tradition/history/politics
Writing for a cause
Fitting with my character and philosophy, there are two phenomena I markedly dislike: modern cinema and science fiction. Though it may simply sound as though I hate the thought of anyone having fun, I have avoided and disdained both due to their escapist nature rather than just due to the sheer sight of smiling people. Modern cinema needs no elaborate analysis to pick it apart, for it has universally become disdained. Rehashing the same superheroes in the same situations as well as massacring loved characters in order to waterboard an audience with progressive nonsense is simply the antithesis to creativity; hence why before Dune I was on the precipice of fully turning away from the medium of film. Science fiction on the other hand has always represented a different variation of escapism in an extreme form. Just like ‘Disney adults’, science fiction fans have fully earned their portrayal as infantile dregs of society, for those people are naturally the most susceptible to escapism due to the poor choices that have made their true existence unlivable. As you can tell from my previous articles, I am a huge proponent of accountability, self-sufficiency, and discipline, so these people have always gained more of my pity than ire. You would be right to challenge me by pointing out the political symbolism in Star Wars or Star Trek – after all, are Fascism and Cold War politics not deeply profound subjects to analyze creatively; however, neither can be truly labeled as revolutionary in their analysis. Is ‘Fascism bad’ really a groundbreaking opinion? For the Soviets, did we not have enough fear-mongering over the half-century of ideological squabble? It should be said that I simply may not be interested in such symbolism because I regard all three major political experiments of the last century (liberalism, fascism, and socialism) as symptoms of a larger malady, and therefore have no vested interest in pitting one against the other. For these reasons, when the first Dune movie was released in 2021 I had no interest in watching it. Just another Star Wars rip-off – I thought – haven’t we had enough of that? Yet today, I regard the decision I made to halfheartedly watch the first movie in my dorm room to be undeniably positive toward my life and philosophical understanding. When I read an article critiquing the movie stating: “In my previous essay, I argued that the Bene Gesserit are villainous and white supremacist — but are the world-building and story itself white supremacist? I think they are — perhaps unintentionally or by omission. Cultural appropriation and racist stereotypes are integral to Dune’s world-building,” (Grace Lapointe, The Apotheosis of Paul Atreides), I not only laughed aloud, but knew I had stumbled on a film that must have done something right. Cinema that does not offer a challenge is no better than pornography, for it is merely a self-soothing reinforcement rather than true timeless art. Of course, those labeling Dune as ‘orientalist’, ‘white-supremacist’, and ‘far right’ are the same people who call Julius Evola, “Dungeons & Dragons for racists,” (Benjamin Teitelbaum) as a form of dismissal – people who rather than rise to a challenge, instead sink further into a pseudo-intellectual shell of protective dismissals. Why have both been labeled as such? Because they fundamentally challenge the foundational pillars of modernity, which gains them the most universal harbinger of true success: hatred. Dune's reception of course has been overwhelmingly positive, and rightfully so, however, I fear that most are enraptured by the stunning score and cinematography, and ignore the real gem found in its intense symbolism. Though I fundamentally disagree with Herbert's deep conviction that Nietzsche’s übermensch and traditional heroism are inherently evil, I found such differences stimulating as opposed to frightening like the writer I cited above. The most ‘on the nose’ of these symbolic challenges falls is Dune's political critiques of modernity – which already blows Star Wars out of the water – but additionally, its mystical elements demonstrate an acceptance and simultaneous distrust of Guénonian perrenialism serve to make it a work that appeals to both the plebeian masses and the patrician few. To understand if Dune can fit with a traditionalist perspective, let us first dive into the points where the most concrete agreement can be found. Herbert’s work can be defined definitively as anti-modern and ecologically focused, which upon further review seems markedly aligned with traditionalist principles. At its core, Dune is a work of eco-fiction as opposed to science fiction, which is where we first come to grasp Herbert's anti-modern tendencies. A foundational piece of the backstory to the Dune universe is an earlier revolt against ‘thinking machines’, reminiscent of H.G. Wells’s War Of Worlds. In the words of Lorenzo DiTommaso: “The Butlerian Jihad brought Imperial technology to a specialized and codified halt. By forcing human minds to develop, the Revolt ultimately promoted religion over science and technology, and humanness over machines and artificial minds,” (Lorenzo