The great misapprehension of Nietzsche. Not the monster, the malefactor of annihilation. Not the appropriated Nazi sympathizer. Not the misogynist leveling the whip. Madman perhaps, in later days when spirochete ate away at his cerebral cortex. Instead shy man, devoted friend, child. It has been said (was it Sartre?) that the greater the intellect the greater the need for play.
Nietzsche was a great player. He navigated words the way a ships captain might navigate ice floes, dallied with appearances the way a quiet man becomes an exhibitionist before an audience. His was the great playground of language. Yet associations darken his most elegiac work. For many all they know is at best the work, at worst the accusations. But here was a profoundly gentle man, a deeply spiritual man, carried along the cause of his thought, confused by conventional feelings, yet needing to live amongst ordinary people. Here was a man who seemed vastly ahead of his time, an astonishing intellect, who faced fleeting disappointments with the rancor of a child. In short, here is a man of contradiction.
From the devoted study of the priesthood, to the author of the Antichristian, Nietzsche came to seek absolution not in the body of the church but in the overcoming of his own nature, in the rapture not of the saints, but in that of the evolving self. He often expressed the feeling that the ones who might understand him had yet to be born, that some future being(s) might contain the seedling of his prophecy. True, few contemporaries ever understood him. Most in fact ignored him. It is a great tragedy that what truly introduced him to the general public was the Third Reich, for in his day, Nietzsche deplored nationalism, racism, he despised the notion of Empire, and yet, after his fall, his sister Elisabeth was able to manipulate and obfuscate these references and pervert his work to suit the needs of propaganda.
But Nietzsche never held to any category, never sought type. His vision was not elitist, instead it encompassed everyone. He believed that humanity was capable of greater things, of healthier things, of going beyond its own self imposed limitations. If anything his was a truly Utopian message. The presumed malice in his work stems, less from actual venom and more from exasperation. He sensed that the evolution of humankind was not something involuntary, but rather something which required action, commitment, questions, an effort and desire to transform. His frustration was a question of idle faith. He believed humanity capable of astonishing things, and yet what he witnessed was complacency, laziness, religion. Nietzsche believed in us, but he was unflinching in chastising our procrastination.
He never worried after his reputation, never sought the auspices of leader. He himself knew his own failings and never for a second believed himself to be the first in his evolutionary concept. In this sense he was less arrogant than self sacrificing, and he sometimes spoke about being happy at the notion that another, more prepared for the journey might utilize him as a stepping stone.
His own variegated illnesses seldom found their way into his work, for good reason. He didn't want to become the expression of his sickness, instead he sought to use its effects as fuel to exemplify the need for overcoming, for enduring, for celebrating what could stem from the refusal to succumb. He was not used by his weaknesses, he used them.
And as much metaphor is intrinsic to his work, as much bombast, there is a wonderful simplicity to it all. This too is something of an apparent paradox in Nietzsche, yet it has more to do with the urgent need he had to express, to dance, to poeticize, than to obscure. He wanted to be understood, yet he was unwilling to trivialize his ideas, and besides, he wanted to play.
For as much as he was a philosopher, as much as he was a philologist, he was at all times a musician, a composer and conductor of words. In short he was a lyric poet. His love of the pre-Socratic informed much of his style and filled it with both grace and violence. To an extent, to truly embrace him, one must have song in ones blood. One must recognize the cues and notes inherent in every line, the rhythm of every passage, the poetry of now subterranean, now mountain air.
In a sense reading him requires both stringent focus and pure abandon. Things reverberate in Nietzsche, and they linger long after having read him.
In the end though, it is to be hoped that he might one day be understood in terms both public and private, for it is only then that he becomes less the man of Freidrich's lonley mountain, than the man who, despite himself, becomes beautifully, human, all too human.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Elizabeth Thomas: Author, Scientist, Sadist.
Elizabeth Marshall Thomas is a loathsome individual. Her book, Tribe Of The Tiger, which purports to examine the interconnectedness of domestic cats to the large predatory cats found in nature, begins pleasantly enough, relating a fairly common story concerning her and her husband watching the flight of several deer, who it is revealed were being pursued by their cat.
All well, and good. Prosaic, episodic, personal in that palliative way of certain cat fanciers.
The problem arises later, in chapters reserved for the Circus and Zoo trade. Thomas proceeds to expound on the virtues and benefits afforded large cats kept in this way, rigorously (often ruthlessly) trained, confined to infinitesimally small cages, forced into theatre. She feels that this is just, and apt, and perfectly acceptable, and goes yet further relating that, in essence, these creatures are of so little quality as individuals that their confinement and coercion is of no moral question.
This is untenable, and entirely without sense, to say little of what we know of the vastly complex nature of these beings. Worse, it is dangerously misleading, for, though anyone of any moral awareness should know better, there will inevitably be a few whose perceptions, whose guilty consciences will be absolved by such statements, coming as they do from an (unbelievably) established authority.
It speaks to the overweening ignorance that persists in certain quarters of society, crucially, to the self imposed ignorance of these people. The least among us can see that a being whose very sense of self requires vastness, freedom, and a responsibility to it's own drives, should never be imprisoned for our sadistic amusement, and yet every year, hordes of beings gather to watch. Worse is that people bring children to these diabolical exhibitions, whose perceptions will be perverted and become muddy. People do not go to these places because they despise the animals in question, they do not attend in hopes of seeing a majestic creature suffer, often it is their great admiration that draws their attention. But it is a kind of deeply held self deception that allows such hypocrisy. It is little different than individuals who claim enormous affection for deer or bear, or sailfish who proceed to murder them and mount their dessicated bodies on their walls. There is little difference, but at least the hunted have the benfit of death, to end their torments. Exhibition animals do not have this luxury, and if we recognize that death would be better than the life they endure, certainly this should speak to its awfulness.
We live in a world rife with moral compromise. It is undeniably true that few of us have not run counter to our own supposedly intractable beliefs at one time or another. We are all guilty of something, and yet we persist, we endure, we carry on and make efforts to amend our occasional failings. But it needs noting, that these events arise by our own choices, our own actions, they are essentially intrinsic exceptions in our characters, and thus we are responsible for them. These animals however, these incarcerated beings, do not have choice, they are stripped of all individuality the moment they are confined. We may navigate our own slippery moral road as we see fit, it is our right as sentient beings, yet it is not our right to strip these inalienable statutes from another, be they human, tiger or toad. Our rights end where another life exists, and to maintain our willful ignorance of our treatment of fellow beings as a whole is no different than were we to accept a Dachau as "entertainment".
All well, and good. Prosaic, episodic, personal in that palliative way of certain cat fanciers.
The problem arises later, in chapters reserved for the Circus and Zoo trade. Thomas proceeds to expound on the virtues and benefits afforded large cats kept in this way, rigorously (often ruthlessly) trained, confined to infinitesimally small cages, forced into theatre. She feels that this is just, and apt, and perfectly acceptable, and goes yet further relating that, in essence, these creatures are of so little quality as individuals that their confinement and coercion is of no moral question.
This is untenable, and entirely without sense, to say little of what we know of the vastly complex nature of these beings. Worse, it is dangerously misleading, for, though anyone of any moral awareness should know better, there will inevitably be a few whose perceptions, whose guilty consciences will be absolved by such statements, coming as they do from an (unbelievably) established authority.
It speaks to the overweening ignorance that persists in certain quarters of society, crucially, to the self imposed ignorance of these people. The least among us can see that a being whose very sense of self requires vastness, freedom, and a responsibility to it's own drives, should never be imprisoned for our sadistic amusement, and yet every year, hordes of beings gather to watch. Worse is that people bring children to these diabolical exhibitions, whose perceptions will be perverted and become muddy. People do not go to these places because they despise the animals in question, they do not attend in hopes of seeing a majestic creature suffer, often it is their great admiration that draws their attention. But it is a kind of deeply held self deception that allows such hypocrisy. It is little different than individuals who claim enormous affection for deer or bear, or sailfish who proceed to murder them and mount their dessicated bodies on their walls. There is little difference, but at least the hunted have the benfit of death, to end their torments. Exhibition animals do not have this luxury, and if we recognize that death would be better than the life they endure, certainly this should speak to its awfulness.
We live in a world rife with moral compromise. It is undeniably true that few of us have not run counter to our own supposedly intractable beliefs at one time or another. We are all guilty of something, and yet we persist, we endure, we carry on and make efforts to amend our occasional failings. But it needs noting, that these events arise by our own choices, our own actions, they are essentially intrinsic exceptions in our characters, and thus we are responsible for them. These animals however, these incarcerated beings, do not have choice, they are stripped of all individuality the moment they are confined. We may navigate our own slippery moral road as we see fit, it is our right as sentient beings, yet it is not our right to strip these inalienable statutes from another, be they human, tiger or toad. Our rights end where another life exists, and to maintain our willful ignorance of our treatment of fellow beings as a whole is no different than were we to accept a Dachau as "entertainment".
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Twilight Review
I know, I know, I am weak and common, I am now resolutely among the masses, no longer a man of cultivated and obscure taste. So be it. After months of observing the phenomenon by default in every grocery and department store in existence, I succumbed, and watched Twilight.
I admit now, for the record, that I shared the all too common scorn of my peers toward this ubiquitous product, I sniggered at cardboard displays, arched brows at the merciless industry that fed our cultures frenzied appetite, made light of the frailty of human all too human susceptibilities, and felt little more than a patronizing amusement at the existence of something so obviously cliched.
And while I retain my repulsion toward the overzealous merchandising of the series, the unending accesorizing of obsession, truth be told, in regards the film, I was utterly mistaken in my posturing.
The "Vampire Film" has been, if you will pardon the expression, done to death, and yet every year, if not every few months a new/old take on the genre appears, and every year/few months we attend in droves, further encouraging the Hollywood machine to produce more poorly concieved, poorly performed, creatively bankrupt movies. We are not part of the problem, we are the problem. What was the last vampire film that actually moved and or frightened you? My guess is that you cannot think of one. Consider that for a moment. If we can acknowledge for an instant that our compulsion for these things is psychological, and not easily satisfied, than perhaps, as consumers, we might be able to raise our expectations, and as box office returns begin to dwindle, Film exectutives will begin, gradually, to take chances again. The only truly exeptional exponent of the genre in recent memory was Tomas Alfredson's 2008 piece, Låt den rätte komma in, and it was Norweigan! A small budget, essentially independant film, it offered what few genre pieces, and to be honest, film in general, has so greviously been lacking: genuine power. It is all too easy to go to the cinema, consume copious amounts of false food, return home and remember nothing of what you saw, in fact, this is what most of us expect from movies these days. But is that all there is? Are we so reduced in our faculties that we now want to spend large amounts of money on something that we could so easily obtain in our homes? I have always felt that film should be seen much more as an artistic, evocative experience, that one should resound with the wonderment of a truly arresting encounter. We have no respect for cinema any longer, and thus it has no respect for us. We got what we deserved.
Yet, there are a few flickering lights. The aformentioned Let The Right One In for instance, and still more recently, in my estimation, Twilight. It goes without saying that the timbre of these two films couldn't be more different, the former, though essntially involving children, was strictly an adult affair, dealt with much darker themes, and in a much more claustrophobic atomsphere. Twilight on the other hand, is something of an exception categorically speaking. As a culture, we are obsessed by definition, and I am as guilty as the next observer in this erroneous habit, and yet, it is apt to say that Twilight defies it's genre expectations. Romance, coming of age, thriller, gothic horror, it embodies all of these things, and yet not one of them stands exclusive.
What it does convey, however, it conveys exceptionally. It is riveting film-making at its best, never once faltering, never once sinking into assumption, the story carries beautifully throughout it's two hours, simultaneously weaving and destroying what, in the wrong hands, could so easily have collapsed under its intrinsically simple arc. The primary characters appear to have been given great lisence with their roles, and not once does the trembling urgency of their longing ring false. The cinematogaraphy is perfect, and even the music has a quality to it of premanence, at once subtle, at once salient. I expect this film will eventaully outlive it's market trappings, and at some point be seen as the truly passionate, elegiac piece of cinematic beauty that it is.
The point needs making however, that, one should not watch this film with a predetermined bias, either positive or negative. Truly great film has always been expected to suspend the reality of the viewer, to truly displace one from his or her normal environs. We have become jaded to this in the last several years, and we are all guilty of suspicion at best, indifference at worst. Twilight is something of a return to cinematic wonderment, but it needs a willingness to be transported to be truly embraced. Give in and you will forget to be frightened of being a fan.
I admit now, for the record, that I shared the all too common scorn of my peers toward this ubiquitous product, I sniggered at cardboard displays, arched brows at the merciless industry that fed our cultures frenzied appetite, made light of the frailty of human all too human susceptibilities, and felt little more than a patronizing amusement at the existence of something so obviously cliched.
And while I retain my repulsion toward the overzealous merchandising of the series, the unending accesorizing of obsession, truth be told, in regards the film, I was utterly mistaken in my posturing.
The "Vampire Film" has been, if you will pardon the expression, done to death, and yet every year, if not every few months a new/old take on the genre appears, and every year/few months we attend in droves, further encouraging the Hollywood machine to produce more poorly concieved, poorly performed, creatively bankrupt movies. We are not part of the problem, we are the problem. What was the last vampire film that actually moved and or frightened you? My guess is that you cannot think of one. Consider that for a moment. If we can acknowledge for an instant that our compulsion for these things is psychological, and not easily satisfied, than perhaps, as consumers, we might be able to raise our expectations, and as box office returns begin to dwindle, Film exectutives will begin, gradually, to take chances again. The only truly exeptional exponent of the genre in recent memory was Tomas Alfredson's 2008 piece, Låt den rätte komma in, and it was Norweigan! A small budget, essentially independant film, it offered what few genre pieces, and to be honest, film in general, has so greviously been lacking: genuine power. It is all too easy to go to the cinema, consume copious amounts of false food, return home and remember nothing of what you saw, in fact, this is what most of us expect from movies these days. But is that all there is? Are we so reduced in our faculties that we now want to spend large amounts of money on something that we could so easily obtain in our homes? I have always felt that film should be seen much more as an artistic, evocative experience, that one should resound with the wonderment of a truly arresting encounter. We have no respect for cinema any longer, and thus it has no respect for us. We got what we deserved.
Yet, there are a few flickering lights. The aformentioned Let The Right One In for instance, and still more recently, in my estimation, Twilight. It goes without saying that the timbre of these two films couldn't be more different, the former, though essntially involving children, was strictly an adult affair, dealt with much darker themes, and in a much more claustrophobic atomsphere. Twilight on the other hand, is something of an exception categorically speaking. As a culture, we are obsessed by definition, and I am as guilty as the next observer in this erroneous habit, and yet, it is apt to say that Twilight defies it's genre expectations. Romance, coming of age, thriller, gothic horror, it embodies all of these things, and yet not one of them stands exclusive.
What it does convey, however, it conveys exceptionally. It is riveting film-making at its best, never once faltering, never once sinking into assumption, the story carries beautifully throughout it's two hours, simultaneously weaving and destroying what, in the wrong hands, could so easily have collapsed under its intrinsically simple arc. The primary characters appear to have been given great lisence with their roles, and not once does the trembling urgency of their longing ring false. The cinematogaraphy is perfect, and even the music has a quality to it of premanence, at once subtle, at once salient. I expect this film will eventaully outlive it's market trappings, and at some point be seen as the truly passionate, elegiac piece of cinematic beauty that it is.
The point needs making however, that, one should not watch this film with a predetermined bias, either positive or negative. Truly great film has always been expected to suspend the reality of the viewer, to truly displace one from his or her normal environs. We have become jaded to this in the last several years, and we are all guilty of suspicion at best, indifference at worst. Twilight is something of a return to cinematic wonderment, but it needs a willingness to be transported to be truly embraced. Give in and you will forget to be frightened of being a fan.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Karen Traviss Interview
In the coming month I will be posting my interview with author Karen Traviss, whose novels have greatly affected my often entrenched views. You can see her own superlative blog here: http://www.karentraviss.com/ as well as order her work. Always interesting, often edifying, she is an astonishing, sometimes merciless Mother to her creations, and thus all the more fascinating.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Hello World
Thus far, all my work is currently over at http://www.myspace.com/durtal including all artwork, photography, reviews and other writings.
I'm intending to move some of the material here, but it is a laborious process, and as such, it will be slow, but, hopefully, things should begin soon...
I'm intending to move some of the material here, but it is a laborious process, and as such, it will be slow, but, hopefully, things should begin soon...
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