The Body in the Library by Agatha Christie (1942)

‘Morning, Bantry,’ said the chief constable. ‘Thought I’d better come along myself. This seems an extraordinary business.’
‘It’s – it’s –’ Colonel Bantry struggled to express himself– ‘it’s incredible – fantastic!’
(Chapter 1, section 5)

Jefferson nodded. He said, ‘It certainly seems fantastic.’
(Chapter 8, section 3)

‘It’s an extraordinary business,’ Sir Henry commented when Jefferson had finished.
(Chapter 11, section 1)

Superintendent Harper said, ‘Have you any idea at all, sir, who can have done this?’
‘Good God, I wish I had!’ The veins stood out on Jefferson’s forehead. ‘It’s incredible, unimaginable!’
(Have we got the message yet, that all the characters find the whole thing wildly improbable)

‘You know,’ said Mrs Bantry, ‘I can’t help feeling glad they’ve taken the body away. It’s not nice to have a body in one’s house.’
(The genteel approach to murder in a village of posh ladies and gossipy spinsters)

Jefferson said, frowning, ‘I can’t help feeling it must be the work of some maniac – the brutality of the method, breaking into a country house, the whole thing so unconnected and senseless.’
(The same baseless claim made by someone in more or less all of the novels, that the murderer must be a fiend, a maniac, a lunatic – which helps to ramp up the tension and give the text the Gothic sense that there’s a madman on the loose)

Funny old tabby, thought Dinah… Eccentric old bean… Nosey old cat…
(Young floozy Dinah Lee’s opinion of old Miss Marple)

Plot summary

The body in the library trope

Right from the start it’s a sort of joke that a murdered body is found in the library of a posh country house because it’s such a cliché of the genre. Thus the improbably amused tone of the lady of the manor where the body is discovered, Dolly Bantry, in a phone call to Miss Marple:

‘But you’re very good at murders. She’s been murdered you see; strangled. What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually happening in one’s house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what I mean. That’s why I want you to come and help me find out who did it and unravel the mystery and all that. It really is rather thrilling, isn’t it?’

It was 1942 and Christie was well aware that this sort of thing had happened so many times in previous detective stories that ‘the body in the library’ was virtually a sub-genre in its own right. Particularly if it’s the body of a nubile young woman, as it is here. And a blonde, to boot!

Miss Marple demanded breathlessly, ‘But whose body is it?’
‘It’s a blonde.’
‘A what?’
‘A blonde. A beautiful blonde – like in the books…’

Indeed, according to the Wikipedia article on the book:

In her ‘Author’s Foreword’, Christie describes ‘the body in the library’ as a cliché of detective fiction. She states that when writing her own variation on this theme, she decided that the library should be a completely conventional one while the body would be a highly improbable and sensational one.

So one aspect of the entertainment, then, derives from finding out how Christie will treat such a familiar subject or cliché – or classic trope – of the detective genre.

Miss Marple

And the answer is given almost straight away when we realise this is going to be a Miss Marple story. Miss Jane Marple, shrewd spinster inhabitant of the little village of St Mary Mead, first appeared in a short story in 1927, ‘The Tuesday Night Club’, which was then made the basis of a collection of stories, ‘The Thirteen Problems’, published in 1932. Her first appearance in a full-length novel was in The Murder at the Vicarage in 1930 so ‘The Body in the Library’ is only the second novel devoted to her, a full 12 years after the first.

The library in question is part of the country house, Gossington Hall, a mile and a half from St Mary Mead, the village where Miss M lives, and soon after the body is discovered (by the servants), the Hall owner’s wife, Mrs Bantry, is on the phone to her old friend Jane Marple, to tell her the shocking news.

‘We’ve just found a body in the library.’
For a moment Miss Marple thought her friend had gone mad.
‘You’ve found a what?’
‘I know. One doesn’t believe it, does one? I mean I thought they only happened in books.’

The police

In fact, despite Mrs Bantry’s invitation to her old friend to help out, it takes about half the text before Miss Marple becomes really involved in the case. First of all the police are called in, in the form of: Colonel Melchett, the chief constable of (the fictional country of) Radfordshire and Inspector Slack. There’s a slight complication in that the body was found in the library at Gossington Hall, which is in the country of Radfordshire, while the Majestic Hotel where they discover the murdered girl worked, is across the country border in the county of Glenshire, and so the investigation has to be a joint undertaking by Melchett and Slack from the Radfordshire force, and Superintendent Harper from the Glenshire force. So there’s a certain amount of jostling and dislike between these three men who each have different temperaments and approaches (Melchett is bluff to the point of rudeness; Slack is hyperactive; Harper is slow and imperturbable).

Anyway, over the leisurely course of the first half of the narrative, they discover that:

Ruby Keene

The dead woman is a dancer and hostess named Ruby Keene who worked at the Majestic Hotel in the (fictional) seaside resort of Danemouth. There’s a backstory: her cousin, Josephine ‘Josie’ Turner, had for some time been working at the hotel, entertaining guests by dancing and/or organising bridge games with them, alongside her stylish dancing partner, Raymond Starr. Until, that is, a month or so before the narrative starts, Josie twisted her ankle climbing over slippery rocks on the shore. She was no longer able to undertake her dancing duties which angered the hotel manager, Mr Prestcott, until Josie suggested inviting her pretty young cousin to come and replace her. And so Ruby arrived. Very young, only 18, not particularly attractive (in Mark Gaskell’s opinion, ‘A thin ferrety little face, not much chin, teeth running down her throat, nondescript sort of nose…’) but knew how to use make-up and, above all, was young and vivacious. The guests liked her.

Conway Jefferson

But the massively central fact of the story rotates around a character Conway Jefferson. This is complicated. Jefferson is an older man (in his 60s?). He was happily married with two grown-up children, Frank and Rosamund, who were themselves married. But then he and his family were involved in a disastrous plane crash. His wife and two children were killed, and he himself was so seriously injured that both his legs had to be amputated, confining him to a wheelchair. But he is a forceful, determined personality and, following the crash, he took to speculating on the stock market and made a fortune. Now he regularly visits the Majestic Hotel where he takes the best suite of rooms and treats himself to the best food.

I mentioned that his children were married. At the hotel he is routinely accompanied by his son’s wife/widow, Adelaide ‘Addie’ Jefferson; and his daughter’s husband, Mark Gaskill. Addie already had a son by her first marriage, young Peter Carmody who, like lots of boys in Christie, is a keen reader of detective stories!

Conway was going to adopt Ruby

Now what the police establish, in the course of interviews conducted by Melchett, Harper and Slack, is that this wheelchair-bound older man had taken a very strong liking indeed to the murdered woman, Ruby. Jefferson himself explains that, confined to a wheelchair as he is, he is attracted to youth and vitality. And young Ruby was fresh and young and unselfconsciously friendly. And so he had taken legal steps to adopt her as his daughter! He had made a new will, just a matter of ten days or so earlier and in this will he left no less than £50,000 to be held in trust for Ruby Keene until she was twenty-five, when she would come into the principal.

Motive?

Obviously the cops’ ears prick up. Now we have a motive for the murder, one of the oldest motives in the book, money. Was Ruby murdered by someone who stood to lose out as and when Jefferson died and most of his money went to young Ruby? The problem with this theory is, as Jefferson himself explains, that he had already settled significant sums on his two children’s spouses, Addie and Mark, so it wasn’t like they were champing at the bit for his inheritance. His generosity had already made them both independently wealthy.

Conway called the cops

Anyway, this explains why, when Ruby failed to show up for her second shift of dancing and hostessing, on the night in question – something which became obvious to Josie and the dancing partner Raymond – it wasn’t they or the hotel manager who called the police, but Jefferson who, when he learned about her absence, became extremely concerned, and called the cops.

Josie conspiring

There’s another angle, which is that it was Josie who pushed her cousin towards Jefferson. From interviewing Josie and the others, the police begin to understand that Ruby being quite so kind to Jefferson was at least a conscious plan by Josie to butter the old man up.

George Bartlett

As to the night of the murder, the police discover another very strong suspect. This is a silly, flustered young man named George Bartlett:

A thin, lanky youth with a prominent Adam apple and an immense difficulty in saying what he meant. He was in such a state of dither that it was hard to get a calm statement from him.

Bartlett hangs round the hotel trying to chat up young women and consistently failing. On the night of the murder he danced with Ruby till about 11 and then vaguely describes going outside for a walk around, in the evening air, only appearing back in the ballroom about midnight when the missing girl failed to turn up for her next dancing session and her colleagues started to worry. In other words he was a) the last person seen with the murder victim and b) had no alibi for the hour or so during which she was murdered. Also c) he owns a car, and so could have offered to take Ruby for a spin, during which he, for whatever reason, strangled her, drive to Gossington Park and dumped her body.

He had the opportunity but the police are left asking themselves what possible motive he could have? Why drive all the way to Gossington Hall, break in, and smuggle into the library a dead body? If he had some sudden violent turn and strangled the poor girl in his car, why not just dump her body in some remote site and drive back to the hotel quickly.

Those are the main facts the trio of policemen have established by halfway through the book which is where Miss Marple – who’d popped up here and there, mainly as a good friend of the owner of Gossington Hall, Dolly Bantry – begins to become more involved.

Sir Henry Clithering recommends Miss Marple

She is consciously brought into the case in the following way. Jefferson calls up an old friend of his, Sir Henry Clithering, ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, to conduct a private investigation, alongside the official police one. And it just so happens that this Sir Henry had featured in the short story collection ‘The Thirteen Problems’, which I mentioned above, wherein he had seen Miss Marple solve an impressive number of crimes using her particular method. So Clithering recommends her to Jefferson:

Sir Henry said slowly, ‘You probably won’t believe me, but you’ve got an expert at solving mysteries sitting downstairs in the lounge at this minute. Someone who’s better than I am at it,
and who, in all probability, may have some local dope.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Downstairs in the lounge, by the third pillar from the left, there sits an old lady with a sweet, placid, spinsterish face and a mind that has plumbed the depths of human iniquity and taken it as all in the day’s work. Her name’s Miss Marple. She comes from the village of St Mary Mead, which is a mile and a half from Gossington; she’s a friend of the Bantrys and, where crime is concerned, she’s the goods, Conway.’
Jefferson stared at him with thick puckered brows. He said heavily, ‘You’re joking.’

But Clithering isn’t joking and so Jefferson takes Miss Marple on.

Miss Marple’s method

1. Universal scepticism

Miss Marple’s ‘method’ consists of two parts. Part one is universal scepticism:

‘The truth is, you see, that most people, and I don’t exclude policemen, are far too trusting for this wicked world. They believe what is told them. I never do. I’m afraid I always like to prove a thing for myself.’

She likes to think things through based on the actual facts of what she sees for herself, maintaining a healthy scepticism about everything that she hears. Or, as she puts it:

‘As I’ve told you, I’ve got a very suspicious mind.’

2. Village parallels

But the core of her ‘method’, improbable though it sounds, consists in finding analogies from life in the small village where she lives, St Mary Mead, and applying them to the characters in crimes.

Miss Marple had attained fame by her ability to link up trivial village happenings with graver problems in such a way as to throw light upon the latter.

Or, as Clithering (not totally satisfactorily) explains it:

‘Woman’s intuition, I suppose,’ Jefferson said sceptically.
‘No, she doesn’t call it that. Specialized knowledge is her claim.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘Well, you know, Jefferson, we use it in police work. We get a burglary and we usually know pretty well who did it of the regular crowd, that is. We know the sort of burglar who acts in a particular sort of way. Miss Marple has an interesting, though occasionally trivial, series of parallels from village life.’

So her ‘method’ runs along the lines of her saying to Sir Henry, or Inspector Slack, or Dolly, or whoever she’s talking to, things like, ‘It reminds me of the young Billy, Mrs Mop’s son, do you remember, when he ran off with the baker’s daughter’ and so draws a parallel between a village incident and the case in hand etc. She overflows with homely gossip about her sweet little village which, on closer inspection, turn out to bear an uncanny relevance to the crime under investigation…

As Clithering phrases it in the conversation where he tells her Jefferson wants to hire here:

Miss Marple said composedly, ‘Dolly thought that a change of scene would be a good thing and she didn’t want to come alone.’
She met his eye and her own gently twinkled. ‘But of course your way of describing it is quite true. It’s rather embarrassing for me, because, of course, I am no use at all.’
‘No ideas? No village parallels?’

Village parallels That’s Miss Marple’s method in a phrase, and Christie plays it up. Later, when Miss M first meets Huge McLean, Sir Henry leans over and asks her: ‘Village parallel, please.’

Some of Miss Marple’s village parallels

For example:

‘Take the young maidservant at Mr Harbottle’s, for instance. A very ordinary girl, but quiet, with nice manners. His sister was called away to nurse a dying relative, and when she got back she found the girl completely above herself…’

Or:

‘And there was Mr Badger, who had the chemist’s shop. Made a lot of fuss over the young lady who worked in his cosmetics section. Told his wife they must look on her as a daughter and have her to live in the house. Mrs Badger didn’t see it that way at all…’

It’s:

‘A little,’ added Miss Marple, ‘like Jessie Golden, the baker’s daughter.’
‘What happened to her?’ asked Sir Henry.
‘She trained as a nursery governess and married the son of the house, who was home on leave from India. Made him a very good wife, I believe…’

Or:

‘Like Major Bury. He hung round an Anglo-Indian widow for quite ten years. A joke among her friends! In the end she gave in, but, unfortunately, ten days before they were to have been married she ran away with the chauffeur…’

Or:

‘You remember when I was so against letting Mrs Partridge collect for the Red Cross and I couldn’t say why…’

And many more anecdotes from village life. Because, after all:

‘One does see so much evil in a village,’ murmured Miss Marple in an explanatory voice.

And this, this is her explanation for the whole story, for why a dead blonde turns up in Colonel Bantry’s library, as she explains to a bewildered Basil Blake and Dinah Lee:

‘Yes, yes,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Little Tommy Bond had very much the same idea. Rather a sensitive boy, with an inferiority complex, he said teacher was always picking on him. He put a frog in the clock and it jumped out at her. You were just the same,’ went on Miss Marple, ‘only, of course, bodies are more serious matters than frogs.’

The second murdered girl

Back to the narrative, once Miss Marple is on board there is one further major plot development, which is that an abandoned car is set alight up on Danemouth Downs and is discovered to contain the charred remains of another girl, Pamela Reeves, who was reported missing a few days earlier. So are the abductions and murders of these two girls connected and, if so, how? And why?

Furthermore, about two-thirds way through, the police discover that both the bereaved spouses – Adelaide and Mark – are not as financially secure as we thought: Conway gifted them their large amounts some years ago and 1) Adelaide’s husband made a string of bad investments and lost most of the money, while 2) Mark Gaskell is an actual gambler (‘Risk everything – that’s my motto’) and has gambled away the entire sum Conway gave him, and got into debt. So both of them did have a strong motive to eliminate Ruby before Conway changed his will in her favour.

And also, several characters and the cops speculate what Conway himself might have done if he’d discovered that Ruby was seeing another man. Although the crippled Conway was in no way having an affair with her, he did, on the other hand, regard her as pure and having become, in some way, his. If he discovered that she was slipping off to see a fancy man might he, in a furious rage, have strangled her with his own hands? Christie talks up this possibility by having his physician tell the cops that Conway has more than usual strength in his upper body.