DiTommaso, History and Historical Effect in Frank Herbert’s Dune). Though Herbert does not adopt a cyclical theory of history in his novel like many among the Traditionalist school – as also mentioned in DiTommaso’s article – he diagnoses the same fundamental issues with modernity found in the reign of quantity and the exploitation of dogmatically religious cultures with inferior technological ability. Spice – as a resource not religious hallucinogenic – is a symbol serving for oil in the modern day, allowing for intergalactic travel while simultaneously coming at the expense of an entire native people. The Butlerian Jihad is seen as a historical model for the later Paul Atreides in his quest to shake off the shackles of imperial rule over Arrakis, clearly demonstrating that the events we witness in the movie are essentially an extension of the previous divine crusade against a technological order; at least initially until the protagonist falls into the trap of Ceasarism. The allegorical significance is not that these Jihads are a positive phenomenon; rather, they are the bloody result of extreme tension being placed upon the natural order. In essence, Herbert is warning the West that its continual exploitation of natural resources and native people will sew their own violent demise. Not only does Herbert seem skeptical about ‘ai’ (the favorite boogieman of modern media), but he additionally holds a skepticism of technology as a whole, especially the idea that technological progress can be equated with human progress. As a conservative libertarian himself, he certainly found sacrificing technology the lesser of two evils when confronted with the alternative of continued exploitation. His use of ‘jihad’ to describe both the Buttlerian struggle as well as the one showcased in the first novel further serves to demonstrate faith’s primacy over technology, clearly as a means to shatter Western notions of smug supremacy and misplaced sense of security. To circle back to the ecological kinship between Herbert and the traditionalist school, he takes the time to show first the reality of divine truth in the universe, but also how technology perverts its acquisition (the central dogma of perrenialism). Although many have been quick to label the ‘spice’ in Dune as metaphorical for Herbert’s experiences with psychedelics, I believe this is merely a way analysts attempt to stifle the truly thought-provoking implications of the novel. The Bene Gesserit order (the primary religious institution of the Dune universe) uses the spice to induce divine revelation – just as the indigenous Freman – so the spice is patently metaphorical for the divine truth only attained through solace with nature rather than merely an attempt for the author to justify his own drug abuse. Interestingly, the Bene Gesserit order symbolizes Catholicism while the Freman serve as a similar symbolic representation of Islam, so it seems Herbert once more accepts the central Perrenialist premise that both religions draw from the same well of esoteric truth. Though he accepts the reality of both group's connection to divine truth, he does not infer that the exoteric manifestations practiced by each are equal. Herbert finds nobility in the Freman, who naturally experiences the beneficial effects of spice, while also demonstrating his distrust of the Bene Geserite order – a fitting contrast to highlight his own institutional distrust. Thus far Dune has proved to march in lockstep with a traditionalist diagnosis of the “crisis of the modern world”, however, its political symbolism is where Herbert and I fundamentally diverge. One of the primary issues the series currently faces is that the movie adaptations have yet to be resolved, which has led to a phenomenon described by Joshua Pearson when he wrote: “Some have decried Dune as an exemplar of the most toxic tropes lurking in science fiction, calling the novel an orientalist fever dream, a pean to eugenics, and a seductive monument to fascist aesthetics; others look at the same text and see an excoriation of hero-worship, a cautionary tale of revolutionary dreams betrayed, and a warning about Indigenous sovereignty subverted by a charismatic charlatan,” (Joshua Pearson, The Contested Politics of ‘Dune’). I’ll be the first to admit that I was a viewer who placed my own bias onto the movie and left the theater feeling very smug that Dune reinforced everything I previously believed; unfortunately while writing this painstaking article, I found it not to be the case. To understand what Herbert is critiquing, we must understand why I saw such a bright beacon shining from the character of Paul. To put it simply, Paul is the pinnacle of the aristocratic worldview. Not only is he the son of a duke, but he is a warrior, a product of relentless selective breeding, and has a direct tether to divine truth due to these inherited factors. Paul Atreides is exactly the half-political half-religious monarch of Evolian philosophy; he is the exact definition of the individualistic and aristocratic Nietzschian übermensch; he is everything loved by an aristocratic order, and by extension, everything I personally profess. When seen this