging, cogent, and relevant, it does seem to be somewhat uncertainly situated methodologically speaking. In particular, the structure of the book has much to indirectly say about the difficult interdisciplinary challenges faced by anyone writing in regard to the slippery signifier of “the postmodern city.” Studies of the city are going through a boom phase at the moment, riding high on a surge of interest in the problematics of space and place. That interest is spread across a diverse range of disciplines, a number of which feature in Routledge’s subject description on the back of Hannigan’s book: “Urban studies, Sociology, Urban geography, Cultural studies, Tourism.” Despite its invitation to interdisciplinarity, however, the style of the book will, I suspect, appeal more to those adhering to the traditions of the first two of those fields. In other words, while the subtitle of his book suggests an equal division of inquiry into “pleasure” and “profit” (which seems to be roughly analogous to saying “consumption” and “production”), Hannigan’s emphasis tends to fall rather too heavily on the production side of the equation. In this regard, then, Hannigan’s book seems to fit most into a tradition of urban analysis that is articulated in such classic works as David Harvey’s Postmodernism: An Enquiry into the Origin of Cultural Change (1990), itself a pivotal work much concerned with “the postmodern and the city,” and that while outlining a complex relationship between base and superstructure ultimately posits the latter as a reflection or symptom of the former.

       

       

    8.      Thus the final and lengthiest section, where Hannigan flexes his urban-sociological muscles to chart contemporary developments regarding entertainment and the city, stands out as the strongest and most coherent. Here the scope of the study and its considerable empirical evidence make the arguments particularly compelling. At the same time, in these latter chapters a potentially tedious reliance on a barrage of reports and statistics concerning the ownership of various developments, their building costs, and economic performance threatens to halt the momentum and flow of Hannigan’s argument. Fortunately, however, some relief is available in the form of an often illuminating series of mini-case studies of about one to three pages that are scattered throughout the book. For example, one such section discusses the failure of the Freedomland U.S.A. theme park in the 1960s, another charts the failure of a public-private partnership, while another considers the effect of the introduction of legalized gambling on the community of Gilpin County. These case studies engagingly ground some of the broader issues and trends with which Hannigan grapples.

       

       

    9.      In this third and final section of Fantasy City, Hannigan opens with a chapter outlining some the key corporate and entrepreneurial players (including the coalition of entertainment conglomerates and real-estate developers) in the leisure development game. This discussion dovetails smoothly with the following chapter, which addresses the increasing importance of private-public partnerships and focuses in particular on sports complexes. In the opening of this chapter, the author quotes the famous invitation from the baseball film Field of Dreams (1989): “If you build it, they will come.” While for my taste Hannigan may have not have explained this enough in terms of why consumers take up such an invitation, and the different kinds of value they might produce or experience in relation to these sites, he certainly offers a compelling and informative analysis of why city authorities find themselves under increasing pressure to “join forces with a corporate savior” in order to build projects that will hopefully “constitute an economic miracle”(129). How often, asks Hannigan, do taxpayers really get a reasonable return for their subsidies or regulatory concessions, what are the risks, and who is really “calling the shots” in this sort of urban development?

       

       

    10.      Hannigan then turns to Las Vegas and its transformation from a seedy mixture “of neon, glitter, blackjack and organized crime… [to a] booming entertainment center” (10). Here, he helpfully contrasts Vegas’s economic miracle with other more troubled gambling developments and teases out the implications and consequences of the recognition of gambling as the entertainment equivalent of a cash crop for economically struggling cities. Following this, in a chapter on the leisure revolution taking place “off-shore,” Hannigan takes us on a quick tour around a number of cities in the Asia-Pacific Rim. While his attempt to move beyond a North American focus is admirable, it is undermined by its whistle-stop nature and can’t really do justice to the specific entertainment histories of the countries. Chief among those differences is the spatialization of cities along class lines. Hannigan acknowledges this when he notes that unlike the American case, “the Asian middle class don’t regard a trip into the central city as a safari into a zone of crime and danger” (185). To his credit, this leads him to conclude that despite “the considerable American content of these new urban entertainment destinations… they are by no means carbon copies” (186).

       

       

    11.      Finally, in his concluding chapter on the future of fantasy city, Hannigan argues that the civic worth of urban entertainment developments hinges upon the ability of urban policy makers to be “proactive rather than reactive” participants in costly projects. In this same chapter Hannigan also reiterates his central argument that driving the production of fantasy city is the American middle-class desire “for predictability and security [that] has for a long time spilled over into the domain of leisure and entertainment” (190). I wonder, though, whether this is the most interesting conclusion to be drawn from the diverse range of case studies that the author presents to the reader. It appears to me that this component of Hannigan’s argument is an unnecessary generalization–must these new urban entertainment developments be grouped together as one coherent form that is constituted in relation to the motives of such a specific “public”? Perhaps it would be equally productive to explore how specific sites constitute themselves in order to attract “mixed” markets–and how and why, do different socially marked groups decide a certain site is worth patronizing (something that Hannigan’s studies admittedly attempt to do). In Melbourne, where I live, for example, one of the most interesting things about the new central city Crown Casino Entertainment Complex (the largest structure of its kind in the southern hemisphere) is precisely the way it tries to negotiate interactions between a necessarily diverse customer base. For example, while the “high rollers” and “whales” as they are known in gambling parlance may remain invisible thanks to private gaming rooms and private elevators, there is still a significant blend of middle-class, professional-managerial-class, and working class patrons in the “public” part of the casino. In terms of American developments, and particularly that of Las Vegas, Hannigan’s work encourages me to wonder about the distinctions that mark the different Vegas casino venues, and the question of who goes there versus say the more “low-rent” gambling town of nearby Laughlin on the Colorado River. Put another way, how do the operators of “fantasy city” attempt to manage the social production of difference at these sites and how do consumers negotiate those management strategies? “Build it and they will come” intones the mantra, but as a cultural theorist with an interest in the productivity of consumption I wanted to know more; specifically, who will come, why do they come, and how do you keep them coming back once they have already visited the place? These reservations aside, John Hannigan’s book is to be heartily welcomed as an excellent starting point–setting up as it does a stimulating range of questions–for the investigation of a topic that deserves to be foregrounded in studies of the city, entertainment, postmodernism, and urban culture.

      Department of English with Cultural Studies
      University of Melbourne
      b.morris@english.unimelb.edu.au
      [an error occurred while processing this directive]

      Copyright © 1999 Brian Morris NOTE: Readers may use portions of this work in accordance with the Fair Use provisions of U.S. copyright law. In addition, subscribers and members of subscribed institutions may use the entire work for any internal noncommercial purpose but, other than one copy sent by email, print, or fax to one person at another location for that individual’s personal use, distribution of this article outside of a subscribed institution without express written permission from either the author or the Johns Hopkins University Press is expressly forbidden.

      Notes

      1. In this same chapter Davis argues that Las Vegas is in fact just an exaggerated version of Los Angeles.

      Works Cited

       

      Davis, Mike. “Las Vegas Versus Nature.” Reopening the American West. Ed. Hal K. Rothman. Tuscon: U of Arizona P, 1998. 53-73.

      Harvey, David. The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change. Oxford: Blackwell, 1990.

      Izenour, Steven, Denise Scott Brown, and Robert Venturi. Learning From Las Vegas: The Forgotten Symbolism of Architectural Form. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1972.

  • New Editor

    New Co-Editor

    With this issue, PMC welcomes Jim English, who joins Lisa Brawley as co-editor of the journal. This welcome is more properly a welcome back, as Jim served as review editor from the journal’s founding to 1996. Paula Geyh, who succeeded Jim in that role, will continue to oversee the review section. Assisting us will be Lisa Spiro, who has replaced Anne Sussman as managing editor. Deepest thanks to Anne for her years of service to the journal, and to Stuart Moulthrop, who concluded his tenure as co-editor in May.

    PMC Essay Prize Winners

    We are pleased to announce the winners of the PMC essay prize for Volume 9. This prize is a five hundred dollar award given to the author of the most outstanding essay to appear in the journal in the previous volume year. Winners are selected by the PMC editorial board. The prize for Volume 9 is shared by Terry Harpold, for “Dark Continents: A Critique of Internet Metageographies” (9.2, January 1999), and Jed Rasula, for “Textual Indigence in the Archive” (9.3, May 1999). Congratulations to them both.

     


  • Post-Avant-Gardism: Bob Perelman and the Dialectic of Futural Memory

    Review of:
    Bob Perelman, The Future of Memory.New York: Roof Books, 1998.

     

     

     

     

      1.      There is a play on words somewhere in the title of Bob Perelman’s recent book of new poems, but what exactly is the substance and import of this wordplay? The Future of Memory: in this title, Perelman is suggesting that it is time to question the comfortable status “memory” has achieved as a source of poetic emotion. If memory is to have a future, he seems to be saying, then its uses and meanings must be rethought; and for this unregenerate Language poet that primarily means dissociating memory from the forms of lyric subjectivity that the term currently evokes. For memory to retain any living value, it must be prepared to extend itself beyond the individual world of confession and reminiscence and become the site where possible collective futures are negotiated. The Future of Memory therefore approaches memory not as the inviolable substance of individual identity, but rather as a function of ideologically charged social regulations. It is the place where concrete political practices express themselves as collective emotional dispositions; as such, it constitutes a network of shifting and contradictory values, which Perelman hopes to animate with a view to a more various and capacious form of sociality.

     

     

      1.      Perelman’s emphasis on memory sheds a great deal of light on the Language poets’ critiques of “persona-centered, ‘expressive’” poetry (Silliman et al. 261). In “Aesthetic Tendency And The Politics of Poetry,” the important contribution to Social Text which Perelman co-authored, for example, confessional poetry is aligned with a lyric disposition in which “experience is digested for its moral content and then dramatized and framed” (264). In this poetic tradition, “authorial ‘voice’ lapses into melodrama in a social allegory where the author is precluded from effective action by his or her very emotions” (265). However, it is important to note that the Language poets who authored this article distinguish themselves from the confessional tradition not through a wholesale rejection of the categories of self, memory, and experience, but rather through a poetically embodied critique of the specific forms of self, memory, and experience that confessionalism privileges. This is never a merely negative critique; on the contrary, it is one that attempts to broaden and reconstitute our understanding of subjective processes and their relation to the “beyond” of the subject. For instance, when the authors of “Aesthetic Tendency and the Politics of Poetry” compare their compositional practices to Coleridge’s “refusal to identify the I with the horizon of the ‘I,’ and thus with easily perceived moral categories” (266), when they recommend an “openness of the self” to “processes where the self is not the final term” (266), they are clearly proposing alternate models of subjectivity–models in which the “I” is in an animating and animated relation to the “not-I” (269). Perelman’s interrogation of the future of memory can therefore be understood as part of this larger ambition to multiply and complicate the forms of selfhood that poetry has at its disposal.

     

     

      1.      It is strangely appropriate, therefore, that The Future of Memory begins with a poem entitled “Confession.” Perelman admits in an interview that this is a provocative gesture, since confessional poetry has been the object of “great scorn” for the Language writers since the 1970s (Nichols 532). But again, this opening move is less surprising if we understand The Future of Memory‘s deep concern with problems of consciousness and subjectivity, and its consequent exploration of the forms of “poetic intentionality that oppose [themselves]… to the elision of consciousness that occurs in habitual constructions of belief” (Silliman et al. 266). This oppositional intentionality is expressed quite casually in the opening poem of The Future of Memory, in which Perelman assumes the confessional mode only to state: “aliens have inhabited my aesthetics for / decades” (9). In this succinct poetic statement, Perelman grounds himself mimetically in the camp images of postmodern public culture, while at the same time harnessing the utopian energy of this culture’s most characteristic fantasy: an “alien” form of life beyond the known horizons of current social formations. As he notes, this image confers a “transcendental gloss on the avant-garde by saying that it’s otherworldly, heavenly, in this case, alien” (Nichols 532). In other words, for Perelman the avant-garde is defined by its attempts to point beyond the horizons of the historical period to which it belongs; the essence of the avant-garde’s relation to historically futural modes of being therefore resides in its being captured or abducted by alien possibilities which express themselves unconsciously at the level of form. According to this model, poets do not heroically project themselves beyond historical determinacy, but are instead “inculcate[d]… with otherworldly forms” (Perelman, Future 11) whose import is necessarily opaque and un-masterable.

     

     

      1.      Clearly, Perelman’s dramatically fictional solution to the problem of avant-garde temporality is a joke that we cannot help but take seriously. Contained within it is a problem that has obsessed postmodernity: from what position might one inaugurate a contestatory relation to the meaning-systems of the present? Nevertheless, Perelman’s fantasy of an absolute Other lending the “naïve poet” its otherworldly agency calls attention to itself as a deus ex machina that saves the poet from phenomenological complexities that cannot be ignored for long (Future 11). Naturally, he acknowledges that there is “no Other of the Other”: “There’s no place from which to live a different life. So critical distance in that sense doesn’t seem possible. But what about provisional contingent critical distance within that world?… It doesn’t have to be outside that there’s a place for a fulcrum, it can be inside” (Nichols 536). Much of The Future of Memory can be understood as an attempt to anatomize the negotiatory practices capable of generating this “internal distance.” And to follow the “argument” of The Future of Memory we must be willing to imagine this space that is beyond the opposition of immanence and alterity. For Perelman, it is important that this space has an essentially futural character–in its first determination, it should be seen as a space in which the poet is actively lending himself to a possible future, whose contexts of understanding are necessarily unintelligible from his temporally anterior standpoint. The poet is to be imagined here as constantly operating on the margins of intelligibility, all the while trusting that his moments of incoherence are the formal harbingers of an emergent social configuration that will belatedly lend a coherence and practical intelligibility to his literary experiments.

     

     

      1.      There is thus a theory of historical time at work in The Future of Memory which is self-consciously in dialogue with Raymond Williams’s concept of emergent social formations. Perelman’s concept of avant-garde artistic practice hinges on the idea that the poet can make him/herself available to inarticulable “structures of feeling” which anticipate futural social practices. A historically anticipatory structure of feeling is defined by Williams as a “formation which, because it is at the very edge of semantic availability, has many of the characteristics of a pre-formation, until specific articulations–new semantic figures–are discovered in material practice” (Williams 134). This sense of poetry as the embodiment of historically proleptic half-meanings which an emergent historical community may “take up” with a view to practical action is essential to Perelman’s poetic method.1

     

     

      1.      A long poem entitled “The Womb of Avant-Garde Reason,” which serves as a centerpiece to The Future of Memory, gives life to this idea:

        Quotation from 'The Womb of Avant-Garde 
Reason' by Bob Perelman

        Here, Perelman is imagining the time lag that must take place between the composition of a poem and the various interpretive communities who will encounter the work in the future. He has faith that the process of temporalization that the text must undergo will allow future communities to realize the concrete practices that the amorphous half-meanings of his poem could be said to anticipate. He symbolizes this in the image of time sprouting legs and hands: changed historical circumstances will allow future readers to recuperate and lend propositional content to structures of feeling present in the poem only at the level of form. This will make possible a transliteration of poetic values into the everyday realm of “annoyances” and practical particulars. A “lien” is “a claim on the property of another as security against the payment of a just debt.”2 Perelman is saying that he has “given over” part of his being to the future, has surrendered his poetic property with the understanding that the future will “make good” the meanings that he has temporarily suspended, and that he cannot untangle by himself. But what form will this futural payback take? In what direction will the hermeneutic elaboration of Perelman’s text proceed? By the time one can ask these questions, the issue is already out of the poet’s hands: “others” are responsible for recasting the terms of Perelman’s text with a view to the future–one which, he hopes, will make possible “less destructive circumstances” and the “capacious translation between groups” (Nichols 538).

     

     

      1.      The “memory” Perelman evokes in The Future of Memory is therefore a combined function of both the poet and his temporally posterior interpretive communities. He is profoundly sensitive to what this essay will define in terms of a “cultural semantics.” The poet must be committed to “mutually contemplating the rhetorical force of–not words, but of historical sentences, phrases, genres” (Nichols 538). Existing beneath these macrohistorical semantemes, whose power to “interpellate and to stir up emotion” (538) Perelman alerts us to, there are the local articulative possibilities that he leads us to picture in terms of the shifting drives of Kristeva’s semiotic. Kristeva, we should recall, refers to anamnesis as the process whereby the semiotic is introduced into the symbolic in order to pluralize its significations (Revolution 112). For Perelman, the function of memory is similar. Its value resides not in its ability to provide the poet with Poundian historical exempla, which could serve as concrete existential alternatives to those provided by contemporary systems of value. Rather, memory refers to the process whereby poetic intentionality is capable of “carrying one back” to the level of a primordial sense of possible relations, similar to the condition of primary functional and social competence which characterizes infantile life. Here, then, we see the futural value of memory in The Future of Memory: memory is the function which enables the poet to inhabit a shifting and pre-articulate “social sense,” whose ability to lend itself to newly emergent social configurations aligns it with Williams’s structures of feeling.

     

     

      1.      Essential to the method and meaning of The Future of Memory, therefore, is the complex Kristevan thesis that our “intuitive” sense of possible social relations is rooted in the primordial regulation of our senses: a process that takes place when our affective and even our physical comportment toward others is first established in concert with symbolic (and therefore social) values which continue to hold sway throughout our adult lives. However, for Perelman, poetry is best suited to contest and complexify our social sense not when it strives to mimic the kinematics of the mother’s voice through a Kristevan “musicalization” of language. Rather, Perelman seeks to induct the reader into this primordial world of sense in a way that is necessarily and in the first instance disposed toward a constructive relation to a possible future. In other words, he establishes a relation to the world of “sense” not by amplifying the sound texture of his poems in order to evoke a Kristevan chora, but rather by precipitating a hermeneutic crisis that will force the reader to marshal all the values of emergent and half-cognized sense with a view to its various possible futural consummations.

     

     

      1.      “The future of memory” therefore designates a process that includes both the text as a document of sensed possibilities for affective recombination and the futural communities of readers whose concrete practices can lend these half-meanings a social intelligibility. The locus of memory’s futurality is therefore the mediating position of the reader–a reader who is continually “carried back” to the historically incipient senses of the text, while at the same time incorporating its primordial “feel” for new and capacious intersubjectivity into its concrete political strategies.