So as the book enters its last quarter there are more suspects than ever, each with believable motives and gains. Still no clue whatsoever why the murdered woman was dumped in the library at Gossington Hall, though. Or the connection with the other missing girl, Pamela Reeves.

As usual at this point I’ll stop my summary to avoid spoilers. And also because the last part, and especially the solution, of Christie novels tend to be murderously complicated and convoluted…

Cast

  • Colonel Arthur Bantry – owner of Gossington Hall, principal magistrate of the district
  • Mrs ‘Dolly’ Bantry – his wife
  • Lorrimer – the butler
  • Police Constable Palk – who Colonel Bantry calls when they find the body
  • Mrs Palk
  • Inspector Slack – ‘An energetic man who belied his name and who accompanied his bustling manner with a good deal of disregard for the feelings of anyone he did not consider important’
  • Colonel Melchett – the chief constable of Radfordshire – ‘an irascible-looking man with a habit of
    tugging at his short red moustache’
  • Superintendent Harper – from the Glenshire police
  • Doctor Haydock – the police surgeon
  • Basil Blake – Young fellow connected with the film industry – ‘Basil Blake was not a film star, not even a film actor. He was a very junior person, rejoicing in the position of about fifteenth in the list of those responsible for set decorations at Lenville Studios, headquarters of British New Era Films’ – lives in a ghastly modern house where he has loud parties for sybarites down from London, featuring many shameless, scantily clad young women – so he is an early suspect in the murder of just such an over-made up, scantily clad young woman
  • Dinah Lee – young woman Basil argues with in front of the police when they go to interview him
  • Conway Jefferson – rich man, his wife and 2 children died in an airplane crash and he had both legs amputated; has suite at the hotel where Josie worked – ‘He had a fine head, the red of the hair slightly grizzled. The face was rugged and powerful, deeply sun-tanned, and the eyes were a startling blue. There was no sign of illness or feebleness about him. The deep lines on his face were the lines of suffering, not the lines of weakness. Here was a man who would never rail against fate, but accept it and pass on to victory’
  • Edwards – his valet
  • Adelaide Jefferson – widow of Jefferson’s – ‘She had a singularly charming and sympathetic voice, and her eyes, clear hazel eyes, were beautiful. She was quietly but not unbecomingly dressed and was, he judged, about thirty-five years of age’ – she ‘had the power of creating a restful atmosphere. She was a woman who never seemed to say anything remarkable, but who succeeded in stimulating other people to talk and in setting them at their ease’
  • Mark Gaskell – Rosamund Jefferson’s husband – Melchett ‘was sizing up Mark Gaskell as he spoke. He didn’t much care for the fellow. A bold, unscrupulous, hawk-like face. One of those men who usually get their own way and whom women frequently admire’
  • Ruby Keene – ‘Ruby Keene, eighteen, occupation, professional dancer, five feet four inches, slender, platinum-blond hair, blue eyes, retroussé nose’
  • Josephine Turner, ‘Josie’ – Ruby’s cousin, a professional dancer, who asked Ruby to come to the hotel and take her place as the show dancer with Raymond, while her ankle heals after an accident
  • Raymond Starr – the tennis and dancing pro, ‘a fine-looking specimen, tall, lithe and good-looking, with very white teeth in a deeply-bronzed face’, ‘A tall dark young man in white flannels’
  • Mr Prestcott – manager of the Majestic Hotel in Danemouth
  • George Bartlett – ‘a thin, lanky youth with a prominent Adam apple and an immense difficulty in saying what he meant. He was in such a state of dither that it was hard to get a calm statement from him’
  • Sir Henry Clithering – ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, who is friends with Jane Marple – ‘Sir Henry, during his term as commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, had been renowned for his quick grip on essentials’ – in other words, another of Christie’s bluff, intelligent, effective coppers cf Inspector Battle
  • Huge McLean – long-term boyfriend of the widowed Addie – ‘a tall, middle-aged man with a thin brown face’
  • Albert Briggs – labourer who discovered the burning car with the corpse in it
  • Major Reeves – father of the murdered schoolgirl Pamela Reeves, ‘a stiff man with a grey moustache’
  • Mrs Reeves – Pamela’s mother
  • Florence Small – Girl Guide and friend of Pamela Reeves who admits to Miss Marple that Pamela lied to her friends when she said she was popping into Danemouth to go to Woolworth, but was in reality going to meet a young man from the Lemworth film studios who had promised her a screen test for the movies
  • Griselda – wife of the vicar at St Mary Mead, proud mother of baby David who’s just learning to crawl

Locations

  • St Mary Mead, Radfordshire
  • Gossington Hall, Radfordshire
  • The Majestic Hotel, Danemouth, Glenshire

Comedy

As I’m always saying, despite her best efforts to be serious (and her most successfully ghoulish books are probably ‘The ABC Murders’ and ‘Appointment with Death’, which both deal with psychologically disturbed characters), Christie is an essentially comic writer. Hercule Poirot is a comic character and so is Miss Marple.

A permanently comic attribute of the Marple stories is the way the community of gossipy old ladies in St Mary Mead (‘the ruling class of censorious spinsters’) are not only horrified by the discovery of the murdered woman, but secretly thrilled by it. It gives them all sorts of opportunities to tut and pass comment, not least on poor Colonel Bantry who is, after all the owner of the house where a lovely young woman is found murdered. You can imagine the huge amount of self-righteous gossip this triggers in a small village community! This extract conveys the very enjoyable comic tone of the thing:

St Mary Mead was having the most exciting morning it had known for a long time. Miss Wetherby, a long-nosed, acidulated spinster, was the first to spread the intoxicating information. She dropped in upon her friend and neighbour Miss Hartnell.
‘Forgive my coming so early, dear, but I thought perhaps you mightn’t have heard the news.’
‘What news?’ demanded Miss Hartnell. She had a deep bass voice and visited the poor indefatigably, however hard they tried to avoid her ministrations.
‘About the body of a young woman that was found this morning in Colonel Bantry’s library.’
‘In Colonel Bantry’s library?’
‘Yes. Isn’t it terrible?’
‘His poor wife!’ Miss Hartnell tried to disguise her deep and ardent pleasure.

And:

Mrs Price Ridley was among the last to hear the news. A rich and dictatorial widow, she lived in a large house next door to the vicarage. Her informant was her little maid, Clara.
‘A woman, you say, Clara? Found dead on Colonel Bantry’s hearth rug?’
‘Yes, mam. And they say, mam, as she hadn’t anything on at all, mam not a stitch!’
‘That will do, Clara. It is not necessary to go into details.’
‘No, mam, and they say, mam, that at first they thought it was Mr Blake’s young lady what comes down for the weekends with ‘im to Mr Booker’s new ‘ouse. But now they say it’s quite a different young lady. And the fishmonger’s young man, he says he’d never have believed it of Colonel Bantry not with him handing round the plate on Sundays and all.’

Delicious!

Bookishness

As I’ve mentioned in every Christie review, her detective novels routinely compare themselves to detective novels. The characters regularly comment that this or that situation is like something in a book (or, occasionally, movie).

I think these kinds of comments are designed to pre-empt the reader’s criticism, informing the reader that the author knows the whole thing is as preposterous as they do, but that it doesn’t matter, it’s just an entertainment. By emphasising the story’s artificiality, these kinds of comments soften the reader’s instinctive seeking for verisimilitude, lull us into MurderMysteryWorld. They’re a sort of equivalent of saying ‘Once upon a time…’, alerting you to the fact that what you’re reading is in no way serious: the opposite. It’s untroubling poolside, holiday reading. Welcome to MurderMysteryWorld!

Thus Colonel Bantry’s initial response to the news:

He said kindly, ‘You’ve been dreaming. Dolly. It’s that detective story you were reading, The Clue of the Broken Match. You know, Lord Edgbaston finds a beautiful blonde dead on the library hearth rug. Bodies are always being found in libraries in books. I’ve never known a case in real life.’

Mrs Bantry phones her friend, Jane Marple:

Miss Marple demanded breathlessly, ‘But whose body is it?’
‘It’s a blonde.’
‘A what?’
‘A blonde. A beautiful blonde – like in the books…’

Mark Gaskell’s response:

Mark Gaskell looked at Miss Marple in a somewhat puzzled fashion. He said doubtfully, ‘Do you… er… write detective stories?’
The most unlikely people, he knew, wrote detective stories. And Miss Marple, in her old-fashioned spinster’s clothes, looked a singularly unlikely person.

And then Superintendent Harper encounters Conway Jefferson’s grandson who is everso excited by news of the murder:

‘Do you like detective stories? I do. I read them all and I’ve got autographs from Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie and Dickson Carr and H.C. Bailey. Will the murder be in the papers?’
‘It’ll be in the papers all right,’ said Superintendent Harper grimly.

And not forgetting the obligatory nod to Sherlock Holmes which occurs in pretty much all her novels.

Sir Henry Clithering said, ‘Speaking as Watson, I want to know your methods. Miss Marple.’

The purpose of generalisations

As I’ve explained at more than enough length in other reviews, Christie’s novels abound in sweeping generalisations but these aren’t really to be taken at face value. They are more indicators of the characters who express them. In a sense, you could extract from the novels a hierarchy of generalisations, from the most obviously crass and superficial at the bottom, such as Josie’s angry outburst after she’s identified the body of her cousin:

‘What swine men are, aren’t they?’

Up to the supposedly authoritative ones of figures like Poirot and Marple. But even here they are, how shall I put it, non-factual. Not based on statistically significant surveys of the data. And so really just rhetorical in intention. Here are some of Miss Marple’s more sweeping generalisations:

‘Gentlemen are usually rather selfish.’

‘Gentlemen so easily feel neglected.’

‘Gentlemen,’ she said with her old maid’s way of referring to the opposite sex as though it were a species of wild animal, ‘are frequently not so level-headed as they seem.’

‘I should think they were both restless under old Mr Jefferson’s yoke of perpetual remembrance. Only,’ added Miss Marple cynically, ‘it’s easier for gentlemen, of course.’

But then the male characters are, of course, just as quick with sweeping generalisations about the opposite sex:

Superintendent Harper said sapiently. ‘Easier for him to look on her as a daughter than to look on Mr Gaskell as a son. It works both ways. Women accept a son-in-law as one of the family easily enough, but there aren’t many times when a woman looks on her son’s wife as a daughter.’

‘Women,’ said Sir Henry, ‘treat their devoted admirers very badly.’ Miss Marple smiled, but made no answer.

‘Women,’ said Sir Henry, ‘are eternally interested in marriages.’
‘Especially,’ said the superintendent, ‘elderly single women!’

And at various points all manner of characters are prone to drop general rules about life:

Dr Metcalfe: ‘The human frame is tougher than one can imagine possible.’

Harper: ‘Girls usually like to shop with someone.’

The English, Sir Henry decided, had a distrust for any man who danced too well.

There is no truth in any of these axioms. They are rhetorical devices designed to bring out the personality (and complacency) of the characters, and to give the novel a spurious sense of depth.

Or spurious wisdom

I suppose there’s another interpretation which is that literature, books etc are associated with wisdom. Novels in particular tend to overflow with authors and characters summing up this or that aspect of human nature. So Christie’s pithy axioms can also be seen as a nod to that tradition. They’re just something you have in novels – characters dropping generalisations and pearls of insight.

In other words, the generalisations give the impression that they are part of serious books conveying some kind of authorial wisdom. But the axioms themselves are for the most part trite and empty just in proportion as the Christie novels fall far short of any definition of ‘literature’.

Literature is, on the whole, in some sense demanding, demands a higher level of linguistic or cultural or psychological awareness. Whereas Christie’s novels are designed to be the exact opposite, easy to consume as a bag of sweets. As demanding as a crossword or Sudoku puzzle, maybe, but designed to be easily consumed and forgotten. And so with the rather grand-sounding but ultimately empty and meaningless generalisations which the characters come out with, and which are purely designed to bring out their characters, and grease the wheels of the plot.

1940s slang

Apparently these two phrases were still new in the late 1930s / ’40s:

Boyfriend

‘She’d got a date with someone, “a boy friend”, as the saying goes.’

Crush

‘Well, the idea is, isn’t it, that Ruby Keene changed her dress and went off to meet someone on whom she presumably had what my young nephews call a “crush”?’

Whereas ‘bottled’ appears to be common currency:

‘Bottled, was he?’ said Colonel Bantry, with an Englishman’s sympathy for alcoholic excess. ‘Oh, well, can’t judge a fellow by what he does when he’s drunk.’


Credit

‘The Body in the Library’ by Agatha Christie was published by the Collins Crime Club in May 1942.

Related links

Related reviews

Alamein to Zem Zem by Keith Douglas (1946)

Alamein to Zem Zem is a shortish memoir of the Second World War, covering three months at the end of 1942 and start of 1943 which Keith Douglas spent as a tank captain in a tank regiment engaged in North Africa as part of the Eighth Army fighting against the Germans and some Italians.

Its clarity, honesty and sometimes brutal descriptions have made Alamein to Zem Zem a classic text from the Second World War, but Douglas is just as well known as a war poet as a writer of prose. Many critics consider him the finest English poet of the Second World War. Although he wrote over 100 poems only a handful really rise to the top rank, but those 3 or 4 are breath-taking.

Douglas’s motivation

But to focus on this memoir, let Keith explain (with typical forthrightness) his motivation:

I had to wait until 1942 to go into action. I enlisted in September 1939, and during two years or so of hanging about I never lost the certainty that the experience of battle was something I must have. Whatever changes in the nature of warfare, the battlefield is the simple, central stage of the war: it is there that the interesting things happen. We talk in the evening, after fighting, about the great and rich men who cause and conduct wars. They have so many reasons of their own that they can afford to lend us some of them. There is nothing odd about their attitude. They are out for something they want, or their Governments want, and they are using us to get it for them. Anyone can understand that: there is nothing unusual or humanly exciting at that end of the war. I mean there may be things to excite financiers and parliamentarians — but not to excite a poet or a painter or a doctor.

But it is exciting and amazing to see thousands of men, very few of whom have much idea why they are fighting, all enduring hardships, living in an unnatural, dangerous, but not wholly terrible world, having to kill and to be killed, and yet at intervals moved by a feeling of comradeship with the men who kill them and whom they kill, because they are enduring and experiencing the same things. It is tremendously illogical — to read about it cannot convey the impression of having walked through the looking-glass which touches a man entering a battle.

‘Exciting and amazing’. If anyone ever asks why there are wars and why men fight, there’s one of your answers: because it’s an exciting and amazing experience. A little later he describes how happy he and members of his squadron when they capture an Italian hospital packed with goodies.

Tom was in high spirits; he and Ken Tinker had found an Italian hospital, and their tanks were loaded inside and out with crates of cherries, Macedonian cigarettes, cigars and wine; some straw-jacketed Italian Chianti issue, some champagne, and a bottle or two of brandy, even some Liebfraumilch. We shared out the plunder with the immemorial glee of conquerors, and beneath the old star-eaten blanket of the sky lay down to dream of victory…

And there you have another reason: ‘the immemorial glee of conquerors’. As Elizabethan playwright Christopher Marlowe puts it in Tamburlaine:

Is it not passing brave to be a king,
And ride in triumph through Persepolis?