way, Paul represents the future I myself yearn for, which is why I identified myself with him so profoundly. When the old aristocracy had decayed in a Spenglerian fashion, a new and vital nomadic aristocrat swept in and reestablished fervent religiosity and cleansed corruption through holy war; a story as old as time – I draw the primary connection with Octavian after the death of Ceasar – and a story that most pre-french revolutionary conservatives such as myself fully embrace as fundamental and divine. However, Dune is unfortunately not the traditionalist masterpiece I hoped it would be; in fact, it is a scathing refutation of the worldview I laid out above. In an interview with NBC, Herbert answers these questions definitively and puts to rest my overactive speculations: “I think we do have a sense of the mindless animal within the depths of all of us,” (0:50 minutes into the interview) and, “Don’t trust leaders to always be right,” (1:44 minutes into the interview). These are just a few of the most notable quotations from the interview, but they serve to showcase that Paul is not the hero nor the villain as many claim, but rather an embodiment of the instability and impossibility of truly benevolent leadership. Within the same interview, he states that his goal was to create a truly great leader by every metric (this is where we find the Nietzschian and Evolian influence) who has the nobility of spirit, birth, sword, and every other form of aristocratic justification. Yet in creating a great leader, Herbert does not aim to sound the trumpet of a revival of the West on the horizon, but rather of a fall into dangerous Ceasarism. It is important to note that Herbert identifies himself as in alignment with the foundational values of the United States – which he believes that the modern nation has strayed from – so the feudalist system he creates with the barons, dukes, and galactic empire is symbolic of his distaste for liberal ideas perverted which have regressed to a dark period; starkly contrasting the traditionalist notion of a feudal primacy over liberalism. The Baron Harkonnen, a nobleman in the truest sense of the word, is perverted and corpulent, and his progeny are no better. Baron Harkonnen is symbolic of Herbert’s distaste for power and authority, and how though an aristocratic elite claims to possess heightened vitality and value, in practice they deteriorate into sub-human leeches (additional evidence for this claim is symbolized in how the Atreides' bloodline upon coming to power undergo a literal process of morphing into sand-worms). The Baron however is a clear villain, so his symbolism can be explained away as a mere literary device to create an interesting antagonist, however, Paul and his family are criticized in much the same way. His father is blinded by pride, and he himself is fueled by revenge despite his direct knowledge that his actions will lead to immeasurable suffering; a nobleman who even with divine sight acts on impulse rather than with Apollonian virtue. To put it simply, absolute power corrupts absolutely, and no level of virtue, fitness, and genetic superiority can alter that eternal fact. As discussed above, this view is not one Herbert and I share, however, I would be remiss to dismiss the novel or recommend like-minded readers avoid his work. Even as a Catholic, many of his most pointed criticisms of what I hold dear ring true. For example, the amorality of the Bene Gesserit in their position as kingmakers not only echoes the moral ambiguity and corruption of the medieval church, but also during the fascist period. Although they in the end favor the winning side, Paul, they exhibit no qualms in allowing Feyd Rautha to be considered an equally worthy candidate for the imperial throne. Their settlement with the sadist Feyd Rautha draws inspiration from how the church knowingly turned a blind eye to Mussoli’s exploits in Ethiopia and initially did the same with Hitler before the invasion of Poland. Though I take issues with aspects of this critique, it certainly contains valuable kernels of truth, just as Herbert's larger criticism of modernity and even aristocratic principles. Rather than dogmatically rejecting Herbert's work or misinterpreting it for sheer convenience, it is better to use it as the masterfully crafted thought experiment that it truly is. I may not see eye to eye with Herbert, but I am more than willing to support an author who diagnoses the great malady of modern society and causes me to hone my core principles, which Dune certainly inspired me to do. As alluded to in the introduction, I appreciate any writer who can offer a pointed and shameless challenge to both society as a whole and myself, and by God, Herbert and the movies his book inspired have achieved that goal tenfold. -E.S.