     

     

      1.      For Perelman, this mediative role of the reader is essential, because he strives to write a poetry that is socially prophetic yet escapes the phenomenological paradoxes of poetic “genius,” in which the writer is somehow capable of delivering a “message” which is “‘far ahead’ of its time” (Trouble 7). To be sure, poems such as “To the Future” partake of a general problematic of genius, in which the author lends his/her voice to futural possibilities that are unavailable to conscious articulation. In this poem, Perelman figures himself as writing “fake dreams” and “skittish prophecy” on the empty pages of books that have been “cleaned” in a kind of ideological laundromat (Future 40). Again, the ideological “distance” that the laundromat creates is of the same order as the alien visitation of “Confession.” Perelman emphasizes the absurdity upon which his own models of “genius” are founded, and yet allows their urgency to be registered beneath their kitschy exterior. In fact, his 1994 critical study, The Trouble with Genius, can be understood as an attempt to think through the paradoxes and necessities which such unstable moments of his own poetry express. In that text, he says of modernism: “While these works may have been written to express the originary, paradisal space where genius creates value, they do not travel directly to the mind of the ideal reader, the critic who accepts the transcendent claims of these works and the subsequent labor involved” (10). It is precisely by stressing the un-ideal character of the readerly function, therefore, that Perelman hopes to move beyond this modernist version of genius and the false models of pre-ideological “paradisal space” which his own laundromats of negativity parody.

     

     

      1.      To this end, Perelman focuses on what might be described as the “time lag” that exists between a text’s “signification” and the various interpretive “enunciations” the reader effects with respect to the values latent in the text. In this model, readership becomes the site of various mediations which serve to frustrate the seamless transmission of textual meaning to an ideal reader. As we have seen, the most important of these mediations has a historical provenance. The reader, for Perelman, is always historically futural–both in the sense that readership must inevitably come after authorship, and in the larger sense that this belatedness allows the reader to serve as a representative of all futural historical communities. This belatedness is essential, since he is writing for an audience that shares a set of social codes which is historically in advance of his own text. The fact that his text will only “realize” its meaning in the material practices to which these social codes correspond means that Perelman’s technical experiments can only emerge as socially “pre-formative” if a futural interpretive community belatedly accords them this status.

     

     

      1.      This is a significant departure from the modernist model of genius, because it means that it is ultimately up to “others” to determine the prophetic value of Perelman’s text, or to put the point more strongly, prophetic value is precisely what is missing from his text, and must be supplied by the interested and transformative readings that futural audiences will provide. It is therefore only by amplifying this “missing-ness” or incompletion in his text, while at the same time “calling out” to his audience’s sense of possible, but as yet undetermined, social practices, that Perelman can hope to be accorded a paradoxically belated proleptic significance. In this way, he abjures the totalizing centrality of properly avant-garde temporality, and institutes what he describes as a “post-avant-garde” poetic practice, which consists in an “acknowledgement that the social is all margins these days. Poetry–innovative poetry–explores this condition” (Nichols 542).

     

     

      1.      The Future of Memory employs this post-avant-garde poetic practice by calling out to be completed by the reader in various ways. One of Perelman’s most provocative gestures is his insertion of a darkened page into the middle of the volume–into the middle of another poem, in fact, which the piece of paper “interrupts.” This darkened page is entitled “A Piece of Paper,” and clearly evokes his desire to allow various external contexts of understanding to “intrude” upon his text and combine themselves with its meanings. The piece of paper is represented as “signifying others who speak and live or not they weren’t given air time and paper to ride this recursive point of entry” (71). The text’s blind spot is thus the existence of others as such, which Perelman can only virtually “presentify” in the image of a piece of paper coming from “without” the text and carrying alterity with it. When he invites the reader to “blink your blindness inside legibility” (71), he is hoping to extend our notion of textuality to include the unforeseeable acts of interpretation which his poem will elicit.

     

     

      1.      Another long poem, entitled “Symmetry of Past and Future,” expresses even more vividly the “post-avant-garde” dialectic that Perelman hopes to establish between text and reader:

        Quotation from 'Symmetry of Past and 
Future' by Bob Perelman

        The first thing to note here is that the facticity of the historical past is aligned with the facticity of Perelman’s own “plies of writing.” The pun on “executed” is important, since it suggests that the status of this textual and historical pastness as “already executed” serves to “execute,” or put to death, the agency of desire–a function allied with the movement of history and interpretation, as opposed to the fixity of official history and the written word. But in at least one case out of twenty, this execution has been granted a “reprieve”–something has been left “unwritten” in history (and in Perelman’s text) which calls out to the desire of the contemporary reader. This reader is oriented toward the “vanishing point” of the future; s/he thus occupies the site where the “blindnesses” of official history–its “missing” elements–can be “written into” an emergent meaning-system and rendered legible.

     

     

      1.      It is important, however, that the political desire of the contemporary reader is not free of a certain kind of facticity. Every attempt to move creatively into a possible future is performed against the backdrop of “involuntary memories” and psychological “reflexes” which limit the kinds of social relatedness that the contemporary reader can imagine and work towards. This explains why Perelman aligns this kind of historical “work” with the interpretive work that readers perform on texts. For him, the primordial world of “sensation” constitutes a kind of libidinal “text” whose emotional grammar is determined by the patterns of human relationality that hold sway during socialization. The attempt to expand this emotional grammar to include a more capacious form of collective relationality thus entails a return to this most primordial “text,” in the interest of elaborating and extending the “meanings” to which it is sensitive. And just as Perelman offers his own text as a document of inarticulate structures of feeling whose formal patterns (or “shapes”) he hopes will be rendered meaningful through the material practices which they anticipate, so does the world of “sense” constitute a half-written text which can be revisited with a view to renegotiating what makes “sense” in a given social formation.

     

     

      1.      In Perelman, then, we find a profoundly complex exploration of the historical determination of our deepest psychical structures and, more importantly, a reformulation of what it means to be avant-garde when this historicizing imagination is applied to the condition of the poet him/herself. Of course, this perspective is not new to Perelman or unique to him. Since at least the late 1970s, Language poetry has attempted to reconstitute the poetic avant-garde while remaining responsible to the theoretical complications of structuralist analysis and ideology critique. In fact, it is in his interventions from the early and middle 1980s that we find the meditations on sense and ideology most central to the strategies of The Future of Memory. In his contribution to the important Writing/Talks collection, appropriately entitled “Sense,” Perelman refers to an “invisible reified atemporal empire, this sense of decorum that’s backed by political power, that tries to define all language” (66). He is exploring here how the world of “sense” is determined and delimited by this ideological “empire,” but also how it can be imagined as a pre-semantic reserve which is capable of decomposing and temporalizing the illusive “atemporality” of reified social conditions. And as in “Symmetry of Past and Future,” the agency that is accorded “sense” is aligned with the interpretive mediations of textual meaning that historically situated readers embody.

     

     

      1.      A poem entitled “The Classics,” which was first published in Perelman’s 1981 collection, Primer, is included in his essay on “Sense,” and stands as a tripartite allegory of the origin of infantile consciousness, the transmission of textual meaning, and the dynamics of ideological interpellation and negotiation. As such, it usefully illustrates the basic conceptual relations between memory, textuality, and collective history that he animates in The Future of Memory:

        In the beginning, the hand
        Writes on water. A river
        Swallows its author,
        Alive but mostly
        Lost to consciousness.

        Where’s the milk. The infant
        Gradually becomes interested
        In these resistances. (“Sense” 66)

        As a narrative of infantile consciousness, these first two stanzas suggest that at the beginning of life, “thought” is almost purely unconscious–it is figured as an instinctual, automatic hand, whose intentional marks are not registered by the fluid, unengravable medium of consciousness. As a narrative of the transmission of textual meaning, this would correspond to the modernist ideal that Perelman outlines in The Trouble with Genius: a pure and unmediated transcription in the reader’s mind of the author’s valuative systems.

     

     

      1.      Perelman explicitly draws this connection in his self-interpretation in “Sense”: “That’s Piaget’s theory that intelligence–it’s preprogrammed obviously, but–it gets triggered by the fact that you can’t find the breast very easily. So the sense behind here is of reader and writer being the infant, and the milk being meaning. The resistances are the words” (67). In other words, the author is the writing hand, the reader is the fluid medium of consciousness, and words are the “resistances” which interpose themselves between a pure authorial intention and an ideal reader. That is to say, words are the site of an irreducible mediation; they could be said to “get in the way” of an ideal transmission of authorial meaning to readerly consciousness. Instead of conveying a transparent meaning, words provoke an active process of “feeling out” meanings–an interpretive process which requires many half-conscious creative gestures, all oriented around enunciating the hidden or “ideal” meaning of the text in highly indeterminate ways. Similarly, “instinct” is the automatic hand that should lead the infant directly to the breast without any need for the mediations of half-consciously coordinated actions. But since the physical world presents “resistances” to the ideal, unconscious working of instinct, the infant must begin actively to “interpret” the world, in order to begin consciously coordinating its actions.

     

     

      1.      “Instinct” and “pure authorial meaning” are aligned here, then, because they are “preprogrammed” and should “ideally” produce subjects who are pure automatons: unconscious reflections of somatic drives or unalterable meaning-systems. The Future of Memory‘s concern with practices capable of generating critical “distance” from contemporary meaning-systems is thus clearly anticipated here. As we have seen in “Symmetry of Past and Future,” Perelman is concerned with a similarly “ideal” model of ideological preprogramming, in which ideology inscribes itself primordially as a kind of social “instinct,” determining human subjectivity even at the most basic level of “sense” or “sensation.” The consequences of this for Perelman’s own poetry are profound: he suggests that we should understand the transmission and assumption of authorial meaning as a moment within a larger process of ideological transmission–a process in which the subject assumes and “enunciates” the ideal “content” of ideology with an agency which could be described as having a hermeneutic provenance.3

     

     

      1.      In this sense of his own text’s implication in dynamics of ideological transmission, Perelman reflects Language writing’s awareness that the very legibility of a text depends upon the social meaning-system in which it exists.4 As Ron Silliman writes in “The Political Economy of Poetry,” “What can be communicated through any literary production depends on which codes are shared with its audience” (Silliman, Sentence 25). To make this point even more strongly, Silliman quotes Volosinov: “Any utterance is only a moment in the continuous process of verbal communication. But that continuous verbal communication is, in turn, only a moment in the continuous, all-inclusive, generative process of a given social collective” (22). This means that meaning as such is always implicated with the “generative process” of ideology; and this is a problem for writers who hope to assume an oppositional stance toward current social formations.

     

     

      1.      Perelman’s “solution” to this problem centers around a constitutive misprision which he sees as part and parcel of the reader’s relationship to ideology’s “message”:

        Success is an ideal method.
        For itself the sun
        Is a prodigy of splendor.
        It did not evolve. Naturally,
        A person had to intervene.

        Children in stage C succeed.
        Emotion is rampant. We blush
        At cases 1 and 2. (“Sense” 67)

        In his prose commentary, Perelman alerts us to Quintillian’s tautological definition of clarity as “what the words mean” (“Sense” 67). But for Perelman the idea that words could “successfully” convey a transparent and universal meaning represents an impossible “ideal.”5 “Pure meaning,” perfect clarity, can only be conceived as an extra-human abstraction: a sun existing only “for itself,” removed from the processual “evolution” of syntax. In order for meaning to actualize itself, it must temporalize itself, subject itself to the interpretive interventions which language incites; it must constantly be reborn in a human world.

     

     

      1.      As a description of ideology’s perpetual re-birthing of itself in individual subjects, these passages are profoundly suggestive. Perelman suggests in these rather casually executed, but philosophically resonant, parataxes that if “ideology has the function of ‘constituting’ concrete individuals as subjects” (Althusser, Lenin 171), then concrete individuals simultaneously occupy a location where the subject(-matter), the discursive elaboration and performative accentuation of ideology, is negotiated. In Perelman’s developmental narrative in “The Classics,” therefore, as well as in his historical narratives in The Future of Memory, ideology is there from the beginning, as a kind of immanent textuality: an instinctual matrix which positions the subject in socially determined discursive fields. However, for Perelman the “content” or “meaning” of this ideological (sub)text is indistinguishable from the various interpretive enunciations it receives when its meaning is “realized” in the social being of individual subjects.6 This is important, since it means that ideology may be subjectively enunciated in ways that Bhabha describes as “catachrestic”–i.e., intentional or unintentional “misprisions” of ideology are always in danger of producing the embarrassing “bad subjects” referred to above as “cases 1 and 2.”7

     

     

      1.      Perelman hopes to introduce precisely such a transgressive enunciatory practice into the reader’s relation to his own text, but insofar as authorship and textual meaning are associated with the instinctual inscription by which ideology “textualizes” itself, he is faced with the difficulty of not being able to instantiate this transgressive practice “from the side of poetry.” Instead, a peculiar kind of memorial agency on the part of the reader is invoked:

        Hidden quantities
        In what he already knows
        Eventually liberate a child
        From the immediate present. (“Sense” 68)

        Again, the child here stands in, first, for the developmental subject as s/he becomes liberated from the automaticity of instinctual responses by actively assuming the functional patterns which were originally “lived” at a purely somatic level; second, s/he stands in for the subject of ideology, insofar as this subject, in its enunciative practices, gives shape to an imperative which in another essay Perelman jokingly expresses in profoundly voluntaristic terms: “I don’t want to be an automaton” (“First Person” 161); finally, s/he stands in for the readerly function, which can never be the automatic transcription of textual fact into objective meaning, but must rather express the irreducible mediation of interpretive enunciation.

     

     

      1.      This means, of course, that the “immediate present” of a unitary and inescapable textual meaning is as much a fiction as the unilateral “voicing” of ideology and the conative determinism of “instinct.”8 In each of the above cases, the mediacy of enunciation has always already corrupted the putative immediacy whereby the conative life of the subject, its ideological positionality and interpretive agency, could all be understood as direct and inevitable reflections of various somatic regulations, subject-positions, and semantic facta. The question that remains, then, is what these “hidden quantities” are, which allow for what Lacan describes as the “little freedom” of the subject in his/her comportment toward these various aspects of the Symbolic Order: i.e., the functional distribution of instinctual responses, the ideological totality of “effective discourse,” and the matrices of textual meaning.9

     

     

      1.      For the Perelman of The Future of Memory as much as for the Perelman of Primer, the answer resides in the “semiotic”–a primordial system of psychical “marks” which both forms the instinctual fundament of the symbolic, and exists as a labile force of “unsignifying” beneath its socially organized systems of value.10 In other words, what the subject “already knows” should be understood in terms of its participation in an ideological meaning-system, which can be imagined as a constellation of semantemes: discursive units that provide the most basic coordinates of what can “make sense” in a given culture. For Perelman, then, the “hidden quantities” in this semantic structure would be the even more primordial system of phonemes, which constitutes a semiotic reserve prior to, and yet organized by the horizon of possible meanings embodied in the semantemes. According to this analogy, the fact that individuals “automatically” sort the phonemic values they hear according to the lexical and semantic values with which their language-competence has made them familiar is the psycholinguistic parallel to a process of ideological automaticity.

     

     

      1.      In a 1980 essay entitled “The First Person,” Perelman quotes Jonathan Culler to help illustrate this point:

        A speaker is not consciously aware of the phonological system of his language, but this unconscious knowledge must be postulated if we are to account for the fact that he takes two acoustically different sequences as instances of the same word and distinguishes between sequences which are acoustically very similar but represent different words. (150)11

        The subject thus “already knows” how to make sense out of the pre-semantic semiotic elements which s/he encounters, but this knowledge is not conscious. In fact, in his juxtaposition of the above quote with another by Culler, which refers to the “variety of interpersonal systems” and “systems of convention” that define subjective functional operations (Perelman, “First Person” 151), Perelman means to stress that the “automaticity” that characterizes the individual’s relationship to the microcosm of individual speech-acts has its origin in the regulatory systems of a social macrocosm. However, Perelman’s notion is that if it were somehow possible to dwell at the level of the phoneme, and “consciously” to assume the seemingly instinctual movement from pre-semantic values to socially recognized meaning, one might be capable of multiplying the possible meanings of any individual speech-act in ways that are potentially contestatory. He provides the following gloss on the “hidden quantities” passage above: “My sense of connection here is: liberation from the present…. Somehow, the initial sense of the combinatorial power of language destroys this hierarchical frozen empire” (“Sense” 68).

     

     

      1.      If the transition from a phonemic sequence to a semantic ensemble to a socially guaranteed meaning is understood to occur immediately–i.e., according to the mythical temporality of Perelman’s “immediate present”–then the desemanticizing process whereby constituted meanings are allowed to dissolve into their phonemic “raw materials” offers the possibility of protracting the time lag which continually “liberates” the subject from what would otherwise be the mechanistic nightmare of semiotic unicity. In Perelman’s work up to and including The Future of Memory, the sense that it is possible to inhabit a semiotic space which is in principle separable from the social totality that organizes it into systems of meaning leads to an idealist agency that post-structuralism’s semiotic model of resistance has made familiar. He explains, in reference to one of his earlier talks, “I talked about Robert Smithson’s sense that if you stare at any word long enough, it fragments. You can see anything in it. It’s the axis of selection. We all have this file cabinet with a million cards. We can say anything” (“Sense” 75).

     

     

      1.      The phoneme thus comes to represent a space of radical non-identity, in which the semantic inheritances of a given social organization may be “broken down” and re-articulated. Perelman calls attention to the fact that it is only at a level beneath the signifier that this kind of absolute differentiation holds sway. In contradistinction to Saussurean linguistics, which stresses the fact that a signifier has meaning only in relation to another signifier, he references Jakobson’s idea that signifiers, while contrastive and significantly related, are already constituted as discrete ideational quanta: “Only the phoneme is a purely differential and contentless sign. Its sole… semiotic content is its dissimilarity from all other phonemes” (“Sense” 73).12 This is an important distinction, since for Perelman, the word is already heavily weighted with the values of socially organized meaning, whereas the phoneme is closer to what he describes in his essay as the physical world of “sense” (“Sense” 75). In other words, the perceptual ontology of language, the sonic texture of words, intimately tied to the physical coordination of the vocal apparatus, represents a pre-lexical universe of possible meaning, whose “contentlessness” ensures its status as a “beyond” of the constituted meanings that he hopes to challenge.

     

     

      1.      Of course, the alterity of the sensate, or the “semiotic,” with respect to the world of socially organized meaning, or the “symbolic,” is anything but pure, and should perhaps be designated as an “intimate alterity,” or extimité, to adopt Jacques-Alain Miller’s term.13 Kristeva’s work provides the most systematic articulation of this dialectic, and its importance has been registered by theorists of the Language movement since its inception. Famously, Kristeva’s chora is a modality of the semiotic which denotes the vocal and kinetic rhythms that primordially articulate instinctual functions “with a view” to their social organization. Kristeva writes:

        We emphasize the regulated aspect of the chora: its vocal and gestural organization is subject to what we shall call an objective ordering [ordonnancement], which is dictated by natural or socio-historical constraints such as the biological difference between the sexes or family structure. We may therefore posit that social organization, always already symbolic, imprints its constraint in a mediated form which organizes the chora not according to a law (a term we reserve for the symbolic) but through an ordering. (26-27)

        In other words, at the developmental phase when an infant’s instinctual responses are first becoming coordinated through its pre-linguistic interaction with the mother and the family structure, socially regulated symbolic positions are already ordering the infant’s pre-symbolic affective and motor dispositionality. This is important, since it means that the labile, pre-figurative world of the semiotic, which Perelman seeks to draw upon as an absolutely differential reserve of pre-symbolic and purely possible meanings, has already received the impress of symbolic agency, and the socially organized law which is its predicate. Even the semiotic beyond of the symbolic–the fractal world of phonemic distribution, sensorimotor articulation, sound as opposed to meaning–is subject to symbolic regulation, if not symbolic legislation.