And loot. Whenever they take enemy territory, come across enemy tanks or other vehicles or bases or hospitals the first thing on the minds of Douglas and his colleagues is ransacking them for a) classy food and drink to augment boring army rations b) more enduring souvenirs, the favourite of which is guns because they are stylish and, by design, portable. Thus Douglas at various points finds a German Luger and an Italian Beretta, the latter of which he sells on in a town for money to buy luxury foods.

  1. excitement and amazement
  2. the glee of conquerors
  3. loot

That’s before you get to what you might call the ‘higher’ motivations. Lots of war memoirs all too vividly describe the author was lost in life, directionless, unsure what to do next – and a just war 4) gave them an immense purpose which stifled all their anxieties and doubts. Then, of course, the socially acceptable indeed praiseworthy motives, in their various forms, of 5) honour and patriotism. For religious believers 6) God is on your side and your religious training teaches you that this is a Holy War. For the religious or non-religious there’s patriotism and a sense of duty that you must 7) defend your country and those you love against an aggressor. And more broadly, 8) defending the wider world against demonstrable evil (in this case, the Nazis). Lastly, for quite a few men, whether poor working class and illiterate or upper class and well educated, 9) the army offers a career, job security, a regular salary, training, respect, and a pension. For many the army is a career like the civil service or medicine.

So next time you read or hear someone asking why there are wars and why men fight, here’s at least nine explanations to be going on with.

Potted biography

Douglas came from a middle-class family in Tunbridge Wells, which fell on hard times, his dad’s business went bust, his mother became seriously ill, the pair divorced and Douglas spent most of his boyhood and teens at boarding schools. He was a loner, an outsider who got into trouble with the authorities for his stroppy attitude. He was nearly expelled from Christ’s Church school for ‘purloining’ a rifle.

Born in January 1920, Douglas was 19 when war was declared on 3 September 1939 and immediately reported to an army recruiting centre. However, like many he had to wait, in his case until July 1940 that he started his training. After attending Sandhurst he was commissioned in February 1941 into the 2nd Derbyshire Yeomanry and posted to the Middle East in July 1941 where he was transferred to the Nottinghamshire (Sherwood Rangers) Yeomanry.

Posted to Cairo then Palestine, Douglas found himself stuck at headquarters working as a ‘camouflage officer’ as the Second Battle of El Alamein (23 October to 11 November 1942) began. His regiment had been ordered to advance and taken casualties in the opening days of the battle while Douglas chafed back in the rear.

On 27 October, with typical insubordination (or bravado, depending on point of view), against explicit orders, Douglas commandeered a truck and drove to the Regimental HQ in the field. This is the point at which the text of Alamein to Zem Zem opens.

The battle of Alamein began on the 23rd of October, 1942. Six days afterwards I set out in direct disobedience of orders to rejoin my regiment. My batman was delighted with this manoeuvre. ‘I like you, sir,’ he said. ‘You’re shit or bust, you are.’ This praise gratified me a lot.

Douglas and batman reported to his Commanding Officer in the field, Colonel E. O. Kellett (nicknamed ‘Piccadilly Jim’ in the text), lying that he had been instructed to go to the front. Short of officers, the CO accepted his arrival and posted him to A Squadron, and gave him the wonderful opportunity of taking part as a fighting tanker in the Eighth Army’s victorious sweep through North Africa. The text of Alamein to Zem Zem is a detailed and precise description of what he saw and felt over the next three months.

Zem Zem is the name of the wadi in Tunisia where Douglas was wounded in early 1943.

Plot summary

  • Douglas deserts his Cairo post to join his regiment in the field
  • quick introduction to key personnel in the regiment
  • a series of small scale engagements which bring out the confusion of battle, before his section is withdrawn for rest
  • lengthy profiles of key figures in his part of the regiment, from the colonel downwards, giving a sense of the importance of personality and temperament to a fighting unit
  • second and more intense description of combat over a number of days, bringing out the confusion of war: Douglas’s tank gets lost in the maze of canyons around Zem Zem and takes a direct hit; he stumbles out of it and discovers quite a few wounded colleagues in the vicinity, carries a badly wounded man on his back as far as the nearest first aid post, promising to return and collect colleagues in a jeep, but just he is just trying to convey to the medics that there are badly wounded men further forward, he snags a tripwire setting off a mine, receives multiple fragment wounds and collapses
  • there follows a lengthy description of the long complex journey by ambulance, plane and train back to Cairo a thousand miles away, with detailed descriptions of the medical care and personnel who administer it, of other injured soldiers he travels with all the way back to an officers’ ward in Cairo, complete with pretty nurses and his first full English breakfast in months, and it is here that the main narrative ends
  • a coda, a completely separate section, which skips Douglas’s treatment and recuperation and finds him back, reunited his regiment right at the end of the North Africa campaign; now there is no fighting and he is tasked with collecting supplies and spare parts from liberated towns in Tunisia, which mainly involves getting very drunk with the French forces and French inhabitants of the region

Highlights

Douglas’s writing is so straightforward, clear, honest and vivid that summarising it seems counter-productive. Big quotes best give you a sense of the man and his approach.

Being in a tank

The view from a moving tank is like that in a camera obscura or a silent film — in that since the engine drowns all other noises except explosions, the whole world moves silently. Men shout, vehicles move, aeroplanes fly over, and all soundlessly: the noise of the tank being continuous, perhaps for hours on end, the effect is of silence. It is the same in an aircraft, but unless you are flying low, distance does away with the effect of a soundless pageant. I think it may have been the fact that for so much of the time I saw it without hearing it, which led me to feel that country into which we were now moving was an inimitably strange land, quite unrelated to real life, like the scenes in ‘The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari’. Silence is a strange thing to us who live: we desire it, we fear it, we worship it, we hate it. There is a divinity about cats, as long as they are silent: the silence of swans gives them an air of legend. The most impressive thing about the dead is their triumphant silence, proof against anything in the world.

Observations

Douglas not only wrote poems but made sketches of life in a tank regiment, a lot of which are so-so, but some of which are vivid and inspired. This eye for detail informs his prose.

One gun which appeared to be firing more or less directly overhead sent a shell which whistled. Possibly at some part of the night there was some German counter-battery fire, or some heavier guns of our own joined in. At all events, there was every variety of noise in the sky, a whistling and chattering and rumbling like trains, like someone whispering into a microphone, or like the tearing of cloth.

A moment before the tank struck him I realized he was already dead; the first dead man I had ever seen. Looking back, I saw he was a Negro. ‘Libyan troops,’ said Evan. He was pointing. There were several of them scattered about, their clothes soaked with dew; some lacking limbs, although no flesh of these was visible, the clothes seeming to have wrapped themselves round the places where arms, legs, or even heads should have been, as though with an instinct for decency. I have noticed this before in photographs of people killed by explosive.

Presently an infantry patrol, moving like guilty characters in a melodrama, came slinking and crouching up to my tank.

Only human

On the occasions when Douglas comes across ‘the enemy’ he is struck by how pathetic and human they are and forgoes several opportunities to shoot them. The reverse:

In the evening I was sent down the road to Brigade in a Marmon Harrington Armoured Car which had been found at Galal. On the way down the dark road we came upon six Germans plodding along by themselves. I sat them on the outside of the car and very reluctantly got out and sat outside with them in the rain. They were dejected and said they had had nothing to eat for two days. I gave them some tins of bully which I had put in my pocket from my tank’s ration box, and some sodden pieces of biscuit. We plunged off the road according to our directions, to find Brigade, but were pixy-led by a number of distracting lights and would have spent the night in a weapon pit into which we fell and got stuck, but for the opportune appearance of a stray tank, which obligingly pulled us out. The jerk of being hauled clear threw all the prisoners on the ground, and one of them lost his kitbag, to which he had been clinging as something saved from the wreck. He asked permission to look for it, in a hopeless tone of voice; the tank crew were indignant when I helped him find it and roared off into the murk again. It was difficult to get rid of the prisoners, but I was determined to find them some food and blankets, because the few people in the regiment who had been taken prisoner and recaptured during the first days at Alamein had been well treated by the Germans. Eventually I dumped them on a guard in the Brigade area whose sergeant had been a prisoner of the Germans for two months and was also well disposed to them.

Only people like us. The whole thing ridiculous.

The new type of pistol had jammed; the moving parts had somehow seized up, and we could not make out how to strip it, so I called to four German soldiers who were walking past. They all lifted their heads in apprehension to endure something more. A corporal walked across to them holding the revolver; he could not make them understand what he wanted. When I crossed over and spoke to them in halting German they smiled in huge relief. Only to tell us how to strip the pistol; they had it in bits in a moment, but advised us to prefer the old type of Luger, which was much more reliable. I asked their spokesman, a corporal with two medal ribbons, if they had had anything to eat. He said yes, they had chocolate, and offered us some; they all had ten or more of the round packets of plain chocolate whose empty cartons we had seen so often. We exchanged some tins of bully for some of the chocolate, and stood about munching chocolate while the Germans opened the bully and passed it round. A general conversation began. The corporal pointed to the Crusader and enquired: ‘Der Panzer ist kaput?’ We explained vaguely what was wrong with it; we argued over the relative merits of some Spitfires which roared low over us, and the 110. Photographs were produced. The Corporal had been in France: in Paris — postcards from Paris; in Greece — pictures of the Parthenon. In Russia? No. And how long in Afrika? Vier Monate.

The fighting

The main thing about the ‘fighting’ is how bewilderingly confusing it is, with Douglas losing track of his regiment, of nearby tanks, blundering into a forward position, mistakenly thinking the enemy are in flight, mistakenly lining his tank up to shoot a German tank side on before realising it was a gun emplacement, and then taking his Crusader tank behind a smoking Grant tank where it promptly took a direct hit from a shell.

He finds other comrades from the regiment in various states of injury, like Robin with his mangled foot. He vows to return with help but blunders into a minefield and snags a tripwire. He’s not killed or badly wounded but receives shrapnel in both legs, calves, thigh, lower back, the hair of half his face singed off.

The last 20 pages or so are a precise, detailed description of the very long, complex journey he and other wounded took by lorry, plane, train and more lorries via umpteen transit hospitals, eventually back to a luxurious officers’ ward in Cairo. And it is here, pleasantly sedated, with his wounds being addressed, with some pretty nurses to cheer him up and savouring his first full English breakfast in months, that the ‘Alamein’ part of the narrative concludes.

The dead

A standout feature is the number of dead people he observes and the repeated oddity of their postures, appearance and, above all, their eerie silence, which really obsesses him.

About two hundred yards from the German derelicts, which were now furiously belching inky smoke, I looked down into the face of a man lying hunched up in a pit. His expression of agony seemed so acute and urgent, his stare so wild and despairing, that for a moment I thought him alive. He was like a cleverly posed waxwork, for his position suggested a paroxysm, an orgasm of pain. He seemed to move and writhe. But he was stiff. The dust which powdered his face like an actor’s lay on his wide open eyes, whose stare held my gaze like the Ancient Mariner’s. He had tried to cover his wounds with towels against the flies. His haversack lay open, from which he had taken towels and dressings. His waterbottle lay tilted with the cork out. Towels and haversack were dark with dried blood, darker still with a great concourse of flies…

The bodies of some Italian infantrymen still lay in their weapon pits, surrounded by pitiable rubbish, picture postcards of Milan, Rome, Venice, snapshots of their families, chocolate wrappings, and hundreds of cheap cardboard cigarette packets. Amongst this litter, more suggestive of holiday-makers than soldiers, there were here and there bayonets and the little tin ‘red devil’ grenades, bombastic little crackers that will blow a man’s hand off and make a noise like the crack of doom. But even these, associated with the rest of the rubbish, only looked like cutlery and cruets. The Italians lay about like trippers taken ill…

The petrol lorries had arrived beside a derelict fifteen-hundredweight truck, the driver of which lay half in, half out of it, with one leg almost entirely torn off. The battledress serge had peeled away, showing a wreckage of flesh and the ends of bones.

Understatement

The presence of so much death triggerlly English understatement:

That night we were issued with about a couple of wineglasses full of rum to each man, the effect of which was a little spoiled by one of our twenty-five-pounders, which was off calibration, and dropped shells in the middle of our area at regular intervals of seconds for about an hour. The first shells made a hole in the adjutant’s head, and blinded a corporal in B Squadron. I spent an uncomfortable night curled up on a bed of tacky blood on the turret floor.

Arguably, this ‘top hole, chaps’ attitude was created at Victorian and Edwardian public schools expressly designed to turn out unquestioningly loyal and patriotic chaps who could administer the largest empire the world has ever seen and engage in battles large and small without losing their stiff upper lips.

We came up to the line of the high ground without further excitement, though we put a six-pounder shell across the bows of one of the 11th Hussars’ armoured cars, which had moved out well ahead of us, and was under suspicion of being an enemy vehicle. We had aimed well ahead of it, and the effect was immediate. It came tearing towards us like a scalded cat and drew up alongside. Its commander, a sergeant, leaned out and said ‘Was that you firing at us?’ We admitted it, and apologised. ‘With that?’ pointing to the long snout of our six-pounder. ‘Well, yes,’ we admitted. ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘Don’t do it again, please.’ He moved out ahead of us again.

‘Would you be so frightfully kind as not to kill us, please. Thanks awfully.’ Douglas is well aware of the comedy and enjoys satirising and caricaturing many of the jolly chaps he meets around the regiment, for example in the extended portrait of the regiment’s second in command, ‘Guy’:

He was fantastically rich and handsome, and appeared, as indeed he was, a figure straight out of the nineteenth century. He was charming and entirely obsolete. His ideas were feudal in the best sense — he regarded everyone in the regiment as his tenants, sub-tenants, serfs, etc., and felt his responsibilities to them as a landlord. Everyone loved him and I believe pitied him a little. His slim, beautifully clad figure remained among our dirty greasy uniforms as a symbol of the regiment’s former glory. He seldom, if ever, wore a beret — on this particular occasion I remember he had a flannel shirt and brown stock pinned with a gold pin, a waistcoat of some sort of yellow suede lined with sheep’s wool, beautifully cut narrow trousers of fawn cavalry twill, without turn-ups, and brown suede boots. On his head was a peaked cap with a chinstrap like glass, perched at a jaunty angle. His moustache was an exact replica of those worn by heroes of the Boer war, his blue eye had a courageous twinkle, and he had the slim strong hands of a mannered horseman.

Douglas describes the dichotomy between the original members of the Yeoman regiment, nicknamed the ‘Yeo-Yeo boys’, who were wealthy landowners born and bred to ride and hunt and shoot and fish and loftily ignored the ‘riff-raff’ who had come into the regiment since it was mechanised.

At some point during yet another description of the relaxed, confident, philistine upper-class cavalry officers I realised the stereotypical form of address, ‘old boy’, was no more than the truth. They were all overgrown schoolboys.