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![]() In the words of Dr. Peter Glomset, “Americans have thrived in the arts – from musical to visual – but lag behind our European counterparts in the literary field,” and if not for one man, I would whole-heartedly agree. Cormac McCarthy certainly needs no drawn-out introduction, nor does his most prolific book Blood Meridian. Filled to the brim with classic ‘cowboys vs injins’ style gunfights and grotesque imagery of severed heads and shrunken ears stripped from enemies of all creeds and races, Blood Meridian has repelled as many critiques as it has captivated. As is not uncommon, some will attempt to relegate it to a teenage boy's violent fantasies while others will critique the long and supremely descriptive sentences woven by the despotic overlord of the English language. For the former, I say grow a pair; for the latter, I say set aside your jealousy, for any artist must learn to recognize when they have encountered a superior caliber. In devaluing McCarthy’s work (in calling McCarthy adolescent, they simply display their own infantile nature), these individuals lose the ability to engage with a profoundly philosophical work – one on the level of Dostoyevsky’s Crime And Punishment. Of course, I am not the first to pick up on Blood Meridian’s philosophical backbone – which is only amplified in its embroidery of grotesque passages and depravity – however, oversimplification has plagued this work just as it has for every reasonably complex novel. Just like McCarthy’s own character of the Judge, they seek to extract one central point from the novel and subsequently destroy the rest; his coffin must be worn with many convulsions his corpse has suffered upon each bastardization of his work! As a simple search on YouTube would demonstrate, many have been quick to liken McCarthy to Thomas Hobbes, which holds considerable validity. It is impossible to argue that the novel is anything but a horrific depiction of mankind and his capability for cruelty and violence, however, unlike Hobbes McCarthy poses us with a question and a reality, not a solution. The closest he comes to providing a Hobbesian solution of civilization and control is when he depicts the Judge pontificating on a native tribe that once inhabited the region that the Glanton Gang is currently moving through. He reflects: “All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage. So here are the dead fathers. Their spirit is entombed in the stone. It lies upon the land with the same weight and the same ubiquity. For whoever makes a shelter of reeds and hides has joined his spirit to the common destiny of creatures and he will subside back into the primal mud with scarcely a cry. But who builds in stone seeks to alter the structure of the universe and so it was with these masons however primitive their works may seem to us,” (McCarthy, p. 127). For context, this anecdote is part of a three-part scene concerning the raising of children, which in this case is symbolic of the progress and decline of civilizations. In a sense, this is a Spenglerian view of an age of barbarity following a golden age of civilization, and like Spengler, the Judge sees it as an inevitability. Unlike the traditionalist view, however, the quest for civilization is not seen as a noble pursuit, but rather that of attempting to stop the ocean tides with a wall of sand. The Judge, as an agent of chaos and representative of human barbarism, laughs at this attempt to subvert natural will and is ready to arise at every opportunity, for he never truly leaves. He is the resentment and rage that envelops a declining society, just as he is the spirit of progress in the age of expansion and enlightenment. Where McCarthy differs from Hobbes is exactly in this aforementioned duality, for the judge is a supremely cultured being; civilization and progress have only allowed him to flourish on a scale equally swollen as his own bloated figure. While for Hobbes, strength in centralization and control would provide a mediating effect towards the universal evil embodied by the Judge, in Blood Meridian the Judge games bureaucracies, militaries, and governors with ease. He is a bottle that cannot be corked, and if anything is a way in which McCarthy spits in the face of Hobbes and his hubris in attempting to formulate a cork that inevitably would not hold. On a philosophical level, McCarthy is dooming man and his civilizations to futility (a topic which I will attempt to offer a counter for later) however beyond the strike at Hobbes, McCarthy bases philosophical his diagnosis on theology. McCarthy’s religiosity is up to considerable debate, however, his astute conviction in a pessimistic and cursed world makes some variation of Gnostic Deism seem fitting. For evidence, we must look to his renowned epilogue – as compelling as it is confusing – for there do we see man’s ultimate condition through the eyes of the author. As man travels forth through life, “He uses an implement with two handles and he chucks it into the hole and he enkindles the stone in the hole with his steel hole by hole striking the fire out of the rock which God has put there,” (McCarthy, p. 284). The noble man, separated from the scavengers McCarthy describes following these enkindled holes, trudges through life lighting the fires which God has laid out for him. God does not reach into this world, rather, he has left a path that we follow, a path that allows us to shed light on an intentionally dark plane of existence. Nobility, in the eyes of McCarthy, is in creation; he reviles those that linger behind the man lighting the holes. Here he provides the foundation of the solution for man that I shall soon discuss, but also demonstrates that though God has cursed mankind, he has still provided him a path of creation and a path towards greater achievements. Most of Blood Meridian’s theology stems from the biblical story of Adam and Eve as well as the Poem of Paradise Lost by John Milton. Many times has it been argued that the Judge is indeed Satan, and using both these religious accounts, that analysis is proved mostly sound. From the very first pages of the book, a Reverend calls out upon encountering the Judge: “This is him, cried the reverend, sobbing. This is him. The devil. Here he stands,” (McCarthy, p.2). The symbolism in the reverend's cry needs no explanation, but far more subtle justifications for the satanic identity of the Judge arise as the story progresses. Just as Satan in Paradise Lost fashions gunpowder and cannon to wage his futile war against God, So too does the Judge. When the Glanton Gang is about to receive divine justice, the Judge fashions homemade gunpowder from the belly of the volcanic earth and the urine of men, bathing himself in it as he mixes what is described as the “Devil’s batter” (McCarthy, p.116): the gunpowder. Though much later, in the second encounter with the edge of St. Michael's sword, the judge wields the muzzle of a Howitzer as though it was a mere rifle and escapes his fate once more: the cannon. From these accounts, it is clear that the Judge wages an active and brutal war against fate (clearly what McCarthy believes is an implement of God) which demonstrates why the Judge is wholly consumed by warfare in all its brutal forms. In his own words: “War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god,” (McCarthy, p. 210). What God is to Satan is indeed war, not only because of Satan's act of outright revolt against the heavenly kingdom, but also of the curse God simultaneously lays upon the serpent and mankind. According to Genesis 3, 15-16: “So the LORD God said to the serpent, ‘Because you have done this, ‘Cursed are you above all the livestock and all the wild animals! You will crawl on your belly and you will eat dust all the days of your life. And I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring [1] and hers; he will crush [2] your head, and you will strike his heel." (Genesis 3, 15-16). A state of war is what God sentences Satan and man to eternally; bloody, perpetual, War. The Judge does not revel in war because he sees it as a ritual as he says or because he has the power of choice over the matter– though he attempts to use Nietzsche’s will to power to feign self-determination in his bloodlust– but because he is cursed to do so. Lastly, Judge Holden has been generally accepted as a personification of imperialism – an interpretation that has become almost ubiquitous among casual readers and intellectuals alike – but additionally serves a stark counter to modernity. It has been said that the story of Blood Meridian is a sequel to mankind’s banishment from Eden, showing exactly the extent of God’s curse on Satan in the not-so-distant past, which upon further analysis proves to be correct. The interpretation of Judge Holden as a metaphor for imperialism has unfortunately been taken in directions that stray far from the actual purpose of McCarthy’s character, even if my specific traditionalist interpretation is to be discounted. There have been extensive studies of Holden’s position as a representative of American misogyny coupled with racism and all other sorts of progressive buzzwords, however, that interpretation loses the actual poignance of his character. Holden is one thing: indiscriminate. Like all the other members of the Glanton gang, he has no values or morality, only what suits him best in the given moment. If my interpretation is to be accepted, Judge Holden’s position as the embodiment of Imperialism and post-Christian Western society is horrifyingly accurate. The foundations of liberalism and modernity are built off of Holden’s exploits of categorization; his learnedness spurs his evil rather than curtailing it. As mentioned briefly above, the proximity to our own time adds a sense of universality to the story, for the Garden of Eden may feel distant and antiquated, but the founding of the American West is only just outside living memory. Additionally, Satan has not diminished in strength due to technological advancement as Western society deludes itself to be the case, but rather has swelled in size and power. While once Satan was handsome (as mentioned in the previous religious accounts discussed) he now appears fat, childlike, spoiled, and corpulant. Why is this? Because his task has become easy, man is playing right into his child-murdering hands. Holden is spurring on a secular world of categorization, domination, and disdain for God and nature – not unlike our own. In the words of Jihan Zakarriya: “Judge Holden establishes a secular order, with the workings of God or religion suspended, declaring an order of hierarchy, of exclusion, of identity conflicts, and of a monolithic white power,” (An Ecocritical Reading of Blood Meridian, paragraph 7). Though the last point concerning a racial view of Judge Holden’s exploits can be debated, in this case, progressive academia and I march in lockstep. You have journeyed with me through the pages of Blood Meridian; on this journey, we have uncovered that he is a philosophical, religious, and historical allegory that warns mankind of his future and his very nature, but I promised you a counter and I shall deliver. Cormac McCarthy portrays the horror of inevitability and fate masterfully, however, I believe that he additionally drops a covert trail of breadcrumbs to my ultimate prescription of the universal malady he has so eloquently diagnosed. When the madman in the mud hut is speaking to the unnamed protagonist of the novel, he tells him: “You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it. You believe that?” (McCarthy, p.17). The connection to technology is evident, and the madman describes man’s unparalleled evil through not his increased propensity for it internally – in his own words even the least of animals has the capability – but through the means by which he can perpetuate it. Here, McCarthy and I find agreement. I too hold that man’s technological progression does not stamp out the evil from his heart, but rather only provides him the tools with which he can act on the deep, primal, bloodlust that was engendered into him by his banishment from Eden. Once more, we see Hobbes handily refuted. Governments throughout the novel are shown to be weak, hypocritical, and untrustworthy; after all, a modern government is merely a gang that succeeded in taking power. Hobbes was right that man needs civilization and society to protect against our primal evil, but where true society derives its power is not in technological domination – which Blood Meridian handily shows is not a viable solution – but in a hierarchy held by natural law and angled upwards. Ultimately, the world of tradition is where we find an escape from the Judge’s ever-present figure. For example take the kid and his origin, startlingly similar to the condition of modern man. He is born in blood, it is all he knows, for he has no connection to his family and no set path to follow. Like each member of the gang excluding the Judge, he is a man immersed in nihilism. There is no nobility, there are no values – for values get one killed – only ruthless competition reigns supreme. War can never be irradicated, as the Judge says: “As war becomes dishonored and its nobility called into question those honorable men who recognize the sanctity of blood will become excluded from the dance, which is the warrior's right, and thereby will the dance become a false dance and the dancers false dancers. And yet there will be one there always who is a true dancer and can you guess who that might be?” (McCarthy, p.280). He is that single dancer, and in denying him we give him strength. The beauty of traditional structures is found within their balance, for man does not deny war, but relegates it to a limited position. By doing so, man acts in accordance with the natural order, but uses it as a means to strive towards man's ultimate goal: self-sustaining stability and cultivation of higher men. What McCarthy describes is the natural state, defined by Heraclitus as perpetual flux, which is shown to be the embodiment of hell. In keeping with biblical tradition, we find that our only path to salvation is to bring the kingdom of heaven to earth. If Earth is cursed by perpetual flux, heaven must by extension be the polar opposite. This means that just as the angels are categorized into classes – with the Cherubim, Seraphim, and thrones presiding over this celestial hierarchy – so too should man. Additionally, as God is the undisputed sovereign, so too should his chosen man be the undisputed sovereign of man on earth. McCarthy is right that the hand of God can be elusive in this world, so we must be active in creating a society that acts in accordance with his will. In Hindu tradition, a man because deplorable and shunned only when he has attempted to revolt against the celestial structure he was born to be a part of, just as satan was banished from Heaven after attempting to subvert the celestial kingdom's rigid hierarchy. Therefore, to escape the influence of the Judge, we must end our journey through the war torn deserts of Mexico and return to our land, to act in accordance with our purpose, and not chase the illusive specters of wealth and sovereignty, of which only God can be true master of. -E.S. Recently, I was deeply troubled to learn of Harvard’s Gilbert and Sullivan performances indefinitely ceasing, however this event is emblematic of far more dire issues facing men in the arts. For as long as I can remember, my great Uncle would kindly take multiple other family members and I to the spectacularly produced performances: an experience which certainly strengthened an important relationship that I still hold dear. Not only did it buttress personal relationships, but also my burgeoning interest in music. Being raised around truly great music is an invaluable resource, and coupled with exposure these singers were still young, which added to the relatability of the experience. Currently, I have been a part of a choir since elementary school, and have been lucky enough to go on a musical tour of Quebec – singing in two of their cathedrals – and I owe much of it to the powerful role models I saw take the stage at Harvard. As I am sure you can tell by now, I found these performances the highlight of my year, and the news certainly came as a shock (as evidenced by the long chain of emails shared between my family upon reception). To add insult to injury, the reason for the abrupt suspension of performances was most troubling: they had no men.
As evidenced by most of my writings, I am a huge proponent of traditional masculinity, so you may be surprised by my deep care for Gilbert and Sullivan's performances of all things, yet that is masculinity. I wish to also be clear, Harvard, for all its issues, is not uniquely at fault in this regard. During my time in high school choir, the stark difference in the number of female to male students was shocking, not to mention the deep fissure between the levels of participation between the sexes. However, I also saw the phenomenon extended to the orchestra and even the visual arts during my time, which importantly was not as extreme when I first arrived during my freshman year. Even the men who remained in the choir felt uneasy (as did I), which sapped much of the joy found in performing in front of large groups. The second we would all stand up, the robes we wore seemed to morph from cloth to lead, and our previous confidence to hit notes deemed ‘unmasculine’ would evaporate. This uneasiness manifested in antisocial tendencies within the group – such as paltry participation and performative apathy – for each man seemed to be locked in a competition to prove their masculinity as if it was under mortal threat. A healthy amount of unproductiveness is good for a young man, in fact, one of the chief classical ideals was a confident lack of care, however, it cannot be confused with the weakness driving what I witnessed. I am ashamed to say it, but I would bet a significant amount of money that my former choir will become exclusively female within the next year; in fact, they would be better for it! I lived through this slow decline of the masculine arts for four years, and the Gilbert and Sullivan debacle has simply caused it to bubble up inside me like a fit of unshakable and deeply unpleasant indigestion. What I wish you to take away from this anecdote is not that my four years of choir were miserable – for I cherish them despite the drawbacks – but rather, the central point is found in the universal phenomenon of wounded masculinity. The lens has widened from Harvard’s Gilbert and Sullivan performances to high school art as a whole, and now, we will twist our lens once more to gaze at the masculine creative output as a whole. To preface, homosexual and effeminate expression has become quite common, but for our purposes only attempts at traditional masculine representation are relevant. The chief masculine cultural contributions recently have been in rap and sports, a pitiful lineup but it is the unfortunate reality. It seems odd how young men, many (if not most) white, have latched onto a musical tradition that originates in the deepest corners of the African American ghettos and was designed to speak for those facing challenges unimaginable to most modern listeners. Personally, I regard it as an expression detrimental to those involved and society, but I know too little to speak for black Americans. What does interest me however is the fact that music which speaks to senseless violence and the depravity of man (to be fair to rap, it is often critical of the perpetrators of these acts, however, there are countless examples of the opposite) which in all honesty is what many of the creators of this music experienced during their time in the depths of poverty, appeals to most modern young men. The media is partially to blame, but we must remember that the media is simply sewing a plowed field. The black community that coined rap late last century faced similar spiritual challenges as the modern man – of course in conjunction with tangible poverty, hunger, etc – which has ironically created a new generation of spoiled white half-men singing along to lyrics about the depths of racial injustice and the senseless violence many in poverty suffer at the hands of. They had little control over their own destiny, they were nihilistic after years of hardship, they fell short of the standards an increasingly media-heavy society pumped down their throats, they were poor in education and social mobility, and they were detached from natural expressions of humanity, not to mention masculinity. Anti-social behaviors – such as desensitization to crime and violence – are merely reactionary impulses manifesting due to the severity of masculine degradation in the modern age. Sports obsession is much the same; men’s lives lack a necessary level of vitality and release so they instead pour their time and money into emotionally tethering themselves to others living their hyper-masculine dream. Sport formerly was used as a simulation of war, and by extension, was a way to pacify a warrior class in times of peace (ie. jousting, Native lacrosse, fencing, etc), and now we find ourselves – exactly like the plebian Roman – neutered by bread and circuses. Now I ask, was Mozart an effeminate man? Was Wagner an inoffensive softy? Neither, of course, is true. What has always defined the greatness of a high culture is duality. Just as the two paths to cultivate a connection with the divine (or esoteric depending on your doctrine) are through action and contemplation, so is the path to solar masculinity. Since modern life has reduced men to only being valuable in the latter, they feel unsatisfied in the former, manifesting in what we see today. Since they will likely be a doctor, lawyer, or accountant, they cannot assert their masculine vitality in the areas that really matter, but rather massage their sickly vital urge through purging themselves of the higher arts which they see as feminine. Unlike the elderly, I am not worried that rap will make the young violent, rather, I am worried that it will further stifle their natural vitality. It is true that – as Nietzsche lays out – all civilizations of a higher type begin with a barbaric aristocratic class storming in on their horses and massacring the local farming population, yet no high culture has been sustained that way. When a culture matures, just like a young man, it comes to appreciate the path of the warrior and the path of the aesthetic. Golden age civilizations, such as classical Greece or the mature years of the European Middle Ages, adopted doctrines that fostered a higher type of masculinity: divine masculinity. The Codes of Chivalry, Kalakogathia, Bushido, and many more serve to meld a man’s natural strength with his abilities of care, restraint, and delicacy. Frederick the Great – one of the last truly chivalric monarchs – was a skilled flutist and unlike his father ushered in a golden age of Prussian arts and cultural output. The system of spiritual advancement had been honing a perennial idea of masculinity for centuries, and industrial society threw it to the wind. We are now like Frederick Wilhelm the First (father of the aforementioned Frederick the Great): old, sick, fat, and hyper-fixated on war because we lack the ability to participate in it. My hope, therefore, is that out of our decrepit state, we can bear a son who can realize what we never dreamed of grasping. My brief historical and philosophical analysis of the problem has now been made clear, but to conclude, I want to offer you a kernel of hope. Male participation in the arts is fledgling, but I have been proud to participate in one of the few exceptions to that trend. In my first year of Acapella, our group was starkly different from the choir. Most of us were varsity sports players, our chemistry together was unmatched, and we embodied (admittedly too much so) the Greek virtue of vitality and acedia (carelessness). Most of us had little singing experience, and I had to coach my fellow bases significantly, but I was unsurprised to see the skills learned playing sports correlated directly to the stage. As an all-male group, there was a genuine fear of mine going in that it would be a group of effeminate micro-managers that would limit the group to the notes on the page, but I was pleasantly surprised to find it an entirely different community. We may have not sounded the best at our regional performance, but I cannot overstate how much of a good time I had that year. We made music together, hell Acapella, the chief of the feminine musical arts, and we did so without insecurity. I stood on stage, with people I cared about and cultivated a willingness to try, to achieve something I would not otherwise; I only realize now that this was the same divine passion that allowed some of the most masculine and warlike civilizations to produce the highest and most delicate art. Plato’s idolization of the philosopher king was neither a play at his own ego nor arbitrary, but instead the true union of the poles of masculinity into one greatly productive being. We signed up because our friends did, because they encouraged us, and because we never felt lesser for approaching the art form in this manner. I remember joking with some friends at the time that we were likely the most muscular acapella group to ever take the stage, and I would not be shocked if that were true, but that is what the arts should be at their core. I find it a tragedy that the artistic sports-player archetype has been relegated to the cinema, it should be within each of us. -E.S. |
Notes from the Author:Welcome to the Underground Aristocrats website; before you dive in, let me aid you in navigating this site. On this page entitled Featured Works, you will find the most recent articles in order for you to keep up to date with my writing. However, do not merely scroll here; if you come for creative writing, check out the Creative Work Page, and likewise if you specialize in politics, philosophy, news, etc. I hope my short guide will aid your reading, and feel free to leave comments, both critical or positive. Archives
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