     

     

      1.      In many ways, however, the undecidability of the semiotic, its combined determinacy and indeterminacy, its status as a primordial corollary of the symbolic which is nevertheless irreducible to the symbolic, is precisely what guarantees its value for a contestatory poetics such as Perelman’s. The semiotic emerges as a “moment” of the symbolic, which is somehow in excess of the symbolic–a moment which is therefore immanent in what we “already know,” but which represents the possibility of decomposing and reconfiguring “the known.”

     

     

      1.      In The Future of Memory and his recent critical work, Perelman is attempting to imagine ways that poetry could mobilize the semiotic with a view to such epistemological shifts. It is well known that for Kristeva, poetry is valuable because in it “the semiotic–the precondition of the symbolic–is revealed as that which also destroys the symbolic” (Revolution 50). In its amplification of the pre-figural rhythms and kinematics of language, poetry offers a glimpse of the dissolution of a symbolic whose unicity has become, in Kristeva’s terminology, “theologized.” This simultaneously sets in motion a process of resignification, in which the semiotic chora is raised to “the status of a signifier” (57), thereby rendering plural and multivalent the meanings that are allowed to accrue to any given constellation of linguistic performances.

     

     

      1.      It is important to stress this resignificatory moment in Kristeva, since it constitutes the difference between Kristeva’s dialectic of signifiance and what she calls the dérive: the “‘drifting-into-non-sense’… that characterizes neurotic discourse” (51). Likewise, in critical statements that anticipate The Future of Memory‘s strategies, Perelman is very careful to distinguish himself from what one might describe as purely “semiotizing” appropriations of Kristevan thought–ones that concentrate on pure “deterritorialization” and “decoding,” without the complementary re-assertion of emergent identities in what Kristeva calls the “second-degree thetic” (Revolution 50). In reference to the early formulations of poets such as Ron Silliman and Steve McCaffery, George Hartley can point quite casually to the “Reference-Equals-Reification argument” in which thetic signification as such is irremediably aligned with the values of existing ideological meaning-systems (Hartley 34). But far more complicated lines of enquiry into textual politics have been opened up from within the camp of Language poetry itself. Along with Perelman, Barrett Watten is at the forefront of this enquiry, interrogating how it might be possible to refer the moment of resignification beyond the immanence of Kristeva’s textual dialectic, and toward a more “total syntax” which would include a holistic social “situation” as the site of such a reterritorializing agency.14

     

     

      1.      In an essay entitled “Building a More Powerful Vocabulary: Bruce Andrews and the World (Trade Center),” Perelman engages precisely this debate by focusing on his fellow Language poet’s demand for “‘a structuralist anti-system poetics’… that would disrupt transparent reference” (119). Perelman writes:

        Andrews recognizes the problem that his call for such subversion raises. By its processes of interchangeability multinational capital has already produced a radical dislocation of particulars. Marx’s “All that is solid melts into air” can in fact be read as saying that capitalism is constantly blowing up its own World Trade Centers in order to build newer ones. If this is true, then “to call for a heightening of these deterritorializing tendencies may risk a more homogenizing meaninglessness… an ‘easy rider’ on the flood tide of Capital.” (119)

        Perelman is quoting from Andrews’s essay, “Constitution / Writing, Language, Politics, the Body,” which builds upon an earlier submission to the seminal “Politics of Poetry” number of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, in which Andrews called for a poetics of “subversion”: “an anti-systemic detonation of settled relations, an anarchic liberation of energy flows. Such flows, like libidinal discharges, are thought to exist underneath & independent from the system of language. That system, an armoring, entraps them in codes & grammar.”15 Perelman objects to the Kristevo-Deleuzian rhetoric of libidinal flow and “deterritorialization,” because he holds out hope for a semiotic process that could “join the center and make it more various” (“Building” 128), rather than foreclosing all “investment in present-tense collectivities” (126) in a desemanticizing process dangerously similar to the “flood tide of Capital” which it hopes to contest.

     

     

      1.      Again, one must note that both Kristeva and Deleuze are more complex than this anarchizing application of them might suggest; every Deleuzian decoding process has “conjunctive synthesis” as its dialectical complement,16 just as every Kristevan encounter with the semiotic drives is completed in its secondary thetic phase. But what Perelman demands we consider much more closely is how a textual practice might intervene in this dialectic in such a way that both its decoding and, most crucially, its recoding moments might embody a process of signifiance which does not merely pluralize meanings according to the expansionist and dispersive logic of capitalist production, but instead might offer a locale in which meanings may be contested in ways that are both determinate and politically transitive. In The Future of Memory, this requires that we go beyond the Kristevan dictum “musicalization pluralizes meanings” (Revolution 65) and instead begin to explore the historical relation of reader to text, the kinds of interpretive agency this relationship makes available, and the possibility that a text’s political semantics may ultimately be evolved in an extra-textual process very different from the historical avant-garde’s ambition to “sublate society into art” (Perelman, Trouble 4).

     

     

      1.      In fact, The Future of Memory‘s emphasis on political transformations that must occur beyond the text allows Perelman to resolve contradictions that remain aporetic and disabling in his prose work:

        If language is made up of units, broken apart as all things are by capitalism, and if nothing new is created beyond the horizon of the phrase or the sentence, then these new, charged units would still depend on capital for energy to band together in momentary transgression…. To avoid this conclusion I think it is necessary to posit… a writer for whom the aesthetic sphere forms an autonomous space. Within this space, however, the notion of political art would be a metaphor if not an oxymoron. (“Building” 130)

        Here, Perelman is registering the fear that the “resignificatory” moment that poetic texts make available must derive its coherence and epistemological valence from the larger social meaning-system in which these texts are situated. And unless one is to fall prey to what Peter Middleton calls the “linguistic idealism” inherent in the belief that avant-garde texts punctually and empirically reconstitute this system (Middleton 246), one must confront the proposition that even the most radical recombinative strategies necessarily leave the historical ground of their intelligibility uncontested.

     

     

      1.      In the above essay, reprinted in the 1996 The Marginalization of Poetry, Perelman’s impossible solution to this problem is to suggest that art could constitute an autonomous meaning-system, capable of challenging the current one without borrowing any of its terms. But such a phantasmal art-practice would necessarily be removed from the contemporary horizon of possible significations in a way that would render it perfectly unintelligible, and thus politically unviable. Notice, however, that in the above passage he allows room for an epistemological contingency that is not generated from an impossibly isolated creative locale, but partakes of a historical process of transformation which is beyond the horizon of merely textual agency. To rephrase Perelman, “if something new is created beyond the horizon” of the text–in other words, if an extra-textual process of social transformation makes available a new organization of socially coded meanings–then the “broken units” of his poetry could be resignified according to the values of a newly emergent meaning-system, and come to express the structures of feeling that predate this system’s concrete practices.17

     

     

      1.      This sense that a historically futural readership may be able to “charge” Perelman’s text in unforeseeable ways, and that the poet should therefore create enclaves of non-meaning in order to call out to these supplementary futural meanings, is what makes The Future of Memory such a brilliant and strange document of “post-avant-garde” poetic practice. The “memory” of The Future of Memory evokes the text’s ambition to carry the reader back to the pre-semantic level of Kristeva’s semiotic–the shifting territory where social meanings are pluralized and rendered fluid. Kristeva recognizes that meaningful social practice is impossible at this level, and therefore posits the “second-degree thetic,” which represents–at the level of the text and of the social dialectic which it “joins”18–“a completion [finition], a structuration, a kind of totalization of semiotic motility” (51). But The Future of Memory exceeds these formulations by insisting that the practical completion and structuration of the text’s semiotic processes cannot be performed by the text itself. Perelman, one might say, gestures beyond certain kinds of “linguistic idealism” by separating the practices of the text from the practices of society. And yet the responsibility of the text to a larger social dialectic is maintained in Perelman’s sense that poetry should dispose itself toward a collective future, and surrender its meanings over to futural communities whose concrete practices will constitute an extra-textual “thetic” phase in the significatory process.

     

     

      1.      This is why The Future of Memory so often offers itself as a kind of unconscious love letter to the future. The final passage from “Symmetry of Past and Future” is an eloquent example of the text’s solicitation of its unknown readers:

        Quotation from 'Symmetry of Past and 
Future' by Bob Perelman 19

        Perelman is giving his love to the material circumstances of his futural readers, lobbing his poem into this unknowable future, in the hope that this world of particulars will confer a social legibility on his text’s illegibilities. It is important that “Symmetry of Past and Future” ends on a note of radical asymmetry, its incomplete final sentence and concluding comma imploring the reader to complete the poem with meanings unavailable to Perelman in his historically prior and epistemologically determinate condition. And as in the first passage we examined from this poem, this determinacy is figured as a form of embodiment here. He seems to be lamenting the fact that a “sense” of possible forms of affective relationality is always rooted in the psycho-somatic constitution of specific historical individuals. If “sense” were somehow capable of emancipating itself from the body, and thus from the various symbolic regulations that express themselves at the somatic level, then one’s sense of possible “social intersection[s]” and “interaction[s]” (Nichols 536) could develop itself in complete freedom from the restrictive symbolic positions which the current social formation has to offer.

     

     

      1.      The impossibility of this kind of freedom is indicated by the poet’s sense of his own body as an obstacle. His body represents the fact that “sense” is always an embodied possibility attempting to project itself toward the eternally futural “day” when sense will be able to legislate to itself the terms of its own most primordial constitution–in other words, the utopian day when our affective comportment toward each other will be able to create itself ever anew, without the “obsessive” historical work of symbolic revision and negotiation.

     

     

      1.      Until that day–“a day that will / never die”–Perelman’s future is “the future of memory.”

    English Department
    University of California, Berkeley
    joeln@uclink4.berkeley.edu

    Postmodern Culture

    Copyright © 2001 Joel Nickels NOTE: Readers may use portions of this work in accordance with the Fair Use provisions of U.S. copyright law. In addition, subscribers and members of subscribed institutions may use the entire work for any internal noncommercial purpose but, other than one copy sent by email, print, or fax to one person at another location for that individual’s personal use, distribution of this article outside of a subscribed institution without express written permission from either the author or the Johns Hopkins University Press is expressly forbidden.


     

    Notes

    1. In his “Language Poetry and Linguistic Activism,” Peter Middleton draws the connection to Williams by defining Language poetry as an emergent cultural formation, which “cannot fully comprehend itself within the available terms of the pre-existent social order, nor can it be fully comprehended from within that knowledge produced by the dominant order” (Middleton 244).

    2. Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary, Second Edition.

    3. The notions of “enunciation” and “time lag” are both derived from Homi Bhabha. In The Location of Culture, Bhabha references Stuart Hall’s use of the “linguistic sign as a metaphor for a more differential and contingent political logic of ideology: ‘The ideological sign is always multi-accentual, and Janus-faced–that is, it can be discursively rearticulated to construct new meanings, connect with different social practices, and position social subjects differently’” (Bhabha 176). Enunciation therefore refers to the process whereby “customary, traditional practices” are resignified in order to express “displacements and realignments that are the effects of cultural antagonisms and articulations–subverting the rationale of the hegemonic moment and relocating alternative, hybrid sites of cultural negotiation” (178). “Time lag” thus refers to the discursive space which opens up between Bhabha’s “hegemonic moment” of the ideological sign and the dialogic, contestatory processes of its “articulation” as discourse, narrative and cultural practice.

    4. For example, the terminology of “social meaning-systems” and much of the terminology of this essay is derived from Bruce Andrews’s formulations, esp. the important “Total Equals What: Poetics and Praxis.”

    5. Perelman writes: “when everybody understands what it’s saying, the words seem perfectly transparent and it all seems ideal” (“Sense” 67).

    6. The conceptual framework for this account of ideology obviously owes much to Althusser’s well-known account of knowledge-production, but the emphasis on negotiation or re-inscription is decidedly post-Althusserian, and is represented most recognizably in recent works such as Tom Cohen’s Ideology and Inscription. In Althusser’s account of the three Generalities, contemporary knowledge-production “always works on existing concepts, ‘Vorstellungen,’ that is, a preliminary Generality I of an ideological nature” (184). However, for Althusser, there is always the possibility that knowledge qua “science” might come to “break with ideology” (191). For Cohen, and the intellectual milieu which guarantees his book’s legibility, this is no longer an option, and epistemological breaks of even the most radical order must be seen as revisionary re-inscriptions of the terms of extant ideology. For Cohen, then, “inscription” refers both to the way in which present knowledge production (Generality II) is determined (inscribed) by previous abstract generalities, and to the way it redefines (inscribes) the terms of this extant “raw material” with a view to the production of new concrete generalities (183). “On the one hand, inscription in this premimetic sense seems encountered as a kind of facticity, as the crypt of some reigning or deterritorialized law, once posited and installed. On the other hand, it is precisely in the non-site of inscription that the possibility of historical intervention and the virtual arise” (Cohen 17). But since the ideological process of “being inscribed” (4) is effective at the deepest levels of our being–in the ways we “narrate” our very “perception and experience” (17), it is difficult to know how and when it is possible for genuine “reinscription” to occur–i.e., the process whereby the “instituted trace-chain is disrupted, suspended” so that “alternatives to programmed historicist models can appear accessed” (17). For Cohen, however, the domain of “the aesthetic” represents a central site of “conceptual remapping,” which “is linked to a programming of the senses by mnemo-inscriptive grids” (11). This emphasis on the pre-figural world of “the senses” and the way in which this world is ideologically “programmed,” resonates very clearly in Perelman’s work, and helps contextualize his own sense of the poem as a site of “conceptual remapping.”

    7. Again, the notion of “time-lag” is crucial to this understanding of catachresis: “I have attempted to provide the discursive temporality, or time-lag, which is crucial to the process by which this turning around–of tropes, ideologies, concept metaphors–comes to be textualized and specified in postcolonial agency: the moment when the ‘bar’ of the occidental stereotomy is turned into the coextensive, contingent boundaries of relocation and reinscription: the catachrestic gesture” (Bhabha 184).

    8. On ideological “voicing,” see Bhabha’s “Signs Taken for Wonders” in The Location of Culture, especially “the voice of command” (116).

    9. In “The Subversion of the Subject and the Dialectic of Desire in the Freudian Unconscious,” Lacan refers to the unconscious as a chain of signifiers which “insists on interfering in the breaks offered it by the effective discourse and the cogitation that it informs” (Lacan 297). However, “effective discourse” refers for Lacan not just to analytic discourse, but more profoundly, to the historically determinate “symbolic form” which it reproduces, and which guarantees its intelligibility (296). I mean to evoke this latter meaning here, whereby effective discourse is understood as an intersubjective knowledge-formation, derived from the historical punctuality of the Symbolic, and representing its various imaginary sedimentations.

    10. Kristeva gives this particular valence to the term “un-signifying” in her Revolution in Poetic Language (65). The English term “instinctual,” which I use above, is Strachey’s translation of Freud’s trieblich. However, the naturalistic connotations of the English term risk foreclosing the sense of the drives’ availability to social regulation. Unfortunately, English has no corresponding word for the German evocation of “drive-ly” forces. See J. Laplanche and J.-B. Pontalis, The Language of Psychoanalysis.

    11. Cited from Jonathan Culler, Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics, and the Study of Literature.

    12. Cited from Roman Jakobson, Six Lectures on Sound and Meaning.

    13. See Jacques-Alain Miller, “Extimité.

    14. See Barrett Watten, “Total Syntax: The Work in the World.” Watten’s interventions on this topic are many and various; especially important seems his recent attention to “emergent social meaning,” in which a formal dialectic of romantic particularity and contextual disjunction dynamizes and defamiliarizes a public sphere which is thereby called upon to revise and reformulate itself. See Brito’s “An Interview with Barrett Watten,” in which the private oppositionality of a graffito image is seen as “emerging from a blanketed and negated background into ‘saying something’ it can scarcely recognize” (21). For Watten, this emblematizes poetic practices in which “private language qualifies the public and creates a new ground on which instrumental meanings can be modified and redefined” (21). Also relevant are his recent articles, “The Secret History of the Equal Sign: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Between Discourse and Text” and “The Constructivist Moment: From El Lissitzky to Detroit Techno.”

    15. Bruce Andrews, “Writing Social Work & Political Practice,” L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E 9/10 (Oct. 1979), unpaginated. The quoted passage appears on page 17 of the reprinted essay in Bruce Andrews, Paradise & Method: Poetics and Practice.

    16. See Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. In this system, conjunctive synthesis corresponds to a function called the “celibate machine” which denotes the dialectical eventuation of “a new humanity or a glorious organism” (17).

    17. This sense of intuited half-meanings which precede concrete practices is expressed in the great paradox of Marx’s introduction to the Grundrisse–i.e., that the simplest categories of politico-economic thought are only conceptually available once they have been complexified as the expression of manifold and juridically mediated concrete relations. For example, possession, in its abstract simplicity, is only available to thought once the complex system of property relations has been constituted as a concrete category in which “possession” denotes a host of possible relations between families, clan groups, masters and servants, etc. And yet, Marx speculates about conditions under which an abstraction may lead an “antediluvian existence” before it has become the expression of fully developed concrete relations (Marx 101). In such a case, “the simple categories are the expressions of relations within which the less developed concrete may have already realized itself before having posited the more many-sided connection or relation which is mentally expressed in the more concrete category” (102). This means that one might posit a moment of emergent simplicity in which liminally concrete relations could find expression only in pre-categorical figurative modes, or what Raymond Williams describes as “structures of feeling” (Williams, esp. 128-135). I would suggest that Perelman’s method takes shape as a self-conscious deployment of precisely such pre-conceptual forms of historical abstraction: forms that “call out” to the futural system of instituted, concrete relations which alone will render their import intelligible.

    18. See Revolution in Poetic Language: “And thus, its complexity unfolded by its practices, the signifying process joins social revolution” (61).

    19. I retain Perelman’s misspelling of “obsessiveness” in this passage, since this particular “illegibility” radiates poetic value, even in the absence of a readable authorial sanction. Perelman deletes the word in the revised version of the poem which appears in Ten to One: Selected Poems (216).

    Works Cited

    Althusser, Louis. For Marx. Trans. Ben Brewster. New York: Verso, 1969.

    —. Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays. Trans. Ben Brewster. New York: Monthly Review Press, 1971.

    Andrews, Bruce. “Constitution / Writing, Language, Politics, the Body.” L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E 4 (1981). Ed. Bruce Andrews and Charles Bernstein. Combined issue with Open Letter 5.1 (Winter 1982): 154-165.

    —. Paradise & Method: Poetics and Praxis. Evanston, IL: Northwestern UP, 1996.

    —. “Total Equals What: Poetics & Praxis.” Poetics Journal 6 (1986): 48-61.

    —. “Writing Social Work & Political Practice.” L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E 9/10 (Oct. 1979), unpaginated.

    Bhabha, Homi. The Location of Culture. London and New York: Routledge, 1994.

    Brito, Manuel. “An Interview with Barrett Watten.” Aerial 8. Washington, DC: Edge Books, 1995: 15-31.

    Cohen, Tom. Ideology and Inscription: “Cultural Studies” After Benjamin, de Man, and Bakhtin. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998.

    Culler, Jonathan. Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics, and the Study of Literature. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1975.

    Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, and Helen R. Lane. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1983.

    Jakobson, Roman. Six Lectures on Sound and Meaning. Trans. John Mepham. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1978.

    Hartley, George. Textual Politics and the Language Poets. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1989.

    Kristeva, Julia. Revolution in Poetic Language. Trans. Margaret Waller. New York: Columbia UP, 1984.

    Lacan, Jacques. Écrits: A Selection. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1977.

    Laplanche, J. and J.-B. Pontalis. The Language of Psychoanalysis. Trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1973.

    Marx, Karl. Grundrisse: Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy. Trans. Martin Nicolaus. New York: Penguin Books, 1973.

    Middleton, Peter. “Language Poetry and Linguistic Activism.” Social Text 8.3-9.1 (1990): 242-53.

    Miller, Jacques-Alain. “Extimité.Lacanian Theory of Discourse: Subject, Structure, and Society. Ed. Mark Bracher, Marshall Alcorn, Jr., Ronald J. Cortell and Francoise Massardier-Kenney. New York: New York UP, 1994. 74-87.

    Nichols, Peter. “A Conversation with Bob Perelman.” Textual Practice 12.3 (Winter 1998): 525-43.

    Perelman, Bob. “Building a More Powerful Vocabulary: Bruce Andrews and the World (Trade Center).” Arizona Quarterly 50.4 (Winter 1994): 117-31. Rpt. in The Marginalization of Poetry: Language Writing and Literary History. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1996. 96-108.

    —. “The First Person.” Talks: Hills 6/7. Ed. Bob Perelman. San Francisco: Hills, 1980.

    —. The Future of Memory. New York: Roof Books, 1998.

          —.

    The Marginalization of Poetry: Language Writing and Literary History.

          Princeton: Princeton UP, 1996.

    —. Primer. Berkeley: This, 1981.

    —. “Sense.” Writing/Talks. Ed. Bob Perelman. Carbondale and Edwardsville, IL: Southern Illinois UP, 1985. 63-86.

    —. Ten to One: Selected Poems. Hanover, CT: Wesleyan UP/UP of New England, 1999.

    —. The Trouble with Genius: Reading Pound, Joyce, Stein, and Zukofsky. Berkeley: U of California P, 1994.

    Silliman, Ron. The New Sentence. New York: Roof Books, 1985.

    Silliman, Ron, Carla Harryman, Lyn Hejinian, Steve Benson, Bob Perelman, Barrett Watten. “Aesthetic Tendency And The Politics Of Poetry: A Manifesto.” Social Text 19/20 (Fall 1988): 261-75.

    Watten, Barrett. “The Constructivist Moment: From El Lissitzky to Detroit Techno.” Qui Parle 11.1 (Winter 1997): 57-100.

    —. “The Secret History of the Equal Sign: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Between Discourse and Text.” Poetics Today (Winter 1999): 581-627.

    —. “Total Syntax: The Work in the World.” Total Syntax. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1985. 65-114. Rpt. in Artifice and Indeterminacy: An Anthology of New Poetics. Ed. Christopher Beach. Tuscaloosa: The U of Alabama P, 1998. 49-69.

    Williams, Raymond. Marxism and Literature. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1977.

  • Hip Librarians, Dweeb Chic: Romances of the Archive

    Suzanne Keen. Romances of the Archive in Contemporary British Fiction. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 2001.

     

     

     

     

    1.      “Understanding, which separates men from brutes,” writes Suzanne Keen of Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene, “amounts to an enumeration of debts” (69). This statement asserts that in Spenser’s narrative world, comprehension of a state of social reality is possible through something called “understanding”; that such understanding results from uniquely human processes of ratiocination; and that this understanding can be produced only through a comprehensive training of the intellect that includes the study of history, defined as knowledge of the wisdom and ethical questing of previous human generations who have shaped the present. Examining the importance of historical knowledge to Spenser’s work is hardly shocking in the context of Early Modern studies, but encountering a critic who takes Spenser’s position as a starting point for a study of the post-imperial moment in British fiction gives one whiplash. Keen’s Romances of the Archive in Contemporary British Fiction does just this: it asserts that Spenser’s romance begins a tradition that, despite postmodernist countercurrents, remains vigorous and has even gained cultural force in the novels of the last few decades.

       

       

    2.      This is a (sub)genre study: the genre is the novel, the subgenre is detective fiction (with traces of the historical novel), and the sub-subgenre is the “romance of the archive.” Keen defines seven characteristics of the romance of the archive: it contains character-researchers, endowed with the corporeality and round psychology of the realistic novel; romance adventure stories, in which research features as a kernel plot action, resulting in strong closure, with climactic discoveries and rewards; discomforts and inconveniences suffered in the service of knowledge; sex and physical pleasure gained as a result of questing; settings and locations containing collections of papers; material traces of the past revealing the truth; and evocation of history, looking back from a post-imperial context (63).

       

       

    3.      The book’s thesis is that there has been a resurgence of interest in sleuthing in contemporary British fiction, but that this sleuthing has taken a special form: academic and non-professional researchers (“questers”) are main characters of novels, and the goal of these characters is to investigate the past through archival research. Their objective is to arrive at some truth about the past, and more often than not, after doing investigative research in libraries or private collections, they do indeed find this previously hidden truth. These “romances of the archive” thus are a traditionalist narrative rejoinder to the proliferation of mid- and late twentieth-century postmodernist experimental fiction. Keen complicates this thesis by arguing that these books form a conservative sub-genre that reflects the need to assert British heritage in the face of England’s traumatic loss of imperial and colonialist status in the late twentieth century. The romance of these novels–their construction of the researcher as “questor” and their frequent assertion through plot construction that it is possible to “seek and find solid facts, incontrovertible evidence, and well-preserved memories of times past”–is what links them to the Spenserian tradition of romance, as well as to detective fiction, gothic fiction, and conspiracy thrillers (à la John Le Carré).

       

       

    4.      Keen approves of these novels; it is clear throughout the study that she is not sympathetic with postmodernism’s insistent interrogation of cultural metanarratives. She is also distrustful of much recent “theory”: this is not a book participating in the (increasingly self-referential) theoretical conversation about postcolonialism and globalization. In this book, Keen does not feel compelled to make sweeping claims about British culture or global capitalism. She focuses her analysis on specific novels, and while working out the whys and wherefores of this fiction, she keeps theoretical musings to a minimum. The book is tightly focused on literature itself, making claims about literary history and using historical context to reveal rationales for literary construction.

       

       

    5.      However, Keen avoids being hermetically sealed within a formalist method, for she historicizes this British fiction in the context of post-Suez and post-Falklands political anxiety, debates about the teaching of history in British schools, and the real-world attitudes of contemporary British writers toward their homeland, toward history, and toward narrative. In her analysis of Peter Ackroyd’s work, she quotes from his papers, housed at the Beinecke Library at Yale University; when making claims about British history as an area study today, she quotes from documents relating contemporary controversies in England concerning the National Curriculum for History. Her twenty-one page bibliography attests to her fastidious research. Clearly, Keen has the kind of archival sensibility that she identifies in her subject. Romances of the Archive is itself a “romance of the archive” in many ways, a tour de force of literary criticism that assumes that answers can be found through the practice of rational critical investigation.

       

       

    6.      Keen recognizes that “even the fluffiest romances of the archive” are freighted with “political visions of contemporary Britain and its relation to its past” (60). While novels such as Barry Unsworth’s Sugar and Rum and Sacred Hunger complicate and criticize the British past, novels such as Peter Ackroyd’s Chatterton reveal “a fundamental romanticism” about history that values connections between the present and the past. At the other side of the continuum, a novel such as A.S. Byatt’s Possession defends British heritage against a postmodern attack on history. Thus these romances of the archive run the gamut from postmodernist critique to neo-conservative assertion of nationalist history. These

       

      romances of the archive...show fictional characters endeavouring to come to terms with a British past unexpurgated of its rough patches. Gravitating to the gaps in school history, revisiting glorious episodes with a critical eye, and attempting to recuperate heritage sensations from periods rendered inert or shameful by academicians, romancers of the archive enact and criticize their culture's fascination with the uses of the past. (109)

       

       

    7.      Yet in the final analysis, Keen asserts, many of these contemporary British novels are epistemologically traditionalist, overtly supporting modern humanist values and repudiating the supposed “crisis in history”: “they unabashedly interpret the past through its material traces; they build on a foundation of ‘documentarism,’ answering the postmodern critique of history with invented records full of hard facts” (3). In addition, these novels often are politically conservative, reviving a Whig interpretation of history and rebuilding a nationalist pride in Britishness. While she has sympathy with their support of modern rationalism, Keen is much more skeptical and critical of these novels’ defensiveness about the British national past. With touches of acerbic wit, she often points out their ideological contradictions. For example, when discussing Byatt’s Possession, which pits theory-sodden and status-seeking American academics against English amateur researchers in a race to find valuable historical documents, she notes that Byatt writes as if British heritage were at stake: the amateur British sleuths represent pure, disinterested research that will serve as the basis of true British history and autonomy, both threatened by American materialism and cultural imperialism. Byatt therefore “plays the heritage card in defence of literary history. When she invokes the competing literature of American and postcolonial writers, Byatt places Britain and British writing in the sympathetic role of underdog. The fact that British libraries and museums still contain treasure troves gathered from around the world lies concealed, for Byatt does not invite closer scrutiny of the imperial history of collecting and acquisition” (60).

       

       

    8.      Keen is right to note that the Right’s attitudes toward the “postmodernists” closely resemble those found in romances of the archive: that is, they construct a new arena for the ancients vs. the moderns debate, pitting postmodernism against the keepers of the culture (what Keen would call the heritage preservationists). While in the 1980s this conservative contingent railed against secular humanists in the academy, in the 1990s and later they tended to decry the ascendancy of the “postmoderns,” who strip secular humanism of its utopian social action agendas and even of its basic assumptions about human agency, reality, truth, and meaning.

       

       

    9.      What Keen doesn’t consider as deeply is that these novels critique and re-present not just a politically conservative need to assert British heritage over academic history, but also the turn toward history and archival research in academic theory since the 1970s. Great Britain played a large role in the genesis of this trend. Fueled by the events of 1968, the turn to history was indebted to an influx of ideas from outlets such as the New Left Review; the growth of cultural studies at the Birmingham Center for Contemporary Cultural Studies (founded in 1964) under the influence of, first, social science inquiry and then, later, the Marxist work of Louis Althusser and the cultural studies work of Stuart Hall; and the cultural materialist work of Raymond Williams. Combined with the development of New Historicism and neo-Marxist (or poststructuralist Marxist) theories in the U.S. and the general “crisis in history” perceived in all disciplines but especially in history, the post-1960s academy on both sides of the Atlantic has fueled ferocious debates about history and repeatedly advocated that we return to it as the wellspring of understanding. In its poststructuralist forms, this theoretical return to history has implied that we can get some “truth” about history from our archival research, even if that truth is the truth about historical contingency. For Marxist theorists, this is not an implication but an imperative: Fredric Jameson’s injunction to “Always historicize!” asserts that there is a point to historical research, that digging in the archives leads to some real revelation about the past that is provisional only in the sense that it may be incomplete. Keen is justifiably skeptical about the ultimate significance of what transpires in the arcane world of academic theory. But this turn to history in influential British academic centers such as the Birmingham Center clearly needs to be credited with a certain real impact, not only in Britain but in universities throughout the world. And it needs, as well, to be differentiated from the “postmodernist perspectives on history” that Keen constructs as the antithesis of archival romance.

       

       

    10.      As the notion of an acting self was increasingly attacked by the notion of the constructed subject in post-1960s linguistic and Foucauldian theories, Marxist and other social justice theories scrambled to find a way to repudiate or modify the idea of social determinism of the psyche without relinquishing the idea of the economic and/or cultural determinism of lived experience. As the century drew to a close, even the more linguistic or seemingly formalistic strains of poststructuralism had turned back to the problem of self and ethics, worrying the paradox of (historically situated) ethical action in the face of subject construction. The Left was turning to history with a vengeance and puzzling out its own theoretical self-contradictions as a result. The confusing result was often that both the Left and the Right attacked postmodernism as the bogeyman of history and social justice (the Left calling it fascist and the Right calling it nihilist). Postmodernist theory became the Other to both sides of the political spectrum in the “theory wars.” The relationships among the turn to a traditional belief in history in romances of the archive, the coterminous return to a belief in historical research in academic Leftist theory, and the demand for a return to history by the conservative Right on both sides of the Atlantic could be elucidated a good deal more clearly in this study.

       

       

    11.      Keen’s book, however, not only gives useful readings of specific works of fiction but also posits a social significance for the rise of this particular subgenre at this particular moment in British history. Keen discusses fiction by Julian Barnes, A.S. Byatt, Penelope Lively, Barry Unsworth, Peter Ackroyd, Kingsley Amis, Lindsay Clarke, Lawrence Norfolk, Nigel Williams, P.D. James, Robert Harris, Peter Dickinson, Margaret Drabble, Alan Hollinghurst, Adam Mars-Jones, Robert Goddard, Stevie Davies, Derek Walcott, Keri Hulme, Amitav Ghosh, and Bharati Mukherjee. A dual focus on technique and thematic subject leads her to interesting linkages. For example, she links detective fiction to romance through their shared “questing for truth,” a claim that runs counter to many studies of detective fiction that regard it as the genre most aligned with realism and modernity, particularly in its assumptions that deductive logic and humanist values can solve the puzzles of the universe. The romance of the archive incorporates detective fiction’s rationalist questing but adds to it romance’s “theological, political, and personal frames of reference for making moral and ethical judgments about human behaviour” (157). For example, in her chapter “Envisioning the Past,” Keen discusses novels that scrutinize the archival past to re-evaluate expectations of gender roles and sexual orientation and concludes that these novels tend toward the uncanny and a libidinal narrative experimentation. In the last chapter, “Postcolonial Rejoinders,” she unflinchingly discusses how English writers often display a “nostalgia, defensiveness, and anxiety” about British colonial history that includes “regret about Britain’s decline in global status and annoyance at the complaints of postcolonial subjects” (215). These writers, she believes, attempt to manage the anxieties of the post-Falklands decades by offering a “reassertion of British glory” (230).

       

       

    12.      Keeping her focus tightly trained on realist literature and British literary history, Keen observes the psychology of contemporary British writers often ignored by critics trained on avant-garde or postcolonial fiction. Keen offers a study of the British realist novel in a post-imperial age, a discussion of the mainstream center rather than the postcolonial border. Her book is written clearly (this is a critical study that undergraduate students could actually read and understand) and could be used as the basis for a special topics course on contemporary British fiction, particularly in this subgenre. Romances of the Archive is a nuanced account of contemporary British fiction that analyzes the way that romances of the archive are indeed romances, incorporating presentism, antiquarianism, and humanist (even theological) values. What Keen’s own archival and critical quest has revealed–essentially, a new mode of literary nationalism–certainly deserves our further attention.

      Department of English
      University of Tennessee
      aelias2@utk.edu

  • The Steorn Exploit and its Spin Doktors, or “Synergie ist der name of das Spiel, my boy!”

    John Freeman
    Department of English
    University of Detroit Mercy
    freemajc@udmercy.edu

    ex.ploit (ĕk´ sploit, ĭk-sploit´) n. An act or deed, especially a brilliant or heroic one. See Synonyms at feat.

    tr.v. (ĭk-sploit´, ĕk´ sploit) ex.ploit.ed, ex.ploit.ing, ex.ploits

      1. To employ to the greatest possible advantage: exploit one’s talents.
      2. To make use of selfishly or unethically: a country that exploited peasant labor.

    See Synonyms at

    manipulate

      .
    1. To advertise; promote.

    Middle English, from Old French esploit, from Latin explicitum, neuter past participle of explicāre, to unfold; see explicate.

    –Wikipedia

    Given the long, inglorious history of alleged perpetual motion devices, the failure of the Irish technology company Steorn to demonstrate its heavily self-promoted device, the Orbo, might seem to warrant little fanfare. Whatever excuses offered for Orbo’s no-show, it was clear no laws of thermodynamics on the conservation of energy (CoE) were to be broken that day (or any other day, for that matter). If anything, a long-standing but informal law was upheld. As Popular Mechanics editor Clifford B. Hicks noted almost a century ago concerning proofs offered of perpetual motion devices: “There never was . . . indeed there never is, a convenient examination for such devices. This is almost another law of physics” (Ord-Hume 181). Several elements of the Steorn saga suggest, however, that some profit might yet be derived from writing on Steorn rather than from simply writing it off as a complete loss. The Steorn enterprise, in every sense an exploit, began in July 2007 with a £75,000 ad in the Economist.[1] Here, the company claimed to have discovered an anomaly in magnetic properties that allowed it to exploit the laws of thermodynamics and derive more energy from the system than it had put in. Steorn’s CEO, Sean McCarthy, claimed several unnamed universities had privately tested its device, but the testing was “always behind closed doors, always off the record, and [the device] always proven to work.” Steorn positioned itself as a guerilla corporation involved in an asymmetrical battle with establishment institutions. Alexander Galloway and Eugene Thacker characterize such resistance as an “exploit,” a viral intrusion into the interstices of various systems as “a resonant flaw designed to resist, threaten, and ultimately desert the dominant political [and, I would add, scientific and economic] diagram” (21). Enlisting the aid of what Tiziana Terranova labels the “outernet,” Steorn challenged the traditional business model. Selecting its own jury to test the Orbo, the company also resisted the normal scientific validation process.

     
    The Steorn Exploit has become a textbook case study for viral marketing techniques. Of course, exploitation cuts both ways, and viruses not only spread but also mutate. In noting that on-line social networks often originate in “techno-events,” Geert Lovink cites Alain Badiou’s contention in Ethics that “There must be an encounter, there must be something which cannot be calculated, predicted or managed” (Recession 9). True to form, Steorn’s failed quest has resulted in some unexpected encounters, not all of them favorable to the company. Its on-line forum has morphed into a webmind that evidences some of the emergent properties of a loosely collective consciousness. Increasingly unmanageable, this forum displays a mind of its own, at times even working to hack into and deprogram its host’s agenda. Moreover, both Steorn and its forum have had to do battle with another counter-exploitive element, this time appearing in the inhuman machinations of Herr Doktor Mabuse, a nightmarish perversion of Steorn’s original vision. Weathering the elements that have brought down similar social network enterprises, the forum has thus far managed to be self-sustaining. Whether or not it endures depends paradoxically on the very spirit of contestation that often drives its operations.

    The Business Exploit (Mixing it Up with Science)

    The process of valorization (the production of monetary value) happens by foregrounding the quality of the labor that literally animates the commodity. . . In particular, the Internet is about the extraction of value out of continuous, updateable work, and it is extremely labor intensive.

    –Terranova (47)

    The “killer apps” of tomorrow won’t be hardware devices or software programs but social practices. The most far-reaching changes will come, as they often do, from the kinds of relationships, enterprises, communities, and markets that the infrastructure makes possible.

    –Rheingold (qtd. Lovink, Recession 9)

    As both a business concern and an ersatz scientific enterprise, Steorn constitutes what Terranova describes as a “mutation,” a term she applies to free labor and its own ambiguous standing between such oppositions as “the Internet as capital and the Internet as anticapital” (53). Although Steorn’s challenge was physics-oriented, it is telling that it was published in a respected business journal. Exploits such as Steorn’s generally occur in the gaps between or within disciplines. Our current techno-event arose when the Economist published a claim usually reserved for the pages of the National Enquirer. In an age that Jodi Dean characterizes as distrusting traditional authority, the conspiracy of silence alleged by Steorn against the scientific establishment banked on people’s willingness to believe in the improbable, to have distrust for the arbiters of what Kuhn labels “normal science.” Steorn portrayed itself as a campaigner against modern day absolutism in all its forms: the absolutism of the State, Big Oil, Capitalism and even the absolutisms of Thermodynamic Laws and experimental procedure, foundational elements of traditional science. Steorn offered in the form of a world-altering perpetual motion device a “fantasy of a powerful, unifying knowledge” (Secret 31). As a business exploit, Steorn succeeded in the pre-demo days in perpetuating the fantasy by persuading many to suspend their disbelief. Of course, a stroll through the virtual Museum of Unworkable Devices demonstrates just how long-running a fantasy perpetual motion has been.

     
    Even in the face of its failed demo, Steorn has succeeded in establishing what Terranova describes as an “outernet,” that “network of social, cultural, and economic relationships that crisscrosses and exceeds the Internet––surrounds and connects the latter to larger flows of labor, culture, and power” (53). A small company with modest resources, Steorn has set up an unorthodox business model in the very middle of this internet/outernet divide. The Steorn Private Developers Club (SPDC, or SPUD in some members’ parlance) was established as a means for some members to investigate the “Orbo-effect” and find applications. Steorn thus took advantage of the testing and development skills of various subsets of members, again with a very modest outlay of investment. Interest in the initial SPDC was so great that a second one was established to accommodate the surplus. In its recruitment and enlistment of the free labor of its forum members, Steorn worked within the digital economy to create its own version of what the Italian autonomists label “the social factory.” Terranova describes this post-Fordist phenomenon as “a process whereby ‘work processes have shifted from the factory to society, thereby setting in motion a truly complex machine’” (33). Citing Facebook, Google, and Yahoo! as examples, John Palfrey and Urs Gasser demonstrate the growth of “interoperability,” the willingness of internet entities to open up their “service to third-party developers” (229).

     
    Purportedly established as a means of educating interested parties and disseminating news about the Orbo, the forum, according to McCarthy, was opposed by many in the company as an unnecessary distraction. Still, in plugging so many people into the company’s development, advertising, and marketing strategies, McCarthy has taken advantage of a labor force that has been indefatigable in the energy it has expended on behalf of the enterprise. Some forum members offer highly technical discussions of magnetic properties, describing openly their own experiments with magnetic properties as well as their speculations about what constitutes the Orbo effect (if anything at all!). Other threads are populated with people very knowledgeable about the Free Energy movement and its various claimants; when Steorn released images of its Orbo, they were able to speculate about how closely it resembled earlier so-called “free energy” devices such as the Perendev motor. Still other threads deal with related issues such as global warming, alternative energies, and breaking news stories concerning all manner of technological innovation. A net trolling through the vast dataspace of the cybersphere, the forum gathers into itself information. Terranova points out that such capturing of knowledge goes beyond enlisting the free and voluntary services of web-designers and multi-media specialists–and even inventors–to include “forms of labor we do not immediately recognize as such: chat, real-life stories, mailing lists, amateur newsletters, and so on” (33). While members do not design Steorn’s website, they have kept the forum going by spinning an impressive number of threads. Alive with energy, the forum threads proliferate, giving proof positive of Steven Johnson’s analogy of the web to “an information ecosystem, where data circulate like nutrients in a rain forest” (97).

     
    Particularly in reference to the technologically savvy members of the forum, Steorn has enlisted a cadre of specialists in what Lawrence M. Sanger characterizes as “shopwork.” Within the context of software design, Sanger defines shopwork as “any strongly collaborative, open source/open content work.” The word is a portmanteau constructed from “shared open work, and it arguably has the advantages of suggesting collaboration in both the original meaning of ‘shopwork’ (which implies something constructed or fixed in a shop, perhaps by several workers together) and, with its parts reversed, ‘workshop’ (which implies participatory learning)” (89). Some have speculated that Steorn had not been able to explain purported anomalies in the Orbo’s operation and had set up the forum and jury panel in the hopes someone “out there” might come up with an answer. If some conjectures about the company’s incomplete understanding of the Orbo effect are correct, then this enlisting of experts has allowed McCarthy & Company to tap into–at bargain basement prices–the expertise of knowledgeable forum members and the pool of jurors in coming to understand the alleged effect. Perhaps now that the Orbo is apparently at a dead end, Steorn is maintaining the forum in the hope it can claim proprietory ownership of any members’ discovery. This restriction holds especially true for jurors and members of the SPDC, who have had to sign Non-Disclosure Agreements (NDA’s) and to allot Steorn a proprietory interest in any discoveries stemming from their investigations of the Orbo.

     
    While Terranova and Sanger characterize what is a virtual “factory,” Steorn’s own factory model exists not only in the cybersphere but also in scores of the basements or garages of various tinkers and committed inventors who have applied an impressive array of skills either to replicate Steorn’s experiments or to set up their own versions of a perpetual motion device. Moreover, the compartmentalization that often separates the designer from the engineer or, more generally, management from labor in the typical business venture does not hold sway here. Steorn’s own social factory, a “truly complex machine,” converts the traditional production line into an impressive array of production links that users can employ in their investigations. A designer tinkering in his or her home workshop may post a display of the magnetic configuration in question on YouTube, other forum members giving instant feedback, critiques, and suggestions for improvement. Discussion is often wide ranging. Participants give engineering advice on the placement of magnets, stators, and rotors and offer formulae for momentum, rate of attraction, etc. This shopwork has been a natural progression from the early days of the forum, when videos of Steorn’s own set-ups were displayed and members worked collaboratively to figure out their design features, construction, and operation as well as to speculate about the theoretical limits to their operations. All in all, Steorn has created a basement mechanic chic, particularly among members of the SPDC, by promising to allow them to experiment with Orbo technology. As Arthur W.J.G. Ord-Hume attests from personal experience in Perpetual Motion: The History of an Obsession, there is magnetic drawing power to perpetual motion as a generative master narrative: “Talk perpetual motion for a while to the ordinary person and, sooner or later, the chances are that he will come up with a scheme of his own” (222). Ord-Hume writes that the quest for perpetual motion holds a particular appeal to the American sense of individualism and the ethic of DIY–“Thousands may have tried and failed, but I want to see for myself.”

     
    Although Sanger characterizes shopworks as “perpetual; they have no endpoint” (90), one might have predicted the forum’s demise with the advent of the failed demo. Surely the idea of staying around to rearrange the deck chairs on the S.ean S.teorn Titanic would not appeal to many forum members. But the forum and SPDC persist. Against the expectations of many, Steorn still maintains both. Steorn may have discovered one of what Terranova describes as “new mechanisms of extraction of value” in a gift economy. After all, why not keep the complex mechanism it has set going in perpetual motion? Although forum “workers” have been alienated from the company itself, many remain active in the forum. As Terranova writes, in such situations “the worker achieves fulfillment through work and finds in her brain her own, unalienated means of production” (36). Forum member alsetalokin, for example, has garnered a great deal of interest from forum members with his own device, the whipmag. Left to its own devices, the forum has proven to be self-sustaining. Even were Steorn to close up this part of its shop, many members are prepared to set up their own shopworking/workshopping site. Alienation, once the bane of the worker, here takes on a new meaning as the workers’ “alienation” leads to a self-sustaining mode in which workers have the power to “disincorporate” themselves from the sponsoring institution and strike out elsewhere in the cybersphere.

     
    This disaffection and striking out on one’s own are not always the fate of the “peer production” model that Don Tapscott and Anthony D. Williams investigate in Wikinomics. Calling such infrastructures “weapons of mass collaboration,” these authors point out the benefits of the innovation and value such enterprises can produce (11). This “uberconnected, amorphous mass of self-organized individuals” has the potential to allow a company to enlarge its operations even as it downsizes its core labor force. Tapscott and Williams argue traditional companies that fail to tap into these virtual “Ideagoras” will suffer an increasing competitive disadvantage. Citing Coase’s law that corporations will keep operations in-house as long as the transaction costs for outsourcing them are unfavorable, they point out that the internet allows corporations not only to outsource a growing number of their operations but also to invert this law: the internet makes outsourcing transaction costs much more favorable than sustaining in-house costs. In a striking example of the returns to be made here, Tapscott and Williams tell the story of Rob McEwen, CEO of Goldcorp, Inc. When it seemed that his company had prospected all the gold from a field in Red Lake, Ontario, he directed his head geologist, in essence, to open-source all the company’s geologic data–a seemingly insane idea in a highly secretive, highly competitive industry. Enlisting the aid of over a thousand “virtual prospectors,” he catapulted “his underperforming $100 million company into a $9 billion juggernaut” (9). Of course, such outsourcing requires letting go of proprietary knowledge. The authors cite Wind-up Records as one innovative company that initially created an outernet workforce of music fans who used their home computers “to synchronize Japanese animé art with popular music tracks.” Unwisely, the company later “squandered a brilliant opportunity to engage their customers as evangelists for their artists” by removing all their meticulously wrought videos from its site (53).

     
    From Tapscott and Williams’s viewpoint, Steorn’s creation of an SPDC falls somewhere between the models devised by Goldcorp and by Wind-up Records. Certainly there has been an enlisting of experts, although the SPDC is not fully open-sourced (thus, the “Private” in its title). There have been hints, vaguely set forth because of NDAs, that the company has not been entirely forthcoming in sharing its proprietary knowledge. While the forum itself has remained open, moderators have on occasion used their power of censoring/”sinking” threads and banning members. If the bane of dot-coms is poor business planning, the bane of network societies is a failure of moderation, whether that failure is expressed as under- or over-restrictive moderation. Hybrid enterprises like the one the forum is based upon run particular risks. Monetary capital and human capital are not always easily synchronized. Commenting on the failure of his Electric Minds magazine/web conferencing site, Rheingold sums up his own “dotgone” experience: “Venture capital, I concluded, might be a good way to ramp up a Yahoo or create a market for a kind of technology product that never existed before. But perhaps it isn’t a healthy way to grow a social enterprise” (qtd. Lovink, Dark 7).

     
    Steorn has pursued “a kind of technology product that never existed before” at the same time it has sponsored a decidedly lively social enterprise. Indeed, now that the commodity is in suspense, social interactions have become far more operative than magnetic ones. To reverse the old General Electric motto, process may be Steorn’s most important product. In this vein, a more skeptical analyst might conclude that Steorn’s goal all along was not to perfect a perpetual motion device but to achieve a different form of “overunity.” Thus, as a website-producer, Steorn has found the perfect means to keep its product in play, a product that may be nothing more than an advertising of its ability to garner hits and participation from a worldwide audience. As Terranova indicates, the liveliest sites are those that create multifunctional modalities: “Users keep a site alive through their labor, the cumulative hours of accessing the site (thus generating advertising), writing messages, participating in conversations, and sometimes making the jump to collaborators. The objective is to have you consume bandwidth” (49). Harnessing the desire and drive of the forum, the Steorn Exploit draws on it to provide, in Terranova’s terms, “the labor that literally animates the commodity” in a post-Fordist world.

     
    This animation takes a variety of forms, some of them parodic.[2] Shortly after the demo fiasco, the forum broke out in a chorus of limericks concerning the Orbo and the Steorn Exploit. These limericks operated like viral intrusions upon the Steorn Exploit, serving as running, gunning commentaries on issues, controversies, claims, and arguments that have arisen in the forum threads. At times, they have also functioned as micronarratives of the forum experience (such as The Schrödinger Cat Cycle and The Adventures of Orby Cycle). That Steorn by and large allows such postings on its website might seem surprising; however, they serve in their own way to keep Orbo in play. After all, if forum members’ amusing “theory” about the London demo failure is valid, Steorn may very well need a replacement for its “power source failure”:

    Now Orby was the hamster ideal, The best of his breed on the wheel. To London he went For the Steorn event But escaped out the door with a squeal.

    The proliferation of limericks on the forum supplies yet one more level to the social enterprise. They keep their numerous writers occupied, the human equivalent of a hard-driving “hamster work force” supplying Orbo and the Steorn Exploit new spins. As long as there is buzz, the source of generation is no great matter; indeed, as long as they’re caged, they’re engaged. Terranova characterizes late capitalism as “the field that both sustains free labor and exhausts it” (50). As McKenzie Wark might note, the company can harness this energy as long as it maintains “a surplus of desire and the scarcity of the desired object” (para. 309). Paradoxically, even suspicions about the company’s motives have served to drive the system along. As equal opportunity “co-conspirators,” forum members are encouraged to create threads and spin out queries. “Make links, search for truth,” as Dean would put it (Secret54). The production of linkages, moreover, is perpetual: “Action is postponed until a thorough study is undertaken, until all facts are known” (162-63). For Dean, such postponement “is a permanent deferral,” a depoliticizing, de-activating strategy, since the search for facts is endless and, worse yet, generates even more facts (163). For Steorn, it is exactly the kind of spin-doctoring that keeps the Orbo a going concern. No word from Steorn’s anonymous and sequestered Jury? There’s the consolation of a “memo” intercepted from one of its members and forwarded to us:

    We're reporting in this memo, Sean, On Orbo's bizarre stop/go motion We've found only pre-Copernican Models capable of furnishin' Steorn's eccentric and retrograde notion.

    Lest one get the notion that forum members simply serve as an ant-colony of dispensable laborers for the Steorn Exploit or spend all their time crafting limericks, we should note several members have turned into financial analysts and investigative reporters in researching the company, particularly since its failed demo. In a blog entry entitled “Steorn and free energy: the plot thickens,” Eric Berger points out that Steorn started out as an e-business company “that saw its market vanish during the dot.com bust.” He speculates that Steorn’s current campaign is simply a “re-tooling” of itself as a Web-marketing company. In this scenario, Steorn is “using the ‘free energy’ promotion as a platform to show future clients how it can leverage print advertising and a slick Web site to promote its products and ideas. If so, it’s a brilliant strategy.” Steorn may have thus avoided the fate of what Lovink describes as “Dotgone entrepreneurs [who] lacked patience to work on sustainable models . . . . The rule was: become a first mover, spend a lot of money, build traffic, get a customer base, and then figure out how to make money” (Dark 355). The company can certainly show potential clients it has the ability to create a buzz, garner endless hits, generate an impressive e-mailing list, and engage a virtual workforce to do its bidding (and even unbidding). As many firms realized in the waning of the dot-com boom, there is a “hard-core logic of the digital age: attract users, or become toast” (Dark 161). As Terranova indicates, “the best Web site, the best way to stay visible and thriving on the Web, is to turn your site into a space that is not only accessed, but somehow built by its users” (48). Generative, the forum weaves discussion thread after discussion thread in building up its own elaborate, labyrinthine structure. While many might object to the ethics of the Exploit, from the perspective of bandwidth consumption and the advertising of its own personalized widget, Steorn has proven a remarkable success.

     
    Quoting an IBM billboard–“Bad ideas don’t get better online” (Dark 348), Lovink observes that “The Internet has been a gift to charlatans, hypemeisters, and merchants of vapors” (350). Initially, at least, Steorn evaded such characterizations, as it seemed to be “marketing” altruism more than any product, particularly since the Orbo was as yet unnamed. All we knew until shortly before the demo was that its dimensions measured “bigger than a breadbox.” Steorn’s promise to allow Third World countries unlimited access to its technology (and others to employ it at a modest licensing fee) situates it firmly in the gift economy, the realm of “nonmarket relations” existing outside the neo-liberal state and its vested interest in the capitalist enterprise.[3] Client companies desirous of a strong web presence might be impressed by Steorn’s legerdemain. Protean, Steorn has simply resurrected its former self as “an expert in the field of technology risk management.” Thus, in its 2001 website, Steorn noted how many companies in this field suffer cost overruns, “with almost a third of projects being cancelled before completion.” Steorn offered its services to those who do not want “to fall prey to a combination of poor management, unrealistic expectations, unclear objectives, technology incompetence and lack of planning.” What greater risk to manage than an enterprise promising a technological breakthrough supplying an endless source of energy? Given the millions of Euros invested thus far in the company, an advertising budget of ₤75,000 is certainly modest, considering the amount of publicity and interest it has generated for the company. When one throws in whatever value-added profit Steorn has garnered from the free labor of SPDC members, cost management appears in an even more positive light.

     
    Speculations about what might be going on in the company add further spins to the Exploit. Alsetalokin,[4] for one, has speculated that the company may be a victim of an internal scam. However some forum members had a problem imagining the whole company falling under the spell of one person. Wouldn’t one whistleblower have stepped forward during these four years of “development,” if only to save the company from ignominious demise? (especially given that the whole project had been spun off Steorn’s efforts to develop a micro power source for an ATM fraud-detection device). As csblinky queried: “If the ship was sinking don’t you think one of the employees would have come public? How could a whole organization suffer from mass psychosis?” An answer from popular culture comes to mind. Janine, the Ghostbusters’ secretary, is interviewing a job candidate for the much overworked team:

    JANINE: Do you believe in U.F.O's, astral projection, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, full-trance mediums, telekinetic movement, black and/or white magic, pyramidology, the theory of Atlantis, the Loch Ness Monster, or in general in spooks, specters, wraiths, geists and ghosts?
    WINSTON: Not really. However, if there's a semi-regular paycheck in it I'll believe anything you say. (Ramis and Aykroyd)

    Still other members, following alsetalokin’s Hamsters-on-a-Wheel Theory, explored the possibility that Steorn’s enterprise has all along been a disguised social experiment, the forum members mere unwitting subjects for a future documentary (or, more likely, a mockumentary). Csblinky, however, pointed out some drawbacks to this theory: “If the subjects are the forum members, and who else is there, nobody that I know of has been questioned to find out how his socio-economic level and psycho-sexual Kinsey Index correlates with his reaction to each misstep, or whatever it is they look for in such studies; so it’s hard for me to see how that works.” Actually, one does not need a psycho-sexual Kinsey Index to delve into the psyches of many forum members, as they display few inhibitions. For example, shunyacetas writes:

    My darling, I want you to see A way to surpass Unity: We'll just thrash about Slow in and fast out We're two--in nine months we'll be three!

    Even the more risqué examples probably would not register all that high on the Kinsey Index, as only someone whose daily work attire includes double-breasted pocket-protectors would fully appreciate the eroticism of “object relations” entailed in this limerick from Evolvealready:

    Said Orbo to diode array "You're fun and a very good lay. The sex was so hot That my sticky spot[5] Won't be sticky the rest of the day."

    Whether scientific breakthrough or social documentary, the Steorn Exploit will never want for spin doktorsto keep it going full tilt. Of course, there is even an outside chance McCarthy & Company might still win validation and fame; after all, as cloud camper points out:

    Sean McC has nothing to worry about. Thomas Edison and the celebrated British physicist Lord Kelvin both agreed that Nikola Tesla's ideas were the work of the devil himself. They later apologized after AC electricity was proven and practical.

    Rumors have even surfaced that members of the SPDC have been shown a video of a famous physicist extolling the virtues of Steorn’s device. In one thread, “Could MIT’s Walter Lewin be a Juror?” fatspidr links the forum to one of his lectures, in which he gives both a mathematical and practical demonstration of some spooky effects that seem to defy the logic of CoE. To complicate matters, Steorn seems to have attracted millions more in Euros from several new investors. This fact immediately lit up several query nodes on the forum, which resulted in several investigations into who was investing in Steorn and what might have led people to make such investments in the face of Orbo’s failure.

    Even the worst-case scenario, utter and ignominious disgrace, may not require any “face-saving” gesture, at least in cstru4’s estimation:

    They don't have to skip town weighed down by bags of ill gotten booty and book in for a long and arduous session of Brazilian plastic surgery. They can say sorry, but it was a legitimate endeavour and anyway, we virtually TOLD you not to believe us.

    Indeed, even utter and ignominious disgrace may have been part of Steorn’s long-range plan. For example, in a thread entitled “When was the last thing you saw/heard from Steorn?” Big Oil Rep advances the theory that the Steorn Exploit may have been all along a “‘Producers’ type tax relief scam . . . . The Orbo could be the equivalent of ‘Spring Time for Hitler’–something that’s so ridiculous it’s bound to fail (or so the plan goes) and still leave investors better off.”

    The Psychological Exploit: Cogito ergo sum(us)

    Reduce the grandest type of man hitherto known to an abstract statement of his qualities and efforts, and he appears in dangerous company: say that, like Copernicus and Galileo, he was immovably convinced in the face of hissing incredulity; but so is the contriver of perpetual motion. We cannot fairly try the spirits by this sort of test . . . . Shall we say, “Let the ages try the spirits, and see what they are worth”? Why, we are the beginning of the ages, which can only be just by virtue of just judgments in separate human breasts–separate yet combined. Even steam-engines could not have got made without that condition, but must have stayed in the mind of James Watt.

    –George Eliot (Daniel Deronda 451)

    In this house, we obey the laws of thermodynamics.

    –Homer Simpson

    In Aliens in America, Dean finds that alternative sciences such as Ufology and paranormal investigations “insert themselves into the interstices of medicine, psychology, biology, religion, astronomy, and ecology” (to name just a few realms; 6). Not surprisingly, Steorn’s own alternative science, its challenge to the status quo, initially was inserted into the interstices of the scientific and business enterprises. Inadvertently, Steorn’s Exploit has unfolded within yet another interstice: that gap between the technological and the biological. The forum has taken on a life of its own, a hybrid existence, as it were. In the course of the last few years, Steorn’s forum has begun to operate like the psynet described by Ben Goertzel in “World Wide Brain: Self-Organizing Internet Intelligence as the Actualization of the Collective Unconscious.” Part of the larger webmind system, psynet “is a self-organizing network of information-carrying agents” (314). An artificial information storage and processing system linking servers on the Internet, the psynet manages “mobile agents” whose job is to create new links and provide feedback. It thereby fills in gaps in its own knowledge base and attains to a sense of introspection by “querying itself” about its deficiencies and even swapping sections of its memory with other servers (316). For example, not long after one forum member thought that s/he remembered Sean making a particular claim about Orbo at some point in the past, other members became activated, supplying a link to the comment and thereby initiating a new connection in the communal cyber-neural circuitry. At one point, members feared that Steorn might erase the hundreds of threads constituting the forum’s “past,” the hardware of its archival memory. Not to worry–one forum member already had designed a bot to make its way through the forum’s labyrinthine archive so that it would be recorded for easy recall and placed elsewhere on the web, out of Steorn’s proprietory reach. Like any biological entity, the mindshare composing the forum operates in ways to maximize its survival.

     
    The psynet can be flexible and adaptive because, as a stochastic system, it “is allowed to discover its own structure, within given constraints, rather than having structure imposed on it by rigid, preconceived rules” (314). Cross-referencing its own processing of information with that of other psynet units, a particular psynet operates by “an algorithm drawn by mathematical models of human social interaction” (316). Because of the relatively random nature of these operations, psynet displays the emergent properties of self-organization associated with the operations of “chaotic” systems. Traditional divisions of communication–human to human; human to machine–are breached here. Within the larger Webmind system, Goertzel finds a “gradation between ‘social’ and ‘intra-brain’ interaction . . . opposed to the rigid division between individual and society that we experience as humans” (316). Describing a “symbiosis” between humans and machines, Goertzel demonstrates how the system’s ready access to nonproprietory information allows it “to nudge the information at the readiest disposal of individual humans and divisions in certain directions, based on its inferences and its own emergent understanding” (317). As Marc A. Smith explains to information society sociologist Howard Rheingold, such arrangements–like that of text messaging–make it “possible for more people to pool resources. And ‘more people pooling resources in new ways’ is the history of civilization in…’ Pause. ‘…seven words’” (Smart Mobs 31).

     
    A massive parallel processing center, the forum has evolved in some respects into the Webmind described by Goertzel. An important proviso: This single brain does not operate like a Cartesian theater, with some localized operator managing its inputs, a model Robert Hassan opposes in associating it with “‘the school of guru interpretation’” (46):

    The idea of the network as a "global brain," even as analogy, does not work because it suggests a centrality, a unity and an overall coherence, that simply does not exist. Nevertheless, the notion that the network represents in some new way the living, technologized expression of hundreds of millions of people is useful as a framework of analysis. (46-47)

    As Ray Kurzweil explains, such “singularity” is comparable to the “apparently intelligent design of termite and ant colonies . . . [which] Despite their clever and intricate design . . . have no master architects” (151). Admittedly, “what fires together wires together,” in both neurological, entymological, and computer models. The result is far more interesting and adaptive than some Cartesian “ghost-in-the-machine” working from a central command center. Roger Beaumont, author of War, Chaos, and History, criticizes similar “big picture,” rigid command-control-communications models that “create a false sense of the high echelon’s ability to exercise rational control over a vast range of complex combat dynamics” (9). Confronted with what William James described as the “blooming, buzzing” confusion of the world, the human brain can never exercise full control over so much constantly shifting input, no matter how much it prides itself on its “high echelon” status. In Consciousness Explained, Daniel Dennett maintains that the single brain processes information more along the lines of a Multiple Drafts Model: “at any point in time there are multiple ‘drafts’ of narrative fragments at various stages in various places in the brain” (113). These drafts keep the brain in what William Calvin labels a “scenario-spinning” mode (Dennett 114). The individual “mobile agents” of the forum, linked through discussion threads constituting query nodes, their connections boosted and enriched by the electronic medium, have begun to display properties of Dennett’s multiple drafts model. This webmind tries to make sense of reality through a narrative it must continually draft and re-draft: “Information entering the nervous system is under continuous ‘editorial revision’” (111).

    The information that Steorn’s Exploit was a failure at the physics level caused the forum to coalesce more than ever into that complex pattern of query nodes and specialty neural circuits that Dennett uses to describe the brain’s functioning:

    In our brains there is a cobbled-together collection of specialist brain circuits, which, thanks to a family of habits inculcated partly by culture and partly by individual self-exploration, conspire together to produce a more or less orderly, more or less effective, more or less well-designed virtual machine, the Joycean machine. By yoking these independently evolved specialist organs together in common cause, and thereby giving their union vastly enhanced powers, this virtual machine, this software of the brain, performs a sort of internal political miracle: It creates a virtual captain of the crew, without elevating any one of them to long-term dictatorial power. Who's in charge? First one coalition then another, shifting in ways that are not chaotic thanks to good meta-habits that tend to entrain coherent, purposeful sequences rather than an interminable helter-skelter power grab. (228)

    These coalitions consider almost every topic imaginable, including the possibility of their own singularity. In a thread entitled “Will you live to witness the singularity?” this Webmind considers the possibility of immortality. Evolvealready argues “it won’t be possible to sustain life, because even the electron / neutron / proton won’t hold together.” Even assuming we can overcome the entropy problem, he notes: “With finite mass in the universe there’s only a finite number of states. I’m not sure living forever really counts if you’re caught up in a giant loop.” Conceding that entropy might be reversible, he points out that unfortunately “the other side has an old gravy stain and is in an ugly plaid.” Mr. Flora thinks he has found a way out of dissolution: “The solution is for us to create a new universe via the Big Bang principle, then figure out some way to transfer ourselves (or our consciousness, anyway) into this new universe.” Evolvealready quickly responds, “We’ll get a man right on it!”

    The crisis brought on by the failure of the Orbo has served to accelerate the forum’s multi-track editorial processing functions. Thus, in its efforts to make sense of its situation in a post-Orbo reality, the forum has begun a process of scenario-spinning to reorient itself to this changed reality that no longer answers to its expectations. This process is reminiscent of Francis Crick’s “searchlight” function for the thalamus, which works by “differentially arousing or enhancing particular specialist areas [of the brain], recruiting them to current purposes” (Dennett 274). For the collective of the forum, incoming data and “sense impressions” now have to be processed and reality tested. When faced with feedback contradicting its sense of the world out there, the forum can rely on various internal and external agents to reassess its position. For example, Dr. Mike, the eyes, ears, and even legs of the forum, was delegated to go to London to inspect the Orbo during its July 5th demo at the Kinetica Museum. Supposedly, Dr. Mike would have the opportunity to test the Orbo and “hit it with a hammer” if he wanted, as per the promise of unlimited access from Sean McCarthy, Steorn’s leading spokesman.[6] Like a savvy fight promoter, McCarthy had been spotted just a day or two earlier sporting a t-shirt boldly announcing the upcoming bout between his company and the laws of physics–“CEO vs. CoE.” Members of the forum were worked up to a fever pitch. It seemed that the secret truly would be made public. Translucency at last!

     
    Dr. Mike returned without having had a chance to inspect the device. After the hype about Orbo stopped and the lights went out, forum members were left with nothing but a “container for the fantasy of [over]unity” (Dean, Secret48). HedyL, invoking the decoherence principle of quantum theory, suggested a scientific explanation for Orbo’s no-show:

    They say Orbo owes half its existence
    To a function of quantum resistance.
    From a cloud it appears
    When anyone nears--
    Whereupon it spins nobody knows whence!

    Without reference to the quantum realm, Dr. Mike summed up his own findings in this Final Report:

    My conclusion after going through all this is that Steorn is neither hoax nor scam. It is delusion. The reason it seems surreal is because it is surreal--we are the real part of someone else's imagination.

    External (in)validation soon came from another source. Reporting for the BBC, Professor Sir Eric Ash was able to interview McCarthy soon after the failed demo. McCarthy, he argued, had convinced himself that scientific “dogma” such as the First Law of Thermodynamics could be challenged and overturned in the same fashion as religious or political dogmas. Sir Ash’s diagnosis? “I believe that Mr. McCarthy is truly convinced of the validity of his invention. It is, in my view, a case of prolonged self-deception.”

    While some members criticized Dr. Mike for weighing in beyond his expertise by offering a psychological rather than a physics diagnosis of Steorn’s failure, his linking of McCarthy’s state of mind to the forum’s own collective consciousness merits consideration. If nothing else, the demo’s failure has led to a focusing of the forum’s attention both on McCarthy’s motivations and on its own role in the unfolding of the Steorn Exploit. As the most salient spokesperson for Steorn, the pre-demo McCarthy was the locus of the forum’s attention; he was ever-present, loquacious, a mentor and guide in our deliberations. (The word “Steorn” translates as “mentor.”) The post-demo McCarthy has all but disappeared from the forum, driving its members to question both his motives and their own complicity as “the real part of someone else’s imagination.” One might ask, for example, “Why have we followed–and many of us still follow–the stop/start ‘progress’ of Steorn’s fantastic story?” But, then, how does one emerge from a narrative that has incorporated one as a character in its script? To be written voluntarily out of that script is a form of suicide or at least a difficult withdrawal from an addiction. Several members discuss the difficulties of such withdrawal. Speccy remarks: “I ‘quit’ this forum last year after asking Crank [a moderator] to disable my account. Within an hour I emailed her to reinstate it, I couldn’t help myself.” Crastney admits: “I’ve tried to quit before as well . . . soon as I’m having my first coffee at work I end up back though.” Maryyugo, another “quitter,” sums up the attraction: “How’s that old saying go? Everyone likes a train wreck?”

     
    Under stress, the forum’s communally oriented mind threatens to break down, showing itself subject to the individual psyche’s lapses into paranoia, as when Grimer speculates that mrsean2k might be “a Steorn employee, and if there is some kind of scam or deception you could be part of it.” With its own captain having “jumped ship,” the forum has had to fall back on its own resources to chart a new course on now unfamiliar waters. Threads initiated by any one of numerous “virtual captains” attempt to reframe the Steorn narrative to coincide with the new data and “impressions” that contradict the earlier worldview. The consensus has veered toward the notion that McCarthy was well meaning but self-deluded into thinking Steorn had discovered the Holy Grail of Overunity. As one forum member observed, the closer any perpetual motionist comes to 99.9% efficiency, the easier it is to convince oneself that just a little tweaking here and there will push the mechanism over the hump. Cyrilsmith has come forth with a step-by-step scenario as to why the demo failed, suggesting that what had been presented as tangible and real might have more properly qualified as a thought-experiment all along. He concedes that Steorn believes what it has is real, but it “doesn’t exist as a product, merely as a number of curious scientific experiments.” Steorn’s claims of efficiency are merely “extrapolations” for an as-yet-to-be-built working device. Rather than display the early models, which “all used intermittent motion, stop-start, fast-in slow-out” principles, Steorn decided to use a more transparent, “lash up” device designed by the SPDC. While this device allegedly ran for eight hours in the lab, Steorn did not test it long enough to be rigorous. Once Steorn’s engineers arrived in London and set up their equipment, they could not get the device to operate continuously. Against McCarthy’s expectations, it failed. “Irreplicable” damage was done. Predictable disarray ensued. Statistical anomalies that seemed to favor the device’s output earlier now turned against it with the inevitability of friction and gravity. Citing forum member Paul Lowrance, cyrilsmith sums up: “‘If you don’t know why it works you don’t know why it fails.’”

     
    For some, haunted and undaunted, the forum has become a psychic staging place for their own efforts to replicate Steorn’s “results” or perhaps to succeed at their own formulations. Overconfident offers a Sleepwalkersversion of how he spent a few months working from “a couple of blurry photos appearing on the net,” as he tried to understand McCarthy’s discussions of “magnetic viscosity, mumetal, fast in/slow out” principles:

    So I started gathering a bunch of these little puzzle pieces and attempted to fit them together into a bigger picture that might make sense. Still the skeptic, but I was determined to figure out what was behind all this. I even signed up as a forum user so I could start interacting. One day, waking from an afternoon nap, I had a vision (dream, daydream, hallucination, whatever you want to call it). I saw 2 magnets, and could visualize their interacting fields as they approached each other in a variety of configurations. In light of this vision, I went back over some of the puzzle pieces (clues) and several of them suddenly seemed to fall into place. I posted a couple scenarios here, back in the January timeframe. I had a couple positive comments, but mostly I was criticised or ignored. But that was OK. I was still pretty skeptical myself.

    Factuurexpress responded to Overconfident’s thought-experiment in blunter terms: “The problem with your vision Overc. is that you fail to see the difference between things you move around in your head and things generated by the VR logic engine.” These distinctions overlap VR logic with the logic of a perpetual VR machine where, as Dean suggests, one can escape a dubious “reality” many times over by “don[ning] the glove and goggles” (Aliens 109). Although “cobbled together,” the forum does exercise a self-correcting function, a reality principle in a sense. Overconfident can find consolation in the fact that “Devil’s sonatas,” the snake-tailed benzene ring, and new printing processes have all emerged from the respective dreams of Giuseppe Tartini, August Kekule, and William Blake.

    While the forum Webmind is self-generating in many respects, Steorn has had a hand in determining elements of its overall parameters. One could find no better instruction manual for diagramming the Steorn Exploit than Dean’s Publicity’s Secret.Arguing that publicity “requires the secret,” Dean cites Slavoj Žižek’s identification of ideology as the “‘generative matrix that regulates the relationship between the visible and the non-visible, between imaginable and non-imaginable, as well as changes in this relationship’” (qtd. 17). There is almost a quantum dimension here. As one forum member, loreman, opines in a thread devoted to limericks:

    			The Orbo exists like the cat
    			of Schrödinger, its stunning éclat
    			     lies betwixt and between
    			     the unseen and the seen
    			So Sean keeps it tucked under his hat!

    In retrospect, it is clear that Steorn has been exploiting elements of Žižek’s generative matrix. For example, Steorn published its “findings” in a business journal, findings that should have more properly been submitted with documentation to a peer-review science journal. Here, Steorn invoked the visible/non-visible dimensions of that matrix. Strangely enough, a company that claimed no academic would risk his or her career by publicly affirming the existence of a perpetual motion device then proceeded to select a pool of twenty-two jurors from over one thousand qualified applicants, refused to identify who they were, and then required them to sign Non-Disclosure Agreements concerning any observations, favorable or unfavorable, made in the course of what has turned out to be a lengthy, no-end-in-sight investigation. Thus, after the initial splash of publicity, apparently designed to draw in the maximum number of forum participants, Steorn imposed a veil of secrecy on the project. Jury deliberations were supposed to be released by the end of 2007, but the “perpetual” element of the Orbo seems to refer more to a perpetual deferment than to any sort of motion towards an end.

    The “sutured” social network that Steorn created evidences an ambivalence arising in the gap that Dean locates between publicity and the secret. Citing Bentham, she finds three social divisions operating here. The lower two are a public-supposed-to-believe and a public-supposed-to-know. What props up these two classes is a “judging class” whose judgment is “constant and certain, but . . . suspended” (Secret 20). This judging class allows the other two classes to indulge in the amusement that arises from publicity. True to Dean’s instruction manual, Steorn has split its audience into three more or less similar divisions. The anonymous jurors, working in sequestration, constitute Dean’s all-important judging class, and while we are assured they are highly credentialed and impartial, we know little of whatever (if any) judging process they have undertaken; in fact we might very well qualify their judgment as suspended. Certain Steorn insiders and censors, such as babcat, Magnatrix, and crank, claim to have seen Steorn’s device in operation, thereby occupying the position of a public-supposed-to-know. We should include here as well the SPDC, whose members allegedly have been given information about Orbo but who also have signed NDAs not to reveal what, if anything, they have found out in the process. Beyond and below the twenty-two jurors, two hundred or so SPDC members, and a handful of censors and sympathizers, is the public-supposed-to-believe. Cobbled-together, the elements of Steorn’s forum not only perform the continuous “multiple drafts” of Dennett’s model of the brain, they also try to arrive at Eliot’s “just judgments [made] in separate human breasts–separate yet combined.”

     
    Steorn has followed Dean’s instruction manual almost to the letter. Focusing on Reinhart Kosselleck’s discussion of Masons and their lodges, Dean notes that “lodges were secret inner spaces within the absolutist state, spaces that were separated from the political by the very mysteries whose protections enabled the lodges to serve indirectly as a counter to the state.” Practicing “ritualized enactments of nonfamilial, nonmarket relations outside of the state,” the lodges “provided forms of association and experiences of connection beyond those delimited by absolutism” (25). As in Dean’s discussion of the Enlightenment novel’s engendering of reading circles and salons, the internet has allowed for “new forms of association and experiences of connection” among forum members eager to discuss their views. The SPDC has an aura of Freemasonry, where “Private people came together as a public in secret” (30), here as a challenge to the “absolutism” of thermodynamic laws. Those who have pursued Steorn’s Orbo narrative would recognize their quest in Žižek’s description of drive, which

    stands for the paradoxical possibility that the subject, forever prevented from achieving his Goal (and thus fully satisfying his desire), can nevertheless find satisfaction in the very circular movement of repeatedly missing its object, of circulating around it. (Dean 116)

    Even the company’s CEO became caught up in a logical entanglement of his own devising. In a follow-up report on the failed demo, Physics Worlddescribes McCarthy & Company as

    Undaunted . . . Steorn plans to rebuild and defeat physics another day, although McCarthy does take one consolation from this apparent setback. "If I were in the business of doing tricks," he says, "then the demonstration would have worked." (Schirber 9)

    In a system of twisted logic, the proof of Orbo’s authenticity can only be evidenced by its failure! Like Polonius trying to figure out Hamlet, McCarthy has created an endless tautological loop, leaving his audience somewhere between “Suspend” and “Perpend”:

    Mad let us grant him then, and now remains
    That we find out the cause of this effect,
    Or rather say, the cause of this defect,
    For this effect defective comes by cause:
    Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.
    Perpend.

    Hamlet (Act 2.2: 100-105)

    As the myth of perpetual motion historically has stirred up the desire for power and control, it was only a matter of time before one of the most malevolent of spirits was summoned forth from the depths of the forum’s collective unconscious.

    The Abduction Exploit: Enter Herr Doktor Mabuse

    The interesting question for me is not whether a global brain is developing. It clearly is. But will this growing global brain turn out to be sane or insane?

    –Peter Russell (qtd. Goertzel, 321)

    Dr. Mabuse recommends that you seek medical attention at his offices soon. You have delusions of competence!

    –Doktor Mabuse (resident forum shrink and advice columnist)

    If the Webmind would troll long enough, there is no telling what it might catch. Witness, in the world of fisheries, the occasional capture of the “extinct” coelacanth. No doubt, the virtual world is populated by a congeries of creatures whose activities at times defy all description. Paul D. Miller, alias DJ Spooky, notes the positive elements of the breakdown of prescribed social identity boundaries on the net: “creating this identity allowed me to spin narratives on several fronts at the same time and to produce persona as shareware” (13). In many ways, such “shareware” guarantees a free flow of information and anonymous risk-taking that make internet communication exhilarating. Sometimes, however, one of these identities becomes so disinhibited as to spin out of all control.

     
    In late April of 2007, at the height of the forum’s enthusiasm for Steorn’s project, a vile, malevolent avatar appeared in the figure of Herr Doktor Mabuse. Actually, we can more properly speak of the reappearance of Dr. Mabuse, as he was originally the creation of novelist Norbert Jacques, whose pulp-villain was later taken up by Fritz Lang in his very popular film Dr. Mabuse, der Spieler or “the Gambler” (1920). A master of manipulation bent upon world conquest, Mabuse has powers of hypnosis, often duping his victims into unwillingly doing his bidding. As his Wikipedia entry explains, his “plans are foiled only because he himself interferes with them, as if he is trying to bring about his own downfall.” This self-destructiveness confirms the opinion of those who see his name as a pun on je m’abuse.Like some contemporary film villains, Dr. Mabuse seems indestructible, often turning up in new contexts and a disguised form, but with the same modus operandi and goals. Exploiting Steorn’s own Exploit, Mabuse is both viral and alien in his operations. He represents a contemporary refinement on the concept of the exploit in that he seeks to exploit the exploiter’s own vulnerability:

    exploit n. [originally cracker slang] 1. A vulnerability in software that can be used for breaking security or otherwise attacking an Internet host over the network. The Ping O' Deathis a famous exploit. 2. More grammatically, a program that exploits an exploit in sense 1.

    Jargon File (4.3.1, 29 Jun 2001)

    Jargon File

    Like the threads of viral, parodic limericks and reprogrammed folk and pop songs occasioned by Orbo’s failure, Doktor Mabuse attacks his host, deprogramming its agenda and its code. The Orbo has been stolen, replaced by a fake. Dr. Mike has been abducted. Steorn itself suffers an identity theft, reprogrammed from world savior to world conqueror and annihilator.

    The forum’s own reincarnation of Mabuse plays remarkably true both to Jacques’s and Lang’s realizations. An oracle on the scale of a small-town newspaper advice columnist mixed in with a megalomaniacal dictator, Dr. Mabuse began by firing off a dire threat against Dr. Mike:

    Dr. Mike. . .
    . . . this is Dr. Mabuse. ARCH CRIMINAL!
    Do you not recognize one of my brethren? Sean McCarthy is the PIED PIPER OF FREE ENERGY!
    He shall destroy your mind!
    You are forbidden TO GO TO IRELAND OR THE U.K.!
    Remain in your country . . . remain in your OBJECTIVE SCIENTIFIC PARADISE!
    Or you will face my WRATH!

    Initial responses to the appearance of Dr. Mabuse were quite negative, as when Skeptical exclaimed: “Oh no… the loonies have started to arrive!” or when MassiveAttack lamented: “This is a physics issue? What a waste of bandwidth.” Of course, consumption of bandwidth, as Terranova points out, is essential to maintaining a website as a going concern. Babcat, the most loyal of Steorn’s believers (and the most naïve according to some), fired off an immediate reply to Mabuse’s megalomaniacal ramblings:

    Dr. Ma-Screw-Loose,
    Well, Steorn already knows that after Validation Day there will almost certainly be competition with other companies that will produce overunity devices. However, I have a feeling the collective intelligence of you and your associates could not figure out how to put together a model plane much less a free energy device.
    Steorn has nothing to worry about from your effort to "corner" the free energy market!

    Soon, however, other members began to find themselves ineluctably written into Mabuse’s twisted narrative. In a thread that appeared shortly after the failed Demo ominously entitled “Mabuse, you soulless evil bastiche!” N4Apounding revealed that s/he had been hot on the nefarious Mabuse’s trail:

    Once again, you have orchestrated an incomprehensibly complex plan designed to cause maximum pain and suffering to people everywhere.


    I nearly caught up with you in Chile last week, when you were draining that lake (<www.theregister.co.uk/2007/07/04/lake_mystery_cracked>). But of course that was only a diversion for your main plan in London executed the last couple of days! The candle goes to you this time, Herr Doktor, but one day...


    (BTW, I demand that you release Dr. Mike and allow him to make his report. And no replacing him with a robot/clone either! The net is closing in on you Mabuse, cooperate while you still can.)

    Later, in a reply addressed to “Meine Kinder,” Dr. Mabuse claimed that it is he alone who controls “das Orbo.” Asserting that he had pilfered the real Orbo, the malevolent Doktor indicated that the July 5th failed demo had been a plot of his all along:

    My demo was an earth-shattering success, the likes of which will haunt the nightmares of the dear American Pudding Head Herr Doktor Mike for all eternity. He is so warped from the experience that he actually believes my stooge McCarthy is the sick one. Speaking of which, pay no attention to my Capo McCarthy. . . he merely did as he was told.

    Calling the Doktor’s perceived bluff, Overconfident asked if he would “kindly send me that Orbo you pilfered from Kinetica last week? There are a couple tests I want to run.” Not to be outdone, Mabuse replied: “Certainly, herr confident. How many supermodel whores have you for collateral? And it shall be a loan signed with a contract in blood, you understand.”

    Mabuse may well serve as a necessary corrective to our private technotopia, drawn as we have been into what Arthur Kroker and Michael Weinstein describe as cyberspace’s “seduction of empowerment” (123). Like the prize-winning, frenzied shopper filling up a cart on a seemingly endless free-shopping spree, the members had taken Steorn’s offer of a blank free-energy cheque at face value. Doktor Mabuse provides an extreme example of that Other, a Morlock preventing the forum from descending into an Eloi-like love-fest. The totalizing vision of a world without scarcity powered by perpetually functioning generators threatened to abstract our virtual community from stubbornly persistent real world conditions (although some speculated that the heat generated from such devices would become a serious problem in itself). Michele Willson identifies a tendency for virtual communities to suffer “a ‘thinning’ of the complexities of human engagement to the level of one-dimensional transactions and a detaching of the user from the political and social responsibilities of the ‘real space’ environment” (655). Too many forum members had bought into Steorn’s branding of itself as another instance of the Irish saving civilization. Mabuse reminded us that Prometheus could just as well be a megalomaniac, and the Orbo just one more product in the long product line of philosopher stones. Now we are forced to face the possibility that utopian fantasies in the virtual domain may simply express the desire to get something for nothing. Perhaps we too must submit ourselves to the principle of the Conservation of Psychic Energy.

     
    Apart from being the fly in the ointment, Mabuse offered the forum some humorous diversion, a kind of tragicomic relief. In a new development, forum member breter started a thread entitled “Ask Dr. Mabuse: Unauthorized.” He argued that Mabuse was one of the more interesting recent phenomena appearing on the forum, someone whose “views on world domination and social upheaval can bring us insight upon the human condition.” More adept at addressing inhuman conditions, Doktor Mabuse dispensed advice with the tenderness and empathy of someone sprinkling cayenne pepper on an open wound. For example, 007 asked: “Can you do something about Ellen DeGeneres?”–only to receive the following response: “Du Dumme Sau. Your fragile MI6 ego could not get past this man-woman who refused your bangers und masch.” When Dirty Teeth asked “What should/can I do to reduce future stupid acts? . . . . . Other than visiting this thread I mean,” Mabuse’s reply was “Swallowing a cyanide capsule works just fine.” Threatening to employ a cheese grater to rap repeatedly the knuckles of one forum member, Mabuse scoffs at any forum member’s expression of morality: “I assure you, lust and desire for power transcend all your petit bourgeois so-called moral spectrums.” He signs off, “My best wishes on your suburban prison existence.”

     
    Forum members began to speculate about the identity of Herr Doktor Mabuse. Was he a past member, perhaps banned from the forum, resurfacing now in the guise of a deranged avatar? Was he a rogue Steorn engineer thrown off-kilter after realizing the “magnetude” of Orbo’s upcoming failure? Was he a mere proxy for Steorn, already preparing the forum for the Orbo’s failure and beginning to plant the idea in their minds months before the demo? At least one forum member, gaby de wilde, had earlier felt the ocular influence of Mabuse, noting: “I couldn’t help but feel under your influence while watching camera 4 and the spinning London Eye prior to the demo. What subliminal message did you program into me? I’ve had several lapses in memory lately and can’t account for my time.” Denying nothing, the Doktor reveled in his method: “Mabuse’s hobby is to break down the so-called ‘reason’ of der volk. You should know this, Herr Gaby. Especially since yours was gone long, long ago. Mabuse begrudgingly gives his respects.” In retrospect, the four cameras trained upon the no-show Orbo recall the last version of the Mabuse saga: The 1000 Eyes of Dr. Mabuse (1959), in which the reconstituted villain employs four cameras to spy on his prey. The movie’s locale is the Hotel Luxor “built by the Nazis in 1944 as a potential stopping place for foreign diplomats, and . . . equipped with hidden television cameras in every public and private room” (Greenspun). The penetrating, hypnotic gaze of Dr. Mabuse is everywhere.

     
    Perhaps Doktor Mabuse can be explained as an upwelling of the darkest part of the forum’s collective unconscious. For example, in a thread entitled “How many of you have had dreams of Steorn/’Orbo’?” Zante discusses an excursion into dreamland in which s/he saw a tank and a tractor, both bearing the Orbo logo: “I saw the tractor as a symbol for the potential of agricultural use and the tank for one of war.” Sadly, the perpetual motion device that members turned over in their heads and dreamed about for a good year seems to have faltered, slowed down, and congealed into an idée fixe now darkly manifested in the baleful figure of Doktor Mabuse. At any rate, members soon learned that any attempt to probe the psyche of this Teutonic Marat Sade should only be undertaken while wearing a hazmat suit. Baiting him only stirred up the muck, as when Probus asked: “How was the malorca koma-trinken, herr doktor? had some fun? how many not-so-innocent teens did you vernaschen there?” Never at a loss for words, Mabuse was quick with a rejoinder: “Meine dear probus, please, Mabuse has better things to do. There are Orbos to counterfeit, Republicans to have coffee with, Spice Girls to reunite and iPhones to program with malicious subsonic instructions. Mabuse is a very busy evil genius! Hedonism is far down meine list at the moment.” Efforts to solicit the Doktor’s help in contacting McCarthy have not borne fruit. Exasperated, MassiveAttack asks: “Why will Sean not give us a video. At this point I would accept home movies from the last time he went on vacation. Anything!!!!!” Mabuse apparently confiscated some materials from the missing McCarthy: “If only you knew what was in the footage McCarthy surrendered to Mabuse, Herr Attack. Leather features prominently, I assure you.” Passing up a golden opportunity, MassiveAttack, demurred: “ok I changed my mind. You can keep those videos.” Calling himself “the Raskolnikov of der frei energie!” the Nietzschean Mabuse is beyond both good and evil: “as I have explained ‘evil’ ceases to have any meaning when all that is left is a pure lust of will to control and despoil the Earth and its vermin humanity.” After a few weeks’ absence, when asked to explain the “oddity” that he, the Doktor, is more missed on the forum than is McCarthy, he replied:

    What oddity?


    McCarthy is meine stooge, toadie...Herr Doktor Mabuse lets him out to further torment the denizens of this accursed forum when they begin salivating again about the so-called "frei energie," while I keep the one and only true Orbo and fleece the world!


    Of course you will not miss McCarthy as much as meine bad self. This is only natural.


    Breter, I know you are deficient in many ways, but even with your broccoli-brain you must notice how this forum has diarrhea and spastic fits whenever McCarthy makes an appearance. Herr Doktor sits back, watches this chaos, and then swoops in to offer my own delicious remedies, akin to strychnine. Synergie ist der name of das Spiel, my boy.

    Some have speculated that Mabuse and McCarthy are one and the same. In this scenario, Doktor Mabuse is McCarthy’s literal brain-child, the dark side of a short-circuiting psyche pushed over the edge in its thwarted quest for perpetual motion. At this stage at least, McCarthy’s ill-advised public demonstration of the Orbo fits Dr. Mabuse’s profile as someone contributing to his own downfall. As one critic points out, “The master of illusion becomes the dupe of his technique as soon as he stops producing the show” (Greenspun). The failed demo was certainly a show-stopper. Moreover, Ord-Hume indicates many failed perpetual motionists “underwent changes of character as a result of their unfulfilled dreams” (14). A few even went mad. Thus, the thwarted desire to save humanity by harnessing the energy of perpetual motion may have devolved into its flip side: Mabuse’s view of humanity as vermin to be destroyed. In this scenario, like the Forbidden Planet‘s Dr. Morbius, Mabuse/McCarthy haunts and stalks himself (as well as us). Perpetual motion, the ungraspable, tantalizing object of his quest, plays itself out in familiar cinematic terms:

    The pathos of Mabuse's position is like the pathos of every mad impotent movie genius who cannot hope to possess the girl anesthetized on his diabolical operating table, or embrace the world whose future bubbles ominously in his laboratory retorts. (Greenspun)

    McCarthy has not been the only victim of Mabuse’s efforts at manipulation and mind-control. Forum member HedyL also fell into his clutches, a story for another time.[7] In order to sort out the complexities of McCarthy’s psyche, Spanky attempted to demarcate the borderline between delusion and insanity. In a thread entitled “What Does It Mean for Us?” he muses:

    I was thinking about the difference between delusion and insanity this morning. Dr. Mike has insisted that a person can be delusional without being crazy, and that this is SMcS's case. But I think there is an important distinction which makes the Steorn-delusion theory problematic.


    When a person is delusional about something, it tends to be about something that can not be immediately tested. Say, for instance, one is deluded about one's ability to become a popstar, the testability of which lies in the future; or about oneself being dead sexy, which would only be testable by being able to see through other's eyes...


    But here we are talking about something more fundamental: it is a case of whether something exists or not. Sean asserts that an apparent magnetically powered over-unity device has been in existence in his recent experience. He has touched and seen it. To be deluded about that is to be deluded about material reality, which I think really would come under the definition of hallucinatory mental illness.


    And yet everything else about SMcS bespeaks an objective and genial intelligence that just doesn't jibe with this. It's the tension in this and other apparent contradictions that makes the Steorn show the best show in town right now. One doesn't need to believe anything one way or the other. My advice is to groove with the uncertainty and wait and see what happens next.

    Here, Spanky describes McCarthy in terms not all that different from those employed by Harvard psychiatrist John Mack in describing UFO abductees’ fervent accounts of their experiences. Mack comments on the subjects’ genuine belief, their seeming sanity and normalcy in all other areas. All this bewilderment is compounded by our current state of affairs that Dean sums up in another context as “the problem of judgment . . . if the knowledge we need to make a judgment stems from shared experiences, what do we do when experiences are reconstituted so radically that we can’t tell if we, or anyone else, actually has them or not?” (Aliens 109). (Recall gaby de wilde’s attribution of lapses in memory to the machinations of Doktor Mabuse.) Infiltrating the normally staid pages of the Economist, McCarthy is offered as an “abductee” with an extraordinary tale to relate. Undecidability, the postmodern condition, reigns. Are we delving into fact or fiction? Sightings/citings on both fronts come to mind. For example, in Yesterday’s Tomorrows, science fiction writer Fred Hoyle describes “a young Cambridge mathematician of 1970 [who] investigates the activities of an industrial group in Southern Ireland, I.C.E. (Industrial Corporation of Eire), based on a new prime mover which enables industrial material to be obtained from water, air, and fairly common rocks” (qtd. Armytage 113). They turn out to be aliens!

    Perpetual Notion, or “Hoax Springs Eternal”

    “Community” is then produced as an ideal rather than as a reality, or else it is abandoned altogether.

    –Willson (645)

    This would appear to me to be nothing more than a deserted fairground from which the hucksters have long since departed.

    –ex-forum member Basil

    Our long wait has taken its toll even on the most hardy. The language of optimism and the philanthropic impulses that once flourished on the forum now must contend with the cynicism and vulgarities spewed by this mad scientist. Failed utopian idealism, a sense of technological breakdown and betrayal, the rantings of Dr. Mabuse–it is a wonder the forum is still halfway afloat at this point. Postmodern versions of Vladimir and Estragon, we put in our time, Waiting for Orbo. Ananda Mitra identifies the lack of closure of the Internet text as a problematic feature in the analysis of text-based virtual communities. In the face of such lack of closure, how does one come to conclusions? Worse yet, how does one live through such a lack of closure?

     
    With a lot of time on our hands recently, the forum has been discussing the notion that the universe is itself a simulation controlled by some joy-stick-toggling deity. We are simply avatars, unwittingly going through the motions of a carefully scripted “reality.” And yet, some members of the forum are still holding out hope. Admittedly, with the failure of the Orbo we’ve entered a long pause in its stop/start mode. Having been swept up in the Steorn-sponsored dataspace, an information state DJ Spooky well might describe as “a delirium of saturation” (29), we wonder now what is keeping us going. But, as this master of rhythm science proclaims, “Once you get into the flow of things, you’re always haunted by the way that things could have turned out. This outcome, that conclusion. You get my drift. The uncertainty is what holds the story together…” Just as Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern amuse themselves by tossing coins and playing word games, so forum members while away their own time, with threads such as “Last Poster Wins” (with over 16,000 entries) and “The Thinking Man’s Word Association.” Fondly referred to as “Orbituaries,” the forum limerick thread has ballooned into several hundred five-liners on a number of topics. At the very least, such mental exercises keep us in continual practice; after all, as in Stoppard’s play, “someone might come in,” although McCarthy’s one comment, “Brilliant,” is about all that we have had to go on these last several months.

     
    Other diversions occupy forum members’ time and keep up the spirits of those remaining. As Emily Noelle Ignacio observes concerning similar network societies, even humor serves as a bonding mechanism in establishing for them “a common underlying history” (182). Indeed, the ability of the forum to laugh at itself and satirize its host is also essential. In a thread announcing the founding of the Overunitarian Church, HedyL expostulated:

    Since faith revolves around the substance of things not seen, it seems high time to dedicate a church denomination to the Steorn enterprise. I don't mean this to be in competition with Knuckles' Church of Orbology, although any schism is welcome at this point. We already have our Doubting Thomases and zealots such as Granthodges and babcat as a core group of disciples.

    Forum members made up their own commandments, such as “Thou shalt not witness false bearings.” Evolvealready added a Hebrew Bible twist: “And the forum readers became impatient of Moses McArthy coming down from Mt. Innovation and built themselves a golden diode array which they did worship.” To which HedyL added:

    And Moses McCarthy, coming down from the mountain, saw his people engaging in much idolatry and revelry, whereby he did break the Orbo and the tablets whereupon were written instructions for its operations, saying: "Thou art a wicked people with no faith. Thou deservest not my innovation. Thou art a stiff-necked generation, not worth a quaff of my Guinness!"

    We even have time to set to memory the simplified versions of the Three Laws of Thermodynamics, as known to most second-year physics majors. Bob Pease summarizes them as “the gambler’s lament”:

    Rule 1: You can't win.
    Rule 2: You can't break even.
    Rule 3: You can't get out of the game.

    Even contestation does not necessarily equate to failure in such enterprises. Willson emphasizes “the importance of the Other for self-constitution, and the importance of relations between self and Other for the functioning of community” (653). In order for individuals to define themselves in the virtual community, a certain amount of “rubbing against each other” is necessary to make things real, a quantum decoherence principle on the human social scale. Cogitamus ergo sum/Cogito ergo sumus. And round and round it goes. Citing Jean-Luc Nancy, Willson valorizes the relational aspect of the virtual community:

    Nancy argues instead for community to be understood as the incomplete sharing of the relation between beings. For him, being is in common: it is the in where community 'resides'. Community is to be 'found' at the limit where singular beings meet. The danger is in prescribing or categorizing an essence or form for both community and the beings that it involves. (651)

    Galloway and Thatcher point out that the networks most vulnerable to viruses (electronic ones) and disease epidemics (biological ones) are those that are overly standardized. Paradoxically, they “work too well.” One thinks of genetic engineers striving to create forests of lignin-free cloned trees for ethanol production but not considering how such lack of diversity leaves them particularly vulnerable to massive die-outs. Situating networks somewhere between our ability to control them and their operations beyond our control, Galloway and Thatcher find them both “entirely coincident with social life” but also carrying “with them the most nonhuman and misanthropic tendencies” (Exploit 6). The Steorn forum encompasses this range of tendencies. Thus far, it has managed to maintain a balance among them. In that respect, it constitutes Dean’s “zero institution,” that is, “a paradoxical combination of singularity and collectivity, collision and convergence” (Secret 167). This fairground will not close as long as the bumper cars careen against each other in perpetual overdrive.

    Postscrypt: Back from the Dead?

    Orbo is based upon time variant magnetic interactions, i.e. magnetic interactions whose efficiency varies as a function of transaction timeframes.

    –“How Orbo Works,” Steorn website

    3. Apparatus and method for generating a time variant non-electromagnetic force field due to the dynamic interaction of relatively moving bodies.

    –Luke Fortune, “UFO How-To

    Time variance is the ability to remember historic perspectives.

    –“Time Variance,” Wikipedia

    An Update on the Steorn Exploit.

    For a month or so in mid-2008, Steorn actually shut down public, non-member access to the forum. Some forum members predicted its/their imminent demise. Against such an eventuality, many members now share time between Steorn’s site and another, “shadow” site: FizzX. Lately, reassurance about the survival of the forum has come from McCarthy himself, who emphatically noted the forum would continue: “Close this forum – never!!!! That would be like getting rid of an itch that you can never quite scratch…☺ Lately, things have been heating up in the forum, with a feisty McCarthy turning up on a number of fronts. In a thread started by ebswift and entitled “Steorn Forum Future (given latest events)?” forum members apparently got McCarthy’s Irish up by speculating Steorn only had enough funds left to last two months or so. Responding to forum member calculations, McCarthy replied: “Well if he[‘s] right I guess that I will be turning off the lights in here pretty soon … wait and see big fella.” To which blueletter responded: “You still pay for lights?” Howling with virtual laughter, Big Oil Rep promptly nominated blueletter for the Poster of the Month Award, his prize being “a billion dollars worth of Steorn futures.” Never one to be outdone, Dr. Mabuse popped in with his own assurances: “Fear not. I shall continue to subsidize der forum through meine blood money. Mabuse gets far too much enjoyment watching you wretches squirm.☹” To McCarthy’s credit, exchanges such as this demonstrate that Steorn has by and large kept its promise to maintain the forum for “the open, unregulated exchange of ideas, thoughts and opinions about Steorn and Orbo.” Websurfers entering the forum site are warned, though, that “There may be threads concerning pseudo-science and suppositions on conspiracies and deceptions relating to the company.” Fair enough. After all, visitors should be put on notice that there are a lot of wild claims in the cybersphere by people whose inventions have been suppressed by traditional science and thus have had to be advertised and marketed in unconventional ways!

     
    True to the stop/start motion of its Orbo device, Steorn has started up again recently after a long hiatus. In late January of 2009, having promised a major announcement by February, Steorn replaced its website with an image of a curtain with the following written below: “February 4, 2009.” When the curtain was lifted on this date, the public was treated to a slick ten-minute video/infomercial. It began with a printed disclaimer: “All views and opinions expressed by participants who are not Steorn employees are their own and do not represent Steorn, its management or employees.” Since the views of the three non-Steorn engineers testifying here all support Steorn’s claims in one fashion or another, it is strange that the company would have felt the need for such a disclaimer, particularly since it has complained all along of not being able to induce anyone from university engineering and physics departments to go public with their own (alleged) positive findings. The video also features CEO McCarthy, who states that the company has brought the technology along “as far as a business can bring it.” Noting that Steorn is in “the licensing business” anyway, he is now seeking to enlist three hundred engineering companies and/or individual engineers whose task will be to figure out how to implement the technology. They will be given the necessary tools to do so, as well as access to “learning modules.” McCarthy goes on to announce the formation of the SKDB (Steorn Knowledge Data Base): “a learning and knowledge base designed to explain, employ and expand the science, engineering and intellectual property comprising Orbo technology.” This “suite of video and flash e-learning modules,” Steorn claims, will provide “the key steps and skills required to test, build prototypes and utilise Orbo technology.” There is no mention of the fate of the two SPDCs–rather peculiar, as many of these were the very opportunities promised to them long ago. McCarthy also announces that Steorn will be touring university engineering departments around the world to enlist engineers on a global scale. First stop on the tour? The Middle East. Advertisements for Steorn’s ZeroF (Zero Friction) bearings, USB Hall Probe, and Magnetic Torque Measurement System are also prominently displayed. Interested readers can visit Steorn’s site to hear the testimonials given by Phil Watson (electrical engineer), Liam Fennelly (instrumentation engineer), and John A.M. Rice (consultant). None appears to be a Jury member. All appear level-headed and claim to have approached the project with a healthy initial skepticism.

     
    Not long after the appearance of this re-invigorated homepage, forum members began weighing in on the presentation. Babcat, 007, and Crastney–long-time defenders of Steorn– responded with “We told you so!” Many members, however, were less than impressed. Big Oil Rep pointed out that none of the “Three Wise Men” were “physicists or from universities.” On the way to hoisting them on their own petard, he quoted their own words:

    [for] the experiment that we saw, in the scale that we saw, there appears to be more energy coming out of the system than is actually being put in. They [Steorn] apparently have a way of producing mechanical energy, a rotational energy which will drive something else, which will be able to generate electricity.

    Big Oil Rep rejoined: “‘for the experiment that we saw’ is the key phrase. They didn’t even set up the experiment…appears…apparently.” My_pen_is_stuck added: “I think all 23 Steorn hand picked jurors coming to the same conclusion would be more convincing than 3 unknown bozos picked out of a pool of how many?”[8] Josh points out that no test procedure is described and no results displayed. He sums up: “The video is nothing but promotion. It contains no science.” Knuckles O’Toole delves into the psychology of what he has come to view as one more shuffle in a confidence game:

    All of this is just confidence boosting without data. Nice guys, testimonials, sincerity: all the hallmark of cons. You have to ask yourself this question: If Steorn were a con how would they act differently than they already do? And if they are not a con why would they act like they are?

    What Steorn has accomplished here with an admirable adroitness is to shift the onus of testing, building prototypes, and product development to an anticipated three hundred engineering concerns. The company will even be kind enough to sell those engineers equipment for such purposes. On the off-chance anything comes from their efforts, Steorn will still hold intellectual property rights. In the event of failure, a graceful exit awaits. How could a small company with modest resources have succeeded where three hundred engineers failed? Remember the video’s disclaimer, which already established some distance between the company and any non-Steorn employees.

     
    In the absence of any news of the two SPDCs and the Jury, the establishment of the SKDB, and the recruitment of a cadre of engineers, Steorn is looking more and more like Dean’s description of freemasons and cabals, where “Private people [come] together as a public in secret” (Secret 30). Cult-like behaviors and language have been appearing lately among die-hard Steorn supporters like Crastney, babcat, and 007. By their testimony, the second SPDC has been granted more privileged information than that accorded to the first one (causing some members to label them Spud-Lite and Spud-Deluxe respectively). These staunch supporters of Steorn have taken lately to referring to the second SPDC as “the Other Side,” claiming there is even more convincing proof of Steorn’s claims there, proof withheld from all but the privileged few initiates. Ironically, they may be closer to the truth of perpetual motion than even they realize. As Dean puts it in the context of publicity: “The answer is the secret, or more precisely, the secret is the answer” (Secret 21). For the believers, the rest of the world lies outside of their tautological loop, where even Orbo’s failure can be explained as a deliberate feint to protect intellectual property rights or–with paranoia setting in–to throw those Men-in-Black off Steorn’s trail.

     
    Listed as Number 10 in Wired Magazine‘s “Top Ten Vaporware Products for 2007,” the Orbo is indeed the most translucent of “products” (Calore). Even its image suggests pure translucency.[9] Rather than evaporating or vanishing, however, the Orbo presents with quantum properties uniquely its own. Vacillating between “the unseen and the seen,” it resists all proof, all logic. Steorn could profitably market Orbo on the basis of its quantum properties alone, as a truly twenty-first century novelty item. Providing information overload in the form of USB Hall probes and magnetic torque measurement systems, e-learning modules and infomercials, Steorn nonetheless leaves us–or hopes to leave us–with “the paradoxical sense that everything we need to know is right in front of us, but still we don’t know” (Dean, Secret 48). A modern physics version of the classic shell-game, this one is conducted with “time variant magnetic interactions” amid shifting timeframes. Steorn’s gambit is a sleight-of-hand trick to shuffle past the invariance principle enshrined in Noether’s Theorem. But time variance also entails “an ability to remember historic perspectives.” Those who forget are in for a long night at the table.

    Notes

    1. Steorn has made three claims for its technology:

    1. The technology has a coefficient of performance greater than 100%.
    2. The operation of the technology (i.e. the creation of energy) is not derived from the degradation of its component parts.
    3. There is no identifiable environmental source of the energy (as might be witnessed by a cooling of ambient air temperature).

    2. For on-line parodies of Steorn, go to the following by derricka: <http://tinypic.com/view.php?pic=x6is2c&s=5>. For a feature on Orby, go to the following (supplied by Trim): <ttp://www.technologyreview.com/energy/22103/>. A more exhaustive display of parodic materials is found at <http://steorn.go-here.nl/>.

    3. Insinuations were made that Orbo-powered pumps were already being installed somewhere in Africa to supply water to drought-stricken villages. Forum member qqqq “forwards” the following company statement of its business methodology:

     Our company runs in reverse. What others do last, we do first. That's how we got the jump On our African pump (Though the concept is still in the works).

    4. An anagram of the famous inventor’s name: Nikola Tesla.

    5. In physics, the “sticky spot” is the point of resistance that a perpetual motion device must overcome in achieving overunity.

    6. Dr. Mike’s predicament was summed up in the limerick below:

    Dr. Mike left the demo with nary A clue from Steorn's chief visionary. What gives him night terrors? Steorn sealed Orbo's errors And marked them: "Proprietary."

    7. I have been writing another article on this issue: “‘Bearings and Nothingness’: The Viral Unmarketing of Steorn.” The first part of the title comes from an exchange between two forum members after the failed demo. In a thread optimistically entitled “Next Demo,” Knuckles O’Toole finds solace in Steorn’s sponsoring of a demo; however, another forum member, Tilde, caustically responds:

    Yeah Knuckles, it [the Orbo] was there, but it 'failed'. 'Failed', as if they just have to fix a small issue. It didn't fail, it wasn't at all.


    The word 'failure' was used by Sean to reduce the having of nothingness into having a broken machine. Good marketing 'newspeak'.

    Knuckles chimed in: “Didn’t Jean Paul Sartre write about Bearings and Nothingness?

    ” Tilde then suggested this as the title of a documentary/exposé on Steorn. My own mockumentary deals with such events as HedyL’s abduction by Dr. Mabuse and her later banishment from the forum. The first event began when, suffering from the sheer mental exhaustion of keeping up with the wildly proliferating nature of the forum, she dropped out of the forum, checking into Limericks Anonymous for a cure. Unfortunately, she fell into the hands of Dr. Mabuse. He made a botched attempt to cure her of her rhyming propensities. His Report on HedyL, forwarded by an assistant sympathetic to her plight, reads as follows:

    While excising her rhyme from her reason, My surgeon's hand started seizin'. There's many a slip 'Twixt the Broca and the hip- pocampal medial regions! The procedure's now over, and I'm Sure we've zapped her penchant for rhyme. There's just one small matter: Brain scan read-outs, though flatter, Show neurons still firing to limerick time: ̆́ ̆̆́ ̆̆́ ̆̆́ ̆̆́ ̆̆́ ̆́ ̆̆́ ̆́ ̆̆́ ̆̆́ ̆̆́ ̆̆́

    Fortunately, with the help of this assistant, she was able to escape Mabuse’s clutches. She quickly recovered the relatively few faculties required for composing limericks (although demonstrating with a few personality disorder traits, doubtless the result of Mabuse’s incompetence). Returning to her former antics, she was soon banned from the forum by the moderator Crank for writing limericks in the guise of McCarthy’s therapist. In her defense, and in defense of free speech and unfettered critique, several members protested. Unfortunately, Crank’s wrath was not to be appeased, as reflected in the limerick below:

    Hot blood through Crank's veins surged and coursed. "Hedy's banned! All verses will now be outsourced! Our software censors in China Will reprogram line-by-line a New limerick code--Strictly Enforced!"

    8. Actually, there are 22 jurors–somewhere!

    9. In a leaked “memo” from Steorn to its investors, Sean explains Orbo’s delays:

    Our product development line Has fallen a bit behind. We'll still market Orbo And a new Irish Bordeaux, Premiering 2039.

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