Germans and Italians

The Germans are efficient, the Italians are a pathetic joke:

The side of the road was still littered with derelict vehicles of all kinds, interspersed with neat graves bearing crosses inscribed with the names and rank of German officers and men, and surmounted by their eagle-stamped steel helmets. More hastily dug and marked graves were those of Italians, on some of which was placed or hung the ugly green-lined Italian topee. There is something impressive in the hanging steel helmet that links those dead with knights buried under their shields and weapons. But how pathetically logical and human — one of those touches of unconscious comedy which makes it difficult to be angry with them — that the Italians should have supplemented the steel cap with a ridiculous battered cut-price topee. The steel helmet is an impressive tombstone, and is its own epitaph. But the cardboard topee seemed only to say there is some junk buried here, and we may as well leave a piece of rubbish to mark the spot.

Soldier slang

At one point he tells us every single sentence of dialogue must be understood as littered with the universal swearword used by everyone all the time in the army, by which I take him to mean the ‘f’ word.

  • muckin’ and blindin’
  • brew up = tank being hit and exploding or bursting into flames; because this takes place in a confined metal space it is metaphorically compared to brewing up tea in a kettle
  • canned to the wide = drunk
  • Monkey Orange = radio code for medical officer

The silence of the dead

Gradually the objects in the turret became visible: the crew of the tank — for, I believe, these tanks did not hold more than two — were, so to speak, distributed round the turret. At first it was difficult to work out how the limbs were arranged. They lay in a clumsy embrace, their white faces whiter, as those of dead men in the desert always were, for the light powdering of dust on them. One with a six-inch hole in his head, the whole skull smashed in behind the remains of an ear — the other covered with his own and his friend’s blood, held up by the blue steel mechanism of a machine gun, his legs twisting among the dully gleaming gear levers. About them clung that impenetrable silence I have mentioned before, by which I think the dead compel our reverence…

Douglas returned from North Africa to England in December 1943, trained for and then took part in the D-Day invasion of Normandy on 6 June 1944. On 9 June Douglas’s armoured unit was pinned down on high ground overlooking Tilly-sur-Seulles. Concerned by the lack of progress, Douglas dismounted his tank to undertake a personal reconnaissance during which he was killed by a German mortar. He had joined the silent dead.

Poems

But his words weren’t silenced. A collected poems was published and then this memoir, and his reputation has remained steady, among those interested in war memoirs and poetry, up to the present day. Talking of memory and reputation, these are the subjects of one of Douglas’s three great poems.

Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I’m dead.

As the processes of earth
strip off the colour of the skin:
take the brown hair and blue eye

and leave me simpler than at birth,
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon entered the cold sky.

Of my skeleton perhaps,
so stripped, a learned man will say
‘He was of such a type and intelligence,’ no more.

Thus when in a year collapse
particular memories, you may
deduce, from the long pain I bore

the opinions I held, who was my foe
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.

Time’s wrong-way telescope will show
a minute man ten years hence
and by distance simplified.

Through that lens see if I seem
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion,

not by momentary spleen
or love into decision hurled,
leisurely arrive at an opinion.

Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I’m dead.


Related links

Related reviews

Occidentalism: A Short History of Anti-Westernism by Ian Buruma and Avishai Margalit (2004)

The dehumanising picture of the West painted by its enemies is what we have called Occidentalism. It is our intention in this book to examine this cluster of prejudices and trace their historical roots.
(Occidentalism: A Short History of Anti-Westernism, page 6)

Some features of Occidentalism

Many groups have queued up to hate ‘the West’ over the past 200 years, for many reasons, claiming that:

  • the West is a purveyor of ‘poisonous materialism’
  • Westernism is a disease of the spirit
  • the Western mind splits human knowledge into soulless specialisms
  • Westernism promotes alienated individualism over communal belonging
  • Western science destroys religious belief and faith
  • Western media are decadent and pornographic
  • Western culture is shallow and materialist so destroys spiritual values
  • Western society is capitalist, greedy, exploitative
  • Westernism is a ‘machine civilisation’ (compared to hand-made rural arts and crafts)
  • resentment / hatred of Western imperialism
  • of Western colonialism
  • of Western (particularly American) global power and selfish foreign policy
  • Western civilisation is associated with huge, degraded, corrupt cities (compared with organic rural life)
  • the West represents ‘rootless cosmopolitanism’ and multiculturalism (compared with homogeneous native traditions)

These are the accusations and stereotypes which the authors set out to analyse and investigate, going much further afield than the contemporary Middle East, and much further back in time than the past few troubled decades, to do so.

The authors

Ian Buruma (born 1951, aged 72) is a Dutch writer and editor who lives and works in the US. Much of his writing has focused on the culture of Asia, particularly that of China and 20th-century Japan.

Avishai Margalit (born 1939, aged 83) is an Israeli professor emeritus in philosophy at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. From 2006 to 2011 he was George F. Kennan Professor at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton.

Both were contributors to The New York Review of Books during the 1990s and in fact this book grew out of an article published in that magazine in 2002, less than 12 months after the 9/11 attacks on New York shook the world of international affairs.

The background: Edward Said’s Orientalism

Buruma and Margalit don’t mention Edward Said in the text but they explicitly state that their concept of ‘Occidentalism’ is conceived as a mirror image of the notion of Orientalism which Said was instrumental in defining and popularising.

The view of the West in Occidentalism is like the worst aspects of its counterpart, Orientalism, which strips its human targets of their humanity. Some Orientalist prejudices made non-Western people seem less than fully adult human beings; they ha the minds of children and could thus be treated as ‘lesser breeds’. Occidentalism is at least as reductive; its bigotry simply turns the Orientalist view upside down. [It reduces] an entire society or civilisation to a mass of soulless, decadent, money-grabbing, rootless, faithless, unfeeling parasites… (p.11)

Prior to Said’s book, Orientalism had been the value-neutral name given to a perfectly respectable academic discipline, the study of the languages, peoples and societies of ‘the East’ (loosely defined as lands from the Middle East to Japan) until Said published his landmark study, Orientalism in 1978.

Orientalism was a long, thorough, polemical attack on the entire discipline, claiming that from its earliest beginnings it 1) drew up a clear unbridgeable distinction between ‘The East’ and ‘The West’, 2) invented stereotypes of ‘the Oriental’, ‘the Arab’, ‘the Muslim’ and 3) attributed to them and their world a shopping list of negative qualities, the stereotypical ‘Oriental’ being lazy, irrational, dominated by a simple-minded religion, corrupt, sensual, and so on.

Orientalism was intended to be a comprehensive demolition of an entire academic field which Said proved by showing that the same mental structures underpinned, and the same demeaning stereotypes and clichés appeared in, almost all Orientalist writing, from the late eighteenth century right up to the present day.

This would all have been fairly academic, in the narrow sense – academics squabbling over the epistemological foundations of a particular academic field – but for the real bite of the book which is its highly political approach.

This has two elements. Firstly Said claims that the entire field of research into the languages, culture, religions, society and so on of ‘the Orient’ enabled and justified imperial control of the region. Knowledge is power, and the ever-more comprehensive and intrusive studies done of the countless peoples, religions and cultures of this vast area enabled Western imperial control over them. Orientalist academic studies served colonial power.

The Palestinian issue

This by itself would have been a fairly controversial conclusion, but there’s a second, really inflammatory element to Said’s critique. This is his attempt to show the discredited assumptions and degrading attitudes of Orientalism played, and continue to play, an important role in determining attitudes across western culture and politics to the Problem of Palestine.

This, as every educated person knows, is one of the most contentious issues in international affairs. In 1917 the British Home Secretary, Arthur Balfour, declared that Britain would support the Jews of Europe in their wish to create a homeland in the Biblical Lands of Palestine. Between the wars increasing numbers of Jewish immigrants fled Europe and settled in Palestine, buying land from its Arab owners. Tensions between incomers and natives erupted into regular bouts of violence which the British authorities, given a ‘mandate’ to run the area after the First World War, struggled to contain. After the Second World War, an exhausted, impoverished Britain tried to hold the ring between increasingly violent Jewish and Arab nationalist political parties and militias, until, in 1948, they effectively gave up and withdrew.

The well-organised and well-armed Jewish settlers promptly declared the existence of the independent state of Israel and the neighbouring Arab countries promptly attacked it, seeking to strangle it at birth. The Israeli army successfully defended its country and amid, much bloodshed, hundreds of thousands of Palestinians fled, or were expelled, into neighbouring countries, especially Jordan.

In 1967 a joint force of Arab countries led by Egypt was mobilising for another attack when Israel launched a lightning pre-emptive strike, crushing the Egyptian army and forcing the Arabs to sign an armistice after just six days. As a result Israel seized the Jordanian-annexed West Bank (including East Jerusalem), and Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula as well as the Egyptian-occupied Gaza Strip.

As many as 325,000 Palestinians and 100,000 Syrians fled or were expelled from the West Bank and the Golan Heights, respectively, creating a humanitarian crisis.

In 1973 the Arabs launched a surprise attack on October 6, the Jewish holy day of Yom Kippur. Once again Israel faced numerically overwhelming forces but fought them off in what was effectively the Third Arab-Israeli War. In the aftermath of the war the Israelis realised that they couldn’t rely on fighting off Arab armies indefinitely, and so they began to put out feelers for some kind of peace treaty, which was to lead to the 1978 Camp David Accords under which Israel return the entire Sinai Peninsula to Egypt.

Orientalist attitudes to the Palestinian problem

The point of this long digression is that Said was a Palestinian. Both his parents were of Palestinian heritage, he was born in Palestine and raised in Egypt, attending English-language schools in Jerusalem and then Alexandria. Said’s father had served with US Army during the Great War and so earned US citizenship so, when he was expelled from his Egyptian private school for being a troublemaker he was sent to a private boarding school in Massachusetts, USA. Thus began his career as an academic in America (in New York).

But as he progressed through the academic hierarchy, as well as his purely academic publications about comparative literature, Said became known for his ‘outspoken’ opinions about the Palestinian issue, namely speaking up for the plight of the hundreds of thousands of Palestinian refugees, calling for the government of Israel to moderate its policies in the occupied territories and so on.

This, as you might have expected in polarised politicised America, drew down on his head the wrath of numerous journalists, commentators, Jewish groups and so on, many of which didn’t refrain from employing exactly the kinds of denigratory stereotypes he had listed in Orientalism against Said himself and the Palestinians he spoke up for.

In the Introduction to Orientalism Said explains that the motivation to write the book was partly driven by his own personal experience of Orientalist tropes. In New York academia he found himself extremely isolated as almost the only Palestinian and Arab working in an academic and publishing environment dominated by white liberals or Jews sympathetic to Israel and its policies.

So his own personal experience of having anti-Arab, anti-Palestinian and anti-Muslim slurs directed at himself, his writings and his opinions was a big motivation behind the years of research and labour of love which Orientalism amounts to.

This explains why the huge book, with its mountains of evidence, all work one way, criticising ‘the West’, Western attitudes, Western academia, Western imperialism, Western racism and so on.

In the Introduction Said explicitly says that he is not interested in exploring ‘the Arab Mind’ or ‘the Islamic World’ and so on. That would have doubled or quadrupled the length of the book, plus which he wasn’t professionally qualified to take on such huge subjects. His interest is solely in a deep investigation of how Western attitudes against ‘the Orient’ were created and proliferated throughout Orientalist studies, fiction and so on.

9/11

A lot happened in the real world between Orientalism‘s publication in 1978 and the publication of Occidentalism in 2002, but in the world of academia, magazines and publishing Said’s critique of Western attitudes had become very widespread among bien-pensant liberals. In the academy and liberal journals Said’s view that ‘the West’ continually sees the Middle East, the Arab world and Islam through simplistic, racist ‘Orientalist’ stereotypes, had become very widely accepted.

The 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Centre in New York, the Pentagon and (possibly) the White House (the fourth plane that came down in Washington) galvanised and transformed the culture, shocking and terrifying people around the Western world. It led numerous commentators and analysts to claim that we had entered a new era of war between ‘the West’ and ‘Islam’ or ‘Islamic terrorism’ or ‘Islamofascism’ etc, an inflammatory rhetoric which translated into actual war when, within a month of the 9/11 attacks, in October 2001, US forces invaded Afghanistan to overthrow the Taliban regime there.

Occidentalism

This is where Buruma and Margalit come in. They readily concede that 9/11, like the First Gulf War before it, led to an explosion throughout the media of just the kind of Orientalist racist stereotypes which Said had dedicated his life to uncovering and critiquing. But they point out that there was a gap in the whole discussion. If ‘the West’ could be accused of deploying Orientalist stereotypes against ‘the East’, ‘the Arab world’ etc, what about the stereotypes of the West which could be found in the media and political and terrorist discourse of the East? Didn’t Arab and Palestinian and Muslim leaders regularly rail against ‘the West’, didn’t an endless stream of news footage show enraged mobs burning the American flag and shouting ‘Down with America’, and wasn’t this anti-western rhetoric routinely associated with a predictable shopping list of negative stereotypes? Short answer, yes.

So what are these anti-Western tropes and where did they come from?

The West and ‘the Modern’

Right at the start Buruma and Margalit made a fundamental conceptual decision which underpins everything that follows: this is to identify anti-Western discourse with anti-Modernism. They argue that when nationalist commentators and activists in the rest of the world attack ‘the West’, they almost always conflate ‘the West’ with every aspect of the modern world which they dislike, despise or fear, everything from industrialisation, secularism, capitalism, rationalism through to cultural products such as pop music and pornography.

What many of the anti-Western nationalist movements of the past 100 or 150 years, whether in India or China or Japan, in the Middle East or across Africa, have in common is that they want to turn the clock back. They dream of an era which preceded the arrival of the West with its monstrous attributes of godless science, nation states, brutal capitalism, cultural hegemony and so on, they dream of an era when their countries were untainted by western influence, untainted by godless capitalism, when everyone lived in small rural communities and shared the same simple faith and devoutness.

At the roots of much anti-Western feeling is a deeper resentment at all these aspects of the modern world and a passionate desire to turn the clock back to simpler, more spiritual times. This leads them to a counter-intuitive conclusion:

Anti-westernism is a western product

The first people to loathe and hate modernism i.e the rise of a secular, godless, liberal, pluralistic society based on industrial capitalism, with the uprooting or rural populations and their herding into monster cities which became sinks of immorality and degeneracy etc, were westerners themselves.

It is one of our contentions that Occidentalism, like capitalism, Marxism, and many other modern isms, was born in Europe before it was transferred to other parts of the world. (p.6, emphasis added)

The main opponents to the birth and spread of industrial capitalist society were inhabitants of that society itself. Marx is the obvious epitome of this trend, but there had been plenty of opponents to the rise of godless rationalism and capitalist industrialisation for generations before him, and loads of theoreticians who tried to cling onto older ideas of pre-industrial societies bound together by a common religion

To put it simply, Western society has, for well over 200 years, contained a large number of intellectuals who fear, hate and loath their own western society, and who have developed an extensive set of concepts and vocabulary to express that hatred in.

Communist anti-westernism

The Bolshevik revolution of 1917 appeared, at a stroke, to validate the enormous, world-reaching rhetoric of Marxist analysis, to prove the inevitable collapse of capitalism and of communist revolution, and the Soviet regime spent the next 70 years energetically spreading its anti-western ideas and rhetoric around the world.

Fascist anti-westernism

But the Bolsheviks triggered an equal and opposite reaction in the extreme nationalist movements which developed into totalitarian fascism in Italy, then Germany and the other European governments who fell prey to authoritarian or fascist regimes between the wars.

And the fascist, anti-modern rhetoric developed by these regimes and their numerous intellectual defenders and propagandists, continued long after the Second World War, helping to justify and underpin semi-fascist military regimes in, for example, Franco’s Spain, Salazar’s Portugal, the Greece of the generals, or right-wing regimes in South America such as Pinochet’s Chile (1973 to 1990) or the military government in Argentina (1976 to 1993).

So this is the most fundamental thing about the book – Buruma and Margalit’s decision to expand its frame of reference faaaar beyond a consideration of anti-western rhetoric in the Middle East, in the Arab world or as expressed by Islamic terrorists like Osama bin Laden, and to turn it into an investigation of anti-Western thought in its widest possible definition.

Scope

In their introduction, on page 11, Buruma and Margalit briefly consider taking a chronological approach to the subject, tracing the origins of anti-western feeling all the way back to the Counter-Reformation, through the Counter-Enlightenment, before exploring the roots of the various types of socialist, communist and fascist opposition to the modern world.

Mercifully, maybe, instead of the kind of exhaustive multi-volume study this would have turned into, they decide to take a thematic approach. They will look at certain key images or symbols of the decadent, greedy, rootless etc West, and sketch out their origins in (mostly) Western discourse. This helps explain why the book is a light and frolicsome 149 pages long, although some of the explication is so dense and compressed that it sometimes feels like longer…

Contents

Accordingly, the text is divided into six chapters. The headings are neat and logical but I found the text they contain often very digressive, in the sense that it hops between quite disparate topics, times and places and then, just as unpredictably, returns to what they were originally discussing. On the upside this means the text is often as interesting for the sidelights or incidental observations it throws out as for the central points.

1. War Against The West

Introduction, as summarised above.

2. The Occidental City

Contrary to received opinion, people who hold strong Occidentalist views tend to be educated, or at least educated enough to be familiar enough with the values of the West to hate them. Taking the view that ‘Western values’ are undermining this or that set of traditional native values requires you to have a pretty good theoretical understanding both of what your native values are, what Western values are, and how the latter is ‘poisoning’ the former.

Far from being a dogma favoured by downtrodden peasants, Occidentalism more often reflects the fears and prejudices of urban intellectuals, who feel displaced in the world of mass commerce. (p.30, emphasis added)

Re. the 9/11 attacks on hi-tech buildings, Osama bin Laden trained as a civil engineer. the ringleader of the hijackers, Mohamed Atta, studied architecture at Cairo University and went on to do a Masters in urban planning at the Hamburg University of Technology. He hated modern architecture. He thought the concrete high-rise buildings built in Cairo and across the region in the 1960s and 1970s ruined the beauty of old neighbourhoods and robbed their people of privacy and dignity.

The tower of Babel

Tall buildings have been a focus of anxieties and symbols of ill omen from at least as long ago as the Bible. The Old Testament or Jewish Bible has barely got going before, in chapter 11, we are told about Nimrod who built the Tower of Babel with a view to making a name for themselves. God and, it appears, his angels, feared what they might do next, so afflicted the workers on it with different languages so they couldn’t understand each other, and then dispersed them across the face of the earth.

I visited New York in the 1980s and went to the top of the South Tower of the World Trade Centre which had an observation deck on the 107th floor and an outdoor viewing platform. It was 1,377 feet above street level. You could feel the building moving under your feet since it was designed to have a certain amount of ‘give’. I have acute vertigo and was terrified.

Cities as sinks of iniquity

Throughout recorded history, cities in every culture have been associated with corruption, greed, exploitation of the poor by the rich, decadence and immorality.

It is a universal story, this clash between old and new, authentic culture and metropolitan chicanery and artifice, country and city. (p.27)

Western sources

Regarding the authors’ focus on western texts, they live down to my expectations. In just the first part of this chapter they quote the Bible, Juvenal, the Goncourt brothers, William Blake (Dark Satanic mills), T.S. Eliot (The Rock), Richard Wagner (despised the frivolity of Paris), Voltaire (admired the liberty of eighteenth century London), Theodor Fontane (disliked London’s materialism), Friedrich Engels (horrified by the poverty of Manchester) and not a single Arab or Muslim voice.

It feels like a fairly obvious sixth form selection of obvious cultural figures (Blake, Eliot, Wagner). I’d so much have preferred an explanation of Islamic traditions about ‘the city’.

Antisemitism

They then move onto antisemitism, long associated with cities, cosmopolitan i.e. non-native culture, money-lending and capitalism etc, citing (again) Eliot, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, Marx. The Nazis incorporated late-nineteenth century tropes of seeking to escape the city for a healthier life in the country into their fascist propaganda about racial purity, despising a checklist of big capitalism, cosmopolitan crowds, decadence (nightclubs and jazz), corruption of good Aryan women into prostitution and, of course, managed to blame all of this on ‘the Jews’.

A lot of these concerns and the language they were expressed in were picked up by other nativist nationalists, in Japan (about which Buruma knows a lot and which developed its own form of fascism during the 1930s) and in the Arab Middle East, developing its anti-colonial, anti-western rhetoric (many nationalist Arab leaders allied with Nazi Germany on the twin bases that a) my enemy (Britain)’s enemy is my friend and b) shared antisemitism).

Sayyid Qutb

They make a brief mention of Sayyid Qutb (1906 to 1966), widely considered the father of modern Islamic fundamentalism, to address not his writings, but his miserable alienation when he moved to New York to study in the 1940s and was repelled by absolutely everything about American life, its soulless materialism, its obsession with capitalist consumerism, its degraded immorality. Maybe they felt obligated to wedge him in somewhere, but Qutb’s importance to the development of Islamism or Islamic fundamentalism or Islamic terrorism isn’t developed at all. A paragraph on him before swooping back to Europe and…

The French Revolution

Surprisingly, maybe, they then move to the French Revolution. The French Revolution crystallised Enlightenment trends against medieval monarchs and aristocrats, the rule of the Church, traditions of all sorts, which needed to be torn up and thrown away, replaced by the cult of Reason, modern laws for modern enlightened citizens.

Antisemitism was implicit in Christianity from the beginning, with the Jews being blamed for insisting on the crucifixion of Jesus by the earliest Church Fathers. Buruma and Margalit attribute the birth of modern antisemitism to the French Revolution. Traditional upholders of the monarchy, the aristocracy and the Catholic Church were easily persuaded that the whole thing was a Jewish conspiracy, and so was born a whole modern antisemitic way of thinking about the world, which was to flourish and become steadily more toxic in the heart of Europe as the nineteenth century progressed.

The German Volk

Soon after the revolution, France invaded Germany, or the German states. Ideological opposition to the teachings of the French Revolution became mixed up with patriotic fervour. This all happened to the first generation of German Romantics. France came to represent the modern, godless, cosmopolitan city, riddled with over-clever philosophers and money-grubbing Jews, which was trying to conquer and obliterate the values of the Volkisch, spiritual German town, the German landscape of sturdy peasants, wise artisans and soulful poets. The authors cite the German folklorist Gottfried von Herder (1744 to 1803) as an example of this view.

Japan and China struggle to adopt Western culture

But western ideas of democracy, industrialism, capitalism and so forth were undeniably effective. They provided the underpinnings for the astonishing spread of Western imperialism. The question for rulers in countries from Morocco to Japan was which ideas from the West it would be profitable to accept, and which they needed to reject in order to maintain their culture and traditions, protect their nations from ‘spiritual pollution’ i.e. Western liberal ideas. Tricky.

Japan and China in different ways tried to adopt Western techniques without changing the core of their culture. Japan was much more successful, maybe because its centralised administration was stronger: it imported Western industrialisation while managing to keep a strong sense of national culture. By contrast the Chinese political system had become corrupt and inefficient so it failed to import Western industrialisation but instead found itself infected with all kinds of Western ideas about republics and democracy and the individual etc, ideas which led to the overthrow of the monarchy in 1911.

The appeal of Marxism to anti-colonial nationalists

For the central 70 years of the twentieth century many developing countries thought that Marxism offered a way forward. It was modern, industrial, scientific but rejected the soulless materialism, corruption and imperialist mindset of the Western capitalist societies. hence its attraction for many developing countries, especially in the decades after independence in the 1940s and 50s.

Unfortunately it was the dream which failed. The failure of the secular socialist nationalism promoted by the likes of President Nasser of Egypt, Gaddafi in Libya, Saddam in Iraq, Assad in Syria led to a wave of disillusion across the Arab world and opened the cultural space for Islamists who promoted a radical solution, a return to a world before any kind of modernity existed, back to the pure, unsullied, pious and unified world of the early Caliphate.

Mao and the war against the city

The authors devote 4 or 5 pages to Chairman Mao, ruler of China from 1949 to 1976. They see Mao as the biggest exponent in all world history of the war of the country against the city. The corrupt westernised city was epitomised for Chinese communists like Mao by Shanghai, administered by westerners and packed with a cosmopolitanism, capitalism and corruption. Mao thought such places needed to be purged in the name of a peasant communism.

Mao’s promotion of peasant values promised an escape route from Western capitalism, from urban alienation, decadence and corruption, and a return to integrated rural communities, where life and work would have proper, deep human meaning and purpose.

And so during the 1950s he unleashed the Great Leap Forward which involved rounding up and shooting hundreds of thousands of members of the urban bourgeoisie, those who survived being sent to huge rural labour camps. It was, he boomed, in countless speeches, a good thing ‘to exterminate the bourgeoisie and capitalism in China’ (p.42).

The Khmer Rouge 1975 to 1979

This is the mindset which went on to guide the horrific Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia, 1975 to 1979. Most of Pol Pot’s soldiers were illiterate peasants, often only boys. When they took the capital, Phnom Penh, they were staggered by the wealth, the size, the swarming multinational population, the coffee shops and fleshpots. All these were ruthlessly emptied and its inhabitants either shot on the spot, or dragged off to be tortured, or marched off to labour camps in the countryside. Only by exterminating the urban bourgeoisie could the country be restored to purity and truth and correct living. It was a kind of logical end point of centuries of anti-city rhetoric.

The Taliban 1996

Same with the Taliban, illiterate peasants in flipflops armed with weapons seized from the fleeing Soviets or donated by America. After a ruinous civil war they took the capital of Afghanistan, Kabul, in 1996. First they butchered the leader of the pro-Soviet regime, Mohammad Najibullah, then they banned everything to do with modern life, which they associated with the hated West, in a bid to return society to the ‘purity’ of the earliest days of the Muslim Caliphate.

All music was banned, along with television, soccer, and most forms of socialising. Women had to cover themselves from head to foot and were not allowed out without a chaperone. Kabul was ruled by a six-man shura not one of them from Kabul, not one of them had ever lived in a city.

The Khmer Rouge and the Taliban represented the triumph of ‘authentic’ rural values over the corrupt, decadent modern city.

Germania

The authors then take a characteristic leap in subject, concluding with a page describing a different way of triumphing over the chaotic modern western city: this was to demolish it and build a totalitarian alternative.

Hitler hated Berlin and planned to rebuild it as a totalitarian capital, its alleys and slums replaced by broad boulevards designed for marching armies, its swarming cosmopolitan crowds replaced by the unified adoring Aryan crowd. All the messy attributes of the decadent West – civil liberties, free market economies, democracy, individualism – would be replaced by one Folk, one Reich, one Führer and one Capital City.

The Hitler regime was overthrown before building got very far but other countries have made the experiment. The authors cite Pyongyang, capital of North Korea, as what Germania might have looked like, a neoclassical testament to untrammeled, totalitarian power.

Lastly, they reference the steel and glass cities of coastal China which have mushroomed in the last twenty years, which represent a kind of defiant triumph over the less impressive, shop-soiled cities of the West. We can do it bigger, better and shinier than you, say high rises such as the Burj Khalifa in the United Arab Emirates, Merdeka 118 in Kuala Lumpur, the Shanghai Tower in Shanghai, the Abraj Al-Bait Clock Tower in Mecca, the Ping An International Finance Centre in Seoul and so on.

These are not so much anti-Western, as supra-western, denying old ideas of Western supremacy by outdoing it.

3. Heroes and Merchants

Werner Sombart

This focuses on the roots of Germany’s sustained sense of being different from ‘the West’, which German intellectuals defined as soulless mercantile Britain and godless revolutionary France.

The authors zero in on a book written in 1915 by a German sociologist named Werner Sombart and titled Händler und Helden or Merchants and Heroes. In the book Sombart contrasted the commercial civilisation of Britain and the liberty, equality, fraternity culture of France with the heroic culture of Germany. The Western bourgeois is satisfied with ‘comfort’ (in German Komfortismus) and the soporific sports of the British. By contrast the German welcomes death as the ultimate sacrifice he can make for the Volk.

Similar ideas were shared by the historian Oswald Spengler and the warrior-author Ernst Jünger. Happy happy Germany to have such ideologues of the glory of war. The fundamental trahison des clercs (‘treason of the intellectuals’) is to promote exciting ideas about glory and sacrifice which lead hundreds of thousands of young men to their death. ‘The young must shed their blood,’ write Thomas Abbt (p.58). Other young men, obviously. You need to stay safe in your study in order to produce such intellectual masterworks.

The authors make a direct link between the widespread contempt for bourgeois Komfortismus described by numerous right-wing German intellectuals, and the attitude of the jihadi fighter interviewed early in the 2001 Afghan who said that the Islamists would triumph because ‘You [the West] love life, but we love death’.

Personally, taking a materialist Darwinian evolutionary view of Homo sapiens, it seems unlikely that impatience to make live heroic lives and die in a noble cause, particularly among zealous young men ‘ardent for some desperate glory’, will ever die out. It has been so ubiquitous throughout all human history, in all cultures, that it appears to be hard-wired into the species. I’ve recently read a suite of books about the problems of African society and prominent among them is what to do about disaffected, unemployed youths, hanging round, looking for a cause to redeem their alienated lives…

Military death cults in Japan

The authors go on to trace how German hyper-nationalism and Occidentalism went on to become surprisingly influential in intellectual circles in the Middle East and Japan. The same valuing of a heroic ideal of nationhood which led Hitler to sacrifice an entire generation of German youth, was the one that made the Japanese fight to the death, island by island and send waves of kamikaze pilots in 1944.

Buruma has a counter-intuitive interpretation of Japanese suicide warriors. The phenomenon was considered at the time as being somehow specifically Japanese, but Buruma says the surviving farewell letters of many of the kamikaze pilots (and drivers of the less well-known suicide torpedoes) indicate that most were highly educated students studying the humanities at leading universities, and that a surprising number of them were well read in German literature and philosophy. They dressed up their feelings in tropes about the Samurai and cherry blossom but their fundamental ideas about the diseased decadence of the West and the need for heroic sacrifice are actually Western ideas.

Buruma gives a potted summary of the way Japanese politicians and intellectuals in the mid-nineteenth century cobbled together a patchwork copy of Western intellectual, economic, political, military and religious life, not least in the cobbling together of a state religion, Shinto, which they thought would echo the Christianity which seemed to be such a central part of European life. Ditto the transition of the emperor from a remote and powerless figure in Kyoto, who was moved to Tokyo to become a combination of kaiser, generalissimo, Shinto pope, and highest living deity. People talk (dismissively) about the British inventing many of their ‘traditions’ in the nineteenth century (Christmas trees, the kilt) but the Japanese did the same with knobs on.

Regarding the development of a cult of heroic sacrifice Buruma says an important source was the Imperial Rescript to Soldiers and Sailors of 1882 which the armed forces learned by heart and included a passage commanding the ultimate sacrifice for the emperor.

A practical consequence of this Occidentalism were that, when Western forces surrendered, as at Singapore in 1942, the Japanese viewed surrendering forces as dishonourable cowards who preferred to save their skins rather than fight on to the death i.e. the exact opposite of Japanese martial values.

As a result the Japanese regarded the surrendering British forces as less than human and treated them accordingly, working them to death in brutal labour camps. My best friend at school’s dad was in the army in Burma at the end of the war. He saw the state of soldiers repatriated from the Japanese camps. As a result he refused to have anything Japanese in the house.

The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh

The authors then move on to India for a quick description of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) which means the ‘National Volunteer Organisation’. Founded in 1925 this was a far-right, Hindu nationalist paramilitary organisation which aimed to instil ‘Hindu discipline’ in order to unite the Hindu community and establish a Hindu Rashtra (Hindu nation). Like the Nazis they aimed to create a new society based on racial purity, military discipline and sacrifice.

Osama bin Laden

Then, in this whistlestop tour, we are on to your friend and mine, the demon figure of the first decade of the 21st century, Osama bin Laden. The authors give quotes from an interview bin Laden gave after the 1996 al-Khobar Tower attack in Saudi Arabia. They say the language bin Laded uses of self-sacrifice, of suicide attacks, is emphatically not part of the Islamic mainstream tradition. In mainstream Islam dying in battle against the infidel is what creates justified martyrs; blowing yourself up along with unarmed civilians is something quite different, feared and despised by many Muslims as much as by Westerners.

They slightly contradict themselves by then describing the death cult of the Assassins, created in the 13th century for reasons which are still debated, and the pattern they set for being prepared to die for Islam in taking out an infidel opponent.

Anyway, whatever the precise roots there’s no denying that throughout the nineteenth century Muslim leaders called for jihad against western colonists and their godless capitalism, against their Jewish agents, and against native leaders who had been corrupted by their infidel ways.

Assassination

When I read this I immediately thought of President Anwar Sadat of Egypt. He was assassinated in 1981 by members of Egyptian Islamic Jihad for signing a peace treaty with Israel and instigating a crackdown on Islamic extremists, and so was painted as ‘a traitor to Islam’.

Sadat’s fate raises a general principle of Occidentalism which is that often opponents of the West aren’t actually opposed to the distant West, which they had never visited and of which they knew relatively little, so much as against the westernisers in their own society, political or social leaders who they blame for importing Western secular values. So they kill them.

Historically, the main embodiment of Muslim resistance to westernisation was the Muslim Brotherhood, founded in 1928 with the following manifesto:

‘God is our objective; the Qu’uran is our constitution; the Prophet is our leader; Struggle is our way; and death for the sake of God is our highest aspiration.’

Then, in another leap, the authors tell us that Japanese kamikaze tactics were adopted by the Hezbollah in the Lebanon with the 1983 Beirut barracks bombings which killed 241 US and 58 French military personnel.

Buruma and Margalit wrote this book before the US invaded Iraq in March 2003, an occupation which triggered an epidemic of suicide bombings by Sunni and Shias against the occupying forces.

Weimar

They conclude with a simple but crucial message. The Weimar Republic didn’t die because it was liquidated by Nazis, big business and the Army. It died because too few people were prepared to defend it. See the books on the subject by Peter Gay and Walter Laqueur. Passionate young men from the Right and the Left conspired to attack and undermine it at every opportunity. Nobody stood up for the boring, unromantic business of liberal democratic political life.

4. Mind of the West

Russian anti-westernism

Occidentalists accuse the West of being effective, technologically adroit, economically triumphant, and yet lacking the soul, depth, spirit and godliness which the critics, of course, pride themselves on having. I particularly despise the long tradition in Russian culture of belittling the frivolity and superficiality of France or Britain compared to the Great Russian Soul and its vast capacity for Noble Suffering. Tolstoy. Dostoyevsky. Occidentalists.

Dostoyevsky despised the West because it sought happiness and comfort whereas it should have been seeking salvation. And the route to salvation is via suffering. Only suffering brings wisdom. The West is afraid of suffering. The West can never be wise. Only a people devoted to suffering can be genuinely holy. The Russian soul welcomes and endures great suffering. Thus it is superior to everyone else’s.

Dostoyevsky and the propagandists for Russian suffering prepared the way (or just accurately reported the mindset) of the great Soviet barbarism of the twentieth century, the horrific civil war, the mass famines of Stalin, the huge gulags, total repression of civil society, the incredible death toll of the Great Patriotic War caused by Stalin’s ineptitude (and having massacred all his leading army officers) and Russian military readiness to sacrifice soldiers by the hecatomb in ways the Western Allies couldn’t believe. Still. Spiritual superiority, that’s what counts.

The line continues all the way through to Vladimir Putin. Putin sits in the main line of Russian cultural thought in despising, like Tolstoy, like Dostoyevsky, the decadence of Western liberalism, whose rapid end he has confidently predicted in numerous speeches.

Meanwhile, while he wastes his nation’s resources on a stupid nationalist war, the population of Mother Russia is going into decline as people flee Putin’s dictatorship or just die of ill health due to its wretched health problems.

Russia has the world’s 11th-largest economy but ranks 96th in life expectancy. Life expectancy for Russian men is 67, lower than in North Korea, Syria or Bangladesh. Still. Spiritual superiority, that’s what counts, eh.

The authors spend a long section describing ‘the love affair of Russians with their own soul’ and the achievement of nativist thinkers, loosely termed ‘Slavophiles’.

Anti-westernism’s German roots

In fact, counter-intuitively, Buruma and Margalit attribute Slavophilia, like so much anti-westernism, to German roots, specifically German Romanticism. Humiliated by Napoleon’s victories over them, conscious of their political backwardness (fragmented into scores of little princedom and dukedoms) German intellectuals, in a massive case of sour grapes, said worldly success didn’t matter, what mattered was what was in your soul. They compensated for their economic, social, political backwardness by asserting the supremacy of their spiritual life.

A spectrum

It occurs to me that there was a spectrum in the moving west to east across Europe in the nineteenth century. At the western extreme was Britain, economic powerhouse of the world but almost bereft of genuine art, philosophy or religion (sure it had the oppressive Church of England but this had little or no spiritualist tradition). Then came France, nearly as economically diverse as Britain, a good deal more artistic and philosophical. Then Germany, economically and politically backward but packed with ‘deep’ philosophers and its great musical tradition. Poland, which is never taken account of by anybody in these kinds of surveys. And finally Russia, the most economically and socially backward of European nations and, accordingly, possessed of a self-congratulatory sense of its immense spiritual superiority over everyone else.

In the authors’ view, to be blunt, it’s all the Germans’ fault. Extremely resentful of the military, economic and artistic success of Napoleon’s France, German Romantics compensated for national humiliation by working out the theory of the superior spiritual value of Das Volk and the nobility of dying for it.

Isaiah Berlin on German Romanticism

No less an authority than Isaiah Berlin thought this was the case and, moreover, thought the model the Germans worked out became a template which could be exported to all peoples who feel mocked and humiliated. The template was copied by the Russians during the nineteenth century and, as we’ve seen, adopted by Arab and Indian nationalists between the wars.

Buruma and Margalit summarise Berlin’s model. The German Romantic movement was the Counter-Enlightenment. It valued intuition and spirit over reason and calculation. It preferred heroes to shopkeepers. It looked back to a lost era of national and religious unity and looked forward to its glorious restoration.

On this view Nazism, Japanese fascism and Islamic fundamentalism are all the heirs to the original German Romantic anti-Westernism.

Russian Orthodox Christianity

The authors tell me things about Russian Christianity I didn’t know. They describe the messianic conviction that Moscow is a second Rome and only home to true Christianity. They explain that Russian Orthodox Christianity is far less interested in theology than Greek or Roman Christianity and far more concerned with custom and practice. Icons are more important than intellectual debate.

Intellectualism is suspect. And any kind of change is not needed. The thousand year old tradition of the Russian church suffices. Innovation tends to come from outside, representing threat and betrayal.

The authors give a potted history of Russia, with Peter the Great and Catherine the Great realising they had to import Western technology and ideas. Throughout the nineteenth century Russian intellectuals split into westernising and slavophile parties. They give potted biographies of individual westernisers. And they explain that for these men, the West meant Germany and its succession of Romantic philosophers.

As with Orientalism, all these Russian thinkers worked out their theories and defined themselves against the Other, the Other being a highly simplistic, stereotyped view of The West, a West which was materialistic, godless, mechanical, superficial, divided, corrupt and decadent, which lacked the soulfulness and the unity of people and purpose which characterised Mother Russia.

The triumph of will over reason

One major aspect of Occidentalism is the valorising of will over reason. Timid reason calculates the best course of action, tots up the pros and cons, a shopkeeper mentality. All this contrasts with the will which acts instinctively, in large glorious romantic causes. Following the footsteps of Friedrich Nietzsche, Hitler and the Nazis famously praised the Triumph of the Will over pettifogging rationalism. And so did nineteenth century Russians.

Konstantin Leontiev

The Russian Nietzsche was Konstantin Leontiev (1831 to 1891). He wrote a big book, Russia and Europe, which made a big splash. He was one of hundreds of late-nineteenth century philosophers and commentators who worked up an ‘organic’ theory of history i.e. that societies are like organisms which have a birth, a youth, a maturity and then a decay.

Surprise, surprise, Leontiev thought that the West with its decadent liberal democracy was in the last stages of decay. Exactly what Vladimir Putin thinks today, 150 years later. Continuities like this demonstrate that this is not a rational belief based on evidence, it is a prejudice, an unchanging tenet of anti-western bigotry, of Occidentalism.

The authors end the chapter with a brief history of the word nihilism which came to prominence, in Russia, in Ivan Turgenev’s novel Fathers and Sons. The chapter ends with more evidence of Dostoyevsky’s fanatical hatred of the West and fear that it’s godless, scientistic values were undermining the noble soul of Mother Russia.

5. The Wrath of God [Muslim fundamentalism]

 Buruma and Margalit draw a distinction between religious Occidentalism and secular Occidentalism. 

They say that Islamism is the form Occidentalism is taking in our time. What is new or unique is Islamism’s view that the West is guilty of barbarous idolatry and proceed to explain what this means, starting with a definition of idolatry.

They give a pocket history of the concept of idolatry which stems from the Jewish Bible. Here God is depicted as a jealous husband who is hurt when his Chosen People whore after strange gods. But obviously it has a deeper charge than that. God is also king of the universe, master of creation, source of existence. Denying God is the worst kind of blasphemy imaginable. In the Old Testament numerous kings and rulers are depicted as behaving as if they were as powerful as, or more powerful than, their creator, and demanding the veneration which is due to God.

So idolatry is giving to men the devotions and worship which are due to god. They discuss the meaning of Arab terms such as tajhiljahiliyya and jahili. jahiliyyahas been used to describe the religious ignorance which prevailed in Arabia before the advent of the Prophet Mohammed but also, more metaphorically, as the notion of barbarism, in the same way the ancient Greeks used it to refer to everyone who wasn’t Greek. At school I was told it was a joke term for people whose unGreek languages made them sound like they were saying ba-ba-ba-ba.

To summarise, the use of the term jahiliyya in Islamist discourse can be interpreted as referring to a new barbarism (godless idolatry) which originates from the West and is infecting the Muslim world.

The authors have a digression into the history of Manicheism, first as an actual belief system propounded by the Iranian prophet Mani (216 to 277 AD) then as the strand in most religions which posits an absolute divide between God and Evil. Then they show how ‘evil’ in most religious traditions is associated with the body, with its weakness, tendency to degrade and die, its distracting appetites, worst of which is, as we all know, sex. The body is contrasted with the soul which is taken to be immortal and the part of a human body which can approach or commune with god.

Ali Shari’ati

They discuss Ali Shari’ati (1933 to 1977), an Iranian Shia Muslim revolutionary and opponent of the westernising regime of the Shah. Shari’ati thought the best way for developing countries to fight back against the infection of godless western materialism was by rallying around their religious beliefs and traditions, in his case, Islam. He explicitly linked the influence of the West as encouraging Muslims to idolatry i.e. diverting worship away from God and towards the godless things of man i.e. money, consumer goods.

The industrial revolution made the West rich but it led to what sociologist Max Weber called ‘the disenchantment of the world’. It lost its magic and spirits. It lost God. And so all its goods and products are tainted by this tendency to disenchant and divert men’s worship from God to things. Idolatry.

Sayyid Qutb

The authors tell us about Islamic radical thinkers who fought back against the forces of secularism, for example Muhamed Taleqani in Iran, before returning to Sayyid Qutb, first mentioned in chapter 2.

For Qutb the whole world, from decadent Cairo to New York, was in a state of jahiliyya. He saw the West as a gigantic brothel, steeped in animal lust, greed and selfishness. Human thought, in the West, was ‘given the status of God.’ Material greed, immoral behaviour, inequality and political oppression would end only once the world was ruled by God and by His laws alone. The opportunity to die in a holy war would allow men to overcome selfish ambitions and corrupt oppressors (p.117)

One of the appeals of Islam is its egalitarianism: all men really are equal in the eyes of God in a way they rarely have been in the Christian West, and the Islamic dream is of a society where all men worship God, all laws derive from God, all behaviour is godly, and so it is literally impossible for large disparities in wealth or for corrupt immoral rulers ever to arise.

Qutb is given more space this time around, with a thumbnail biography describing the two years he spent in America to improve his English and which turned him into a West-hating Occidentalist. He also became a ferocious antisemite, literally believing in the famous forgery, The Elders of Zion and the ‘worldwide Jewish conspiracy’ and associating the global nature of finance capital with ‘Jewish bankers’ and so on. Schoolboy antisemitism.

To look at it another way, Qutb thought he was developing an approach which saved the noble and godly in human nature. The West wasn’t just godless, it actively worshipped the things of the body, the West is a cult of physical appetites, valuing food, drink, sex, holidays, fast cars, thus degrading human nature, instead of uplifting it through things of the soul by focusing solely on God. jahiliyya is the culture of animals or, worse, of humans who have thrown away their human attributes in a mad rush to become animals.

So, if Westerners have deliberately denied their humanity and turned themselves into animals, then they can be treated like animals, as worse than sub-humans. It’s this development of a train of thought which led him to consider all Westerners as sub-human which makes Qutb, as Buruma and Margalit out it, ‘the high priest of Occidentalism’ (p.121).

More, the world is in a state of war, between those who seek the righteousness of Islam and the rest. Even Islamic countries have been tainted to some extent by Western or secular innovations, and so jihad must be fought to overthrow idolatrous leaders. This is, obviously enough, an incitement to permanent warfare. You can see why it would appeal to zealous young men disgusted by the West, such as Mohamed Atta and so it explains the never-ending supply of young men prepared to take up arms to defend and assert radical Islam. But it just as easily explains why those societies, Islamic societies, will never be at peace with themselves. Libya, Egypt, Yemen, Syria, Iraq. Permanent war.

Abu-l-A’la Maudadi

Then we are introduced to Abu-l-A’la Maudadi (1903 to 1979) Islamic scholar, Islamist ideologue, Muslim philosopher, jurist, historian, journalist and activist, who is described (on his Wikipedia page) by Wilfred Cantwell Smith as ‘the most systematic thinker of modern Islam’.

The thing about all these Islamic thinkers is it’s hard to remember them because they all appear to have had the same pretty simple idea: Islam needed to reject the corruption of the West, purged of Western corruption, in order to become pure. Then everyone will live happy godly lives.

In practice Maudadi opposed Indian nationalism because it was Hindu, and democracy because it would impose majority Hindu values on Muslims. He said in a speech that anyone who voted would be a traitor to the Prophet and to God. He wanted to revive the early Caliphate (what Islamic fundamentalist doesn’t?).

Maudadid founded the Jamaat I-Islami Party which went on to be influential in the politics of the new country formed at the Partition of India, of Pakistan.

Tawhid and Muhammed Iqbal

Tawhid is the doctrine of the Unity of God. One of its proponents was Muhammed Iqbal (1877 to 1938) writer, philosopher and politician, considered by many to be ‘the spiritual father of Pakistan’. In his view human society should practice unity, harmony and justice in order to reflect the Unity of God. Against this settled social background each individual should be able to develop their individuality or khudi.

So, Buruma and Margalit ask, what was it that made Qutb an Occidentalist and Iqbal not? Partly it was personal psychology; Qutb was overwhelmed and disgusted by everything he experienced in America, whereas Iqbal enjoyed his British education and took a degree at Cambridge.

But basically Iqbal was tolerant. He thought there were many ways to God; the best way is Islam but there might be others for men of good faith. Qutb, by contrast took a fiercely Manichean view: there was the world of Islam and then everything else, which was full of sub-human barbarians. Qutb wrote:

Any society that is not Muslim is jahiliyya

And true believers need to take up jihad to enforce the rule of God in their nations. Permanent war.

Protestantism and liberalism

The authors then shift their ground to explain that the Reformation i.e. rebellion against the grip of the Roman Catholic Church, began the long process whereby religion and the personal sphere were separated out, in the Protestant countries of the West. The separation of church and state. The right to freedom of conscience, of belief, of religion.

And this is anathema to Islamists who insist there is not, there cannot be, a divide between religion and private belief or morality. Everyone must believe and worship the same, follow the same morality. This is why some critics of political Islam liken it to fascism. More accurately it might be likened to totalitarianism. Mussolini said: ‘Everything in the State, nothing outside the State, nothing against the State.’ Swap ‘Islam’ for state. Note the Morality Police in Saudi Arabia and Iran.

Women in Islam

Buruma and Margalit finally get around to the hugely contentious subject of women in Islam. They claim that many Muslims yearn for a return to traditional and community values. Islamic fundamentalism draws its support from a nostalgia for a return to proper Muslim values, which are associated with tradition beliefs and customs.

One of the central areas is the role and behaviour of women because in a patriarchal culture like Islam, the behaviour of women directly reflects on the honour of their menfolk, in a way most of us in the West just don’t understand.

Countless visitors to Muslim countries in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries observed the strict segregation of the sexes, the way women were completely invisible in many rural communities, or else were covered from head to foot in towns.

They zero in on the issue of the veil. The veil for women appears to have existed way before Islam there are depictions of it in pictures from the first century. Maybe Muslims copied it from the Byzantine Empire. It came to signify that the owner did not do manual labour i.e. became a status symbol.

During the independence struggle in Algeria many women took the veil as a proud assertion of their Islamic heritage and defiance of the French colonialists. But 50 years later, in the era of the Taliban, women are to be covered in what are effect shapeless sacks, completely denying their physicality, the assumption being that the merest glimpse of female flesh will cause an outbreak of ungodly fleshly thinking among surrounding men. In this respect ‘the veil’ is a symbol of a Manichean tension between the Spirit and the Body.

Wisely the authors don’t propose to delve deeper into the symbolism, meaning and all the debates raging around ‘the veil’, as fully explicating the history and then trying to find quotes in the Koran or the hadith to back up all the different opinions would keep us here till Doomsday.

Their book is not about Islamic beliefs and customs, it has the narrower focus of being about Muslim opinions about the West, in this case, Eastern views about Western women.

Islamic fundamentalists (and, the authors emphasise, Orthodox Jews) regard women’s dress and behaviour in the West as little better than prostitutes’. Here we’re back to Sayid Qutb’s opinion that Western immorality isn’t just bad, but degrades human beings to a level lower than animals. Animals don’t know any better, but humans do, and to reject what they know (of God’s demands for respect and morality) means they forfeit their humanity.

Also, in a patriarchal society, a woman is the ‘protected jewel’ in the crown of a man’s honour. Which means that how a man protects and defends his woman is a large part of his honour or identity. And here’s the point: Western men who relate to Western women as if they were just other citizens without any of the respect due to them in a Muslim country, show that they lack even the most basic sense of honour.

Wahhabism and Saudi Arabia

Three packed little pages which describe the alliance in the eighteenth century of fiercely puritanical preacher Muhammad Ibn Abd al-Wahhab and warlord Muhammad Ibn Saud. The warlord adopted the puritanical beliefs of the preacher and together they conquered the Holy Places. Then a lot of history as first the Ottomans and then the British took control of the Saudi peninsula, but by shrewd manoeuvring the family of the Sauds took control of the new kingdom and imposed an extremely fierce version of Islam on their population.

Then came the discovery of oil and these phenomenally strict Puritans found themselves among the richest people in the world. The result, say Buruma and Margalit, is an uneasy form of ‘officially sanctioned hypocrisy’, where the Saudi authorities impose a strict morality in public but live like Roman emperors in the privacy of their own palaces, or in their mansions in London and New York.

Saudi ‘hypocrisy’ would be of limited interest or importance if it weren’t for the fact that in the last decades of the twentieth century the Saudis began to export their form of intolerant Islam. As of 2004 the authors thought that:

Saudi Arabia is now the prime source of fundamentalist, puritanical ideology affecting Muslims everywhere, from North Africa to Indonesia. Oil money is used to promote religious radicalism around the world… (p.136)

That was 20 years ago, the trend has only increased since then, with Saudi involved not only in the Arab Spring uprisings and aftermaths, funding groups in Tunisia, Libya and Egypt, but also bankrolling sides in the ruinous civil wars in Syria and Yemen; and that’s before accounting for their promotion of their particularly virulent purist form of Islam in Muslim countries across North Africa and central Asia and into the Far East, in countries like Indonesia and Malaysia. And part of the package is a virulently anti-Western Occidentalist message.

6. Seeds of Revolution

A 12-page chapter on how the main venom of Occidentalism falls, even more than on distant America, on Israel. Eccentrically, they tackle this vast bottomless subject via a little known, unimportant novel published by the Theodor Herzl (1860 to 1904), the Austro-Hungarian Jewish journalist who was the father of modern political Zionism.

The Encyclopedia Britannica defines Zionism as a Jewish nationalist movement, originating in central and eastern Europe, that had for its goal the creation of a Jewish national state in Palestine, the ancient homeland of the Jews.

The novel was titled Altneuland which was translated into English as ‘The Old New Land’ when it was published in 1902. It’s apparently a huge text but the core of it is a vision of what Palestine will look like twenty years hence i.e. in 1922, after Palestine has been successfully occupied by Jews. The place has become a technological and economic miracle, the previously barren desert blooming, the previously rundown ports now full of cranes and ships, the rundown towns transformed into European-style cities with wide boulevards and cafes. Religion there is some, but hollowed out to become little more than the civic holidays of a mostly secular European culture.

Visitors to this brave new Jewish world marvel at the gleaming cities and high technology but find time to ask the one Arab in the book what he thinks, and he is overjoyed. Palestinian land-owners sold to the Jews for good prices, Palestinians are employed in all the new works, even the poor are lifted up by the rising standard of living. It’s win-win-win.

Of course it didn’t turn out that way and the modern state of Israel has become the number one hate figure for Arab politicians and Islamists throughout the region, a running sore in the Middle East which will, probably, never go away.

Anyway, the authors don’t really scratch the surface of the issue before proceeding to their rather rushed conclusion: this is that most of the nationalist responses to western imperialism borrowed western ideas to fight it with, whether they be the liberty-equality-fraternity of the French Revolution, the scientific positivism of Comte, the communism of Karl Marx, the anti-Enlightenment tropes of the German Romantics.

They move from Margalit’s home territory (Jerusalem/Israel) back to Buruma’s, Japan. He explains how the samurai leaders of Japan who realised in the 1860s that they needed to carry out a wholesale modernisation of their nation did so by importing selected Western ideas but also sparked a nativist nationalist backlash. But even this, although dressed in Japanese costume, borrowed ideas on how to run society from European fascists and the Nazis in particular.

They conclude that no Occidentalist can be free of ideas from the Occident. The modernisation of Japan gave rise to an anti-modern backlash which borrowed ideas and technology of the modern world in their effort to reject it. Same, they suggest, with Islamic fundamentalists. They loathe and fear western materialism, but communicate using laptops and mobile phones.

On almost the last page the authors start discussing the Ba’ath Party, which gained power in post-independence Syria and Iraq, and how it was forged in the 1930s from a combination of nostalgia for a holistic Arab community and ideas taken from European fascism. One of its theoreticians, Sati’ Husri, was a keen student of German Romantic theorists like Fichte and Herder who rejected the French Enlightenment by promoting the notion of the organic, völkisch nation united by blood and soil. This was translated by Husri into the Arab word asabiyya or (Arab) blood solidarity

The end of the book feels rushed and hurried. Only here do they make the big point that Arab ‘nationalist’ leaders have killed far more of their fellow Arabs than all the colonialists and Zionists put together, witness Saddam Hussein and Hafez al-Assad, who everyone thought was a cruel mass murderer until the Syrian civil war broke out in 2011 and we all discovered that his son, Bashar al-Assad, is even viler. Over half a million Arabs have died in the Syrian civil war.

What not to think

 Buruma and Margalit conclude with some very rushed thoughts. For a start they predict that the war against terror will mostly be fought within Arab states, against extremists. 

Secondly, they say the conflict is against a worldwide, loosely affiliated underground movement. (Presumably they mean al-Qaeda, though they don’t say so.)

As to the first prediction, now, in 2023, 20 years after the book was written, we know that America went ahead with its idiotically badly conceived invasion of Iraq, which on the face of it was an invasion by a foreign power, but that this triggered the collapse of Iraq into prolonged civil war and ethnic cleansing. The ‘within states’ thesis was more dramatically proven by the Arab Spring which led to the disintegration of the states of Libya and Syria, turmoil in Egypt, and a cruel civil war in Yemen. Presumably al-Qaeda and all its affiliates wanted to create pure Islamic states or restore the Caliphate, but they’ve turned out to be part of a process which has destabilised and wrecked much of the Arab world. My view is that it’s their culture, they’re their countries, we’ve interfered enough in that part of the world (and too many other parts of the world, too). Let them sort it out.

Buruma and Margalit say we shouldn’t be paralysed by ‘colonial guilt’ but I think we’re way beyond that now. Every time we intervene we make things worse. We turned Iraq into an abattoir. The Yanks spent a trillion dollars in Afghanistan over 20 years and look at it now: still the poorest country in the world and back to being ruled by the Taliban.

The West intervened in Libya to prevent Gaddafi massacring protesters in Benghazi but didn’t follow it through by leading and uniting the opposition which, instead, collapsed into regional factions, so that twelve years later, Libya has no one central government.

Total intervention, as in Iraq or Afghanistan, failed.

Partial intervention, as in Libya, failed.

I suggest the only viable policy is complete non-intervention as the West, in effect, is doing in Syria.

If Arabs and Muslims want to spend decades massacring each other, it’s not so much that we don’t want to intervene, or don’t have a moral duty or whatever to intervene; it’s more that we’ve tried intervening, in different countries in different ways, and almost always we make it worse. Non-intervention seems to me the only responsible policy.

This book was written when the Western world was reeling from the 9/11 attacks which everybody felt turned the world on its axis and introduced a whole new era. There was felt to be an urgent need for commentary and analysis, not least explanations of what Islamic fundamentalism was and why the terrorists hated us so much. This book was an interesting attempt to fill that gap.

By the end, although it contains lots of references to specific writers and theories, it feels somehow rushed and superficial. Buruma and Margalit’s thesis, which they repeat half a dozen times, is that German Romantic writers of the early nineteenth century developed a worldview opposing the rational scientific values of the French Enlightenment and Revolution, and this template for opposing all the forces of ‘modernity’ was then taken up by intellectuals in other countries which resented the way the godless materialism of Britain and France seemed to be destroying traditional values, in countries as far afield as Russia, China, Japan and India, and, in the twentieth century got mixed into the anger, resentment and humiliation of a number of Arab and Muslim theorists and theologians.

Their basic idea is that opposition to the West, and the negative stereotypes which its enemies use to characterise it which the authors call Occidentalism, began in the West and always carries the spoor of its Western origins.

However, it’s a long time since 9/11. Now, in 2023, it feels like a lot of the excitement, paranoia and hyperbole of that era has drained away. The Arab Spring, then the Arab Winter, then the collapse of Libya, Syria and Yemen, changed the landscape. Up till then Arab nationalists and radical Islamists believed that all they had to do was overthrow the ageing dictators who in one way or another had imposed Western ideas (nationalism, socialism, science) onto their peoples, and the purified, communal, traditional Islam of the good old days would rush back in to restore the Caliphate. Instead , when the dictators were overthrown, first in Iraq, then Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, with the vain attempt to do so in Syria, the result wasn’t the Unity of Islam but chaos and massacre.

Al Qaeda affiliates across North Africa continue to terrorise their countrymen but they will never be able to seize power; all they do is create the chaotic conditions in which warlords and mercenaries like the Wagner group thrive (in places like Chad, Mali or the Central African Republic or the wretched failed state of Somalia), while political and military leaders with no principles overthrow each other in naked bids for power, as in the utterly pointless Sudanese Civil War.

Piled onto all this is the relentless degradation of the environment of the Arab world, which is only going to get hotter and hotter, with evermore water shortages and the loss of evermore agricultural and even pasturing land. A lot of the Arab world is going to become a hellish place to live.

So the situation is massively more screwed up than when Buruma and Margalit wrote this book and their scholarly shuffling through tomes by Herder and Fichte, Schelling and Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, feels like bookish trip down memory lane. Then again maybe they were right to stick to the library; their treatment of the role of Israel in all this, approached through Theodor Herzl’s novel and a half page description of modern Jerusalem, feels entirely inadequate.

Either way, ahead lies total chaos in which the Occidentalism they describe and define will seem increasingly irrelevant to an Arab world collapsing into endless civil war and social collapse. The West wasn’t behind the Arab Springs, that was what so excited the protesters, they were entirely homemade, of domestic Arab and Muslim origin. But so was the chaos and collapse they brought in their wake, of entirely Arab and Muslim origin. It’s their countries, their people, their problems. We’ve intervened too many times. We shouldn’t get involved.


Credit

Occidentalism: A Short History of Anti-Westernism by Ian Buruma and Avishai Margalit was published in 2004 by Atlantic Books. References are to the 2005 Atlantic Books paperback edition.

Related reviews

Albert Camus on Franz Kafka (1942)

In 1942 Albert Camus published his famous long essay, The Myth of Sisyphus in which he addressed the issue of Suicide i.e. Is the world so empty, pointless and absurd that we might as well commit suicide? Camus takes a hundred pages or so to answer No, the basis of his argument being that at the core of every man is a Revolt Against His Fate.

Revolt gives life its value. Spread out over the whole length of a life, it restores its majesty to that life. (p.54)

Rather oddly, Camus added on to his passionate essay a 14-page appendix about the work of Franz Kafka.

Hope and the Absurd in the Work of Franz Kafka

The whole art of Kafka consists in forcing the reader to reread.

This is comparable in its bluntness to Walter Benjamin’s thought that the most important thing about Kafka was his failure. But then critics are much given to saying the most important thing about x is y — it is a structural limitation of the genre (and, maybe, of how we think about aesthetics).

Anyway, Camus is approaching Auden’s view that Kafka was the master of the parable which everyone interprets in their own way, from a different angle, from the insight that you get to the end of a Kafka story and are left wondering what it meant. Hence you are forced to reread it.

Camus speaks of Kafka’s symbols as overflowing with meaning, as refusing to deliver a pat meaning.

His summary of the plot of The Trial makes it sound quite a lot like his own novel The Outsider in that he focuses on the last act where Joseph K is brutally murdered and more or less skips the weird atmosphere, the strange encounters, the agonisingly long dialogues and the eerie details (all those attic rooms) which characterise the previous 250 pages.

He is on to something when he talks about the ‘naturalness’ with which Kafka’s characters accept their inexplicable predicaments.

The more extraordinary the character’s adventures are, the more noticeable will be the naturalness of the story: it is in proportion to the divergence we feel between the strangeness of a man’s life and the simplicity with which that man accepts it. It seems that this naturalness is Kafka’s.

Other critics have brought out the way that Kafka’s language is calm and sensible, and lacks almost all metaphor and simile: is flat and factual and precise. Early on Camus begins to impose onto Kafka his own conception of ‘the Absurd’.

He will never show sufficient astonishment at this lack of astonishment. It is by such contradictions that the first signs of the absurd work are recognized.

I’m afraid I recoiled at much of the pretentious rhetoric Camus employs in this essay. In my review of Camus’s other essays in The Myth of Sisyphus collection, I highlight the contrast between the pre-war essays full of lush verbiage and inflated rhetoric and the post-war essays which are immensely more chastened, more overt and accessible. This one definitely belongs to the pre-war, hothouse period.

The Castle is perhaps a theology in action, but it is first of all the individual adventure of a soul in quest of its grace, of a man who asks of this world’s objects their royal secret and of women the signs of the god that sleeps in them. Metamorphosis, in turn, certainly represents the horrible imagery of an ethic of lucidity. But it is also the product of that incalculable amazement man feels at being conscious of the beast he becomes effortlessly.

But Gregor Samsa feels no amazement, none at all, at changing into a giant insect, in fact neither do his family. He never does and his family, after their initial shock, settle down to accepting it s part of everyday life. That’s the whole point.

Camus wants to impose on Kafka a simple set of binary oppositions of which one is his pet notion of The Absurd.

These perpetual oscillations between the natural and the extraordinary, the individual and the universal, the tragic and the everyday, the absurd and the logical, are found throughout his work and give it both its resonance and its meaning. These are the paradoxes that must be enumerated, the contradictions that must be strengthened, in order to understand the absurd work.

Though he is correct to point out the reconciliation in Kafka’s stories of the mundane practical prose of everyday life on the one hand and, on the other, an almost supernatural anxiety.

There is in the human condition (and this is a commonplace of all literatures) a basic absurdity as well as an implacable nobility. The two coincide, as is natural. Both of them are represented, let me repeat, in the ridiculous divorce separating our spiritual excesses and the ephemeral joys of the body… Thus it is that Kafka expresses tragedy by the everyday and the absurd by the logical.

Or – the horrific, the terrifying is all the more effective if it is understated. As with all his early essays Camus veers in and out of making sense.

The human heart has a tiresome tendency to label as fate only what crushes it. But happiness likewise, in its way, is without reason, since it is inevitable.

Contrary to what he said a moment ago about the ‘incalculable amazement’ Gregor feels at turning into an insect, he is closer to the mark when he points out the combination of the extreme and the everyday. Thus this man to whom befalls the most amazing thing that has ever happened to anyone, ever, is a boring travelling salesman whose first thought is concern about what his boss will say when he’s late for work (Gregor having, in a very characteristic Kafka way, not yet acknowledged that he is never going back to work).

Camus tries to persuade us that The Castle complements The Trial in ‘a barely perceptible progression’ which represents ‘a tremendous conquest in the realm of evasion.’

The Trial propounds a problem which The Castle, to a certain degree, solves. The first describes according to a quasi scientific method and without concluding. The second, to a certain degree, explains. The Trial diagnoses, and The Castle imagines a treatment. But the remedy proposed here does not cure. It merely brings the malady back into normal life.

Like a lot of Camus this sounds good but melts in your hands. If it is an interesting idea it deserves to be expanded and explained at greater length. He is right to point out how K. is the more buoyant of the two protagonists, never gives up hope, remains optimistic even though he quite obviously will never make it into The Castle, never realises or accepts that each new chapter ‘is a new frustration’. Camus notes how K. strives endlessly to try and become normal, to become one of the villagers, like everyone else – to be accepted.

Camus refers o God a lot in his discussion of The Castle and talks about Kierkegaard’s notorious leap of faith (Kierkegaard thought man can never know whether or not there is a God; he has to take a leap). He refers to Nietzsche and uses words like ‘existentialism’, but without persuading the reader that he really understands what he’s talking about. As with his other early essays we see the triumph of rhetoric over meaning.

That stranger who asks the Castle to adopt him is at the end of his voyage a little more exiled because this time he is unfaithful to himself, forsaking morality, logic, and intellectual truths in order to try to enter, endowed solely with his mad hope, the desert of divine grace.

He tries to appropriate Kafka for his own concerns, and in particular the special use of the word ‘hope’ which he had developed in The Myth of Sisyphus. In that essays ‘hope’ is the word he gives to the thousand and one ways people turn away from and deny the reality of life, hoping for a God or a political party or a cause or something to transform the absurdity of the world.

The word ‘hope’ used here is not ridiculous. On the contrary, the more tragic the condition described by Kafka, the firmer and more aggressive that hope becomes. The more truly absurd The Trial is, the more moving and illegitimate the impassioned ‘leap’ of The Castle seems. But we find here again in a pure state the paradox of existential thought as it is expressed, for instance, by Kierkegaard: ‘Earthly hope must be killed; only then can one be saved by true hope,’ which can be translated: “One has to have written The Trial to undertake The Castle.’

Clever sounding, but what does it mean? In the essay’s final page he tries to do the same thing as in Sisyphus, which is bring a discussion which began with despair and the Absurd round to a positive conclusion, something along the lines of: Embrace the Absurdity, relish the challenge of the universe’s meaninglessness. Feel the fear, and do it anyway 🙂

It is strange in any case that works of related inspiration like those of Kafka, Kierkegaard, or Chestov -those, in short, of existential novelists and philosophers completely oriented toward the Absurd and its consequences – should in the long run lead to that tremendous cry of hope. They embrace the God that consumes them. It is through humility that hope enters in.

If you say so. But I think Camus is hopelessly [sic] distorting Kafka. There is no hope in Kafka. There is no uplift or rejoicing. By this stage I’ve realised that Camus is imposing his own dynamic onto Kafka (as, according to Auden, everyone does). I realise that he is imposing his own newly minted concept – The Absurd – on Kafka in order to make Kafka perform the same movement from despair to hope, or Revolt and lucid hope, which he has enacted in Sisyphus.

The absurd is recognized, accepted, and man is resigned to it, but from then on we know that it has ceased to be the absurd. Within the limits of the human condition, what greater hope than the hope that allows an escape from that condition? As I see once more, existential thought in this regard (and contrary to current opinion) is steeped in a vast hope.

1. I don’t think this is a very accurate or useful summary of the existentialism of Jean-Paul Sartre or the earlier existentialist philosophers. 2. There is no hope in Kafka, in fact the essay on Kafka by György Lukács which I’ve just read references a characteristically bleak and wry quote from Kafka on precisely this subject:

In conversation with Max Brod, after Brod had asked whether there is ‘hope outside this manifestation of the world that we know’, Kafka is said to have replied: ‘Oh, plenty of hope, an infinite amount of hope – but not for us.’

Now that is the true Kafka note, the bleak humour but also the teasing quality, the feeling that, as Walter Benjamin pointed out, he is privy to some kind of doctrine or knowledge that none of the rest of us understand: that his works are all fragments pointing towards some amazing new doctrine which, however, was never completed and never could be completed.

Comparing Camus’s superficial references to Kierkegaard and ‘the existentialists’ against this quote from Kafka, or against the force of Benjamin’s tremendously powerful essay, makes me realise that Camus is out of his depth.

He simply isn’t mature enough, clever enough or deep enough to grasp the unfathomable abyss which Kafka is plumbing. Thinking he can go from a set of superficial remarks about Kafka’s symbols and the elementary observation that The Castle complements The Trial before hurrying on to declare that, in the end, embracing the Absurd is paradoxically hopeful and uplifting — Camus comes over as an excitable teenager. His concluding remarks are painfully trite.

His work is universal (a really absurd work is not universal) to the extent to which it represents the emotionally moving face of man fleeing humanity, deriving from his contradictions reasons for believing, reasons for hoping from his fecund despairs, and calling life his terrifying apprenticeship in death. It is universal because its inspiration is religious. As in all religions, man is freed of the weight of his own life.

But Kafka emphatically was not freed of the weight of his own life. Camus is thinking about the emotional journey which he himself has just been through in The Myth of Sisyphus and not at all of the actual writer Franz Kafka who was more oppressed from start to finish of his career by the unbearable weight of his own life than any other writer in history. Who couldn’t escape himself or the delusion of trying to escape himself, no matter where he turned, who saw error building upon error and doors closing at the end of every corridor.

You can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid. (Kafka, Letters)

Camus’s distance from Kafka’s books is symbolised by the mistake he makes about the end of The Trial where he has the two men who arrest Joseph K. ‘slit his throat’, whereas, in fact, ‘the hands of one of the men closed round his throat, just as the other drove the knife deep into his heart and turned it twice.’ Camus has maybe misremembered this because it is, at some level, a little more capable of redemption that what Kafka actually wrote, which seems to me to be absolutely pitiless. Into the heart goes the metal knife. And then they twist it. There is no hope or rejoicing and no clever paradox about it. Camus’s final remarks are incoherent and, I think, profoundly irrelevant.

For if nostalgia is the mark of the human, perhaps no one has given such flesh and volume to
these phantoms of regret.

‘Phantoms of regret’ is a wholly inadequate phrase to convey anything to do with Kafka’s work. Camus’ prose is overblown, romantic, melodramatic and immature whereas Kafka’s was precise, understated, and unsparing.

The translation

Hope and the Absurd in the Work of Franz Kafka was translated by Justin O’Brien. Is it O’Brien’s fault or Camus’s that the text is often badly phrased and poorly structured, sometimes becoming incomprehensible?

A symbol is always in general and, however precise its translation, an artist can restore to it only its movement: there is no word-for-word rendering.

There are works in which the event seems natural to the reader. But there are others (rarer, to be sure) in which the character considers natural what happens to him.

In the fullest sense of the word, it can be said that everything in that work is essential. In any case, it propounds the absurd problem altogether.


Credit

‘The Myth of Sisyphus’ by Albert Camus was published in French in 1942. Page references are to the 1955 translation by Justin O’Brien in the 1977 Penguin paperback edition. All quotations are for the purposes of criticism and review.

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The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus (1942)

It sums itself up as a lucid invitation to live and to create, in the very midst of the desert. (p.7)

This volume consists of the long (100-page) essay about suicide, The Myth of Sisyphus, which argues against despair and in favour of life – accompanied by five much shorter essays each exemplifying Camus’s healthy lust for living.

It’s worth remembering how young Camus was when he wrote these texts. Born in November 1913, he was just 23 when he wrote Summer in Algiers, 26 when France fell to the Germans in June 1940, the year he wrote The Stop in Oran, and so on. A young man just beginning a career in writing and still very much entranced by the pleasures of the flesh, sunbathing, swimming, eyeing up beautiful women (a constant theme in his works).

The Myth of Sisyphus

Camus’s preface sums it up. Written in 1940, in the ruins of the defeat of France, the text affirms that even in a Godless universe and a world awash with nihilism, there remain the means to defy and surmount that nihilism. If life is meaningless, the teenager is tempted ask, what on earth is the point of going on living? Why not commit suicide? That is the subject of the essay: it is an essay about suicide – about confronting suicide as the apparently ‘logical’ consequence of realising that we live in an Absurd world.

Camus’s answer is, that we shouldn’t commit suicide because it is more human and more noble and more in tune with a tragic universe – to rebel, to revolt against this fate. To face down the obvious absurdity of human existence and to enjoy the wild beauty of the world while we can.

Revolt gives life its value. Spread out over the whole length of a life, it restores its majesty to that life. (p.54)

Essayist not philosopher

Camus takes quite a long time to finally getting round to saying this. In reading Camus I am influenced by the comment of Jean-Paul Sartre in a 1945 interview where he pointed out that Camus is not an existentialist, and not a philosopher – he is much more a descendant of France’s 17th century moralists. He is a moralist, an essayist (as the essays later in this volume testify) and, unlike the philosopher, the essayist isn’t under any compulsion to produce a coherent sequence of argument. He can be quite content with an entertaining flow of ideas.

Camus certainly plays with philosophical ideas and references a bunch of big philosophical names – early on there’s half a paragraph each about Kierkegaard, Jaspers, Heidegger and Husserl – but this very brevity shows that he picks and chooses quotes to suit him, rather like Hazlitt or any of the impressionist Victorian essayists yanking in flowery quotes here or there to support their flow – and in order to create a rather meandering flow rather than a logical sequence of argument.

Camus himself explains that he is not ‘examining’ the philosophy of a Heidegger or Jaspers – he is ‘borrowing a theme’ (p.40), he is making ‘a sketchy reconnaissance in the origins of the absurd’ (p.20). He is not addressing their philosophical arguments – he is bringing out their common ‘climate’.

Thus Camus is much more about impressionistic psychology than repeatable arguments, a point he makes repeatedly himself:

The method defined here acknowledges the feeling that all true knowledge is impossible. Solely appearances can be enumerated and the climate make itself felt…

If it would be presumptuous to try to deal with their philosophies, it is possible and sufficient in any case to bring out the climate that is common to them…

Certain men, starting from a critique of rationalism, have admitted the absurd climate…

Never, perhaps, have minds been so different. And yet we recognize as identical the spiritual landscapes in which they get under way. Likewise, despite such dissimilar zones of knowledge, the cry that terminates their itinerary rings out in the same way. It is evident that the thinkers we have just recalled have a common climate. To say that that climate is deadly scarcely amounts to playing on words. Living under that stifling sky forces one to get away or to stay…

Climate. Zone. Landscape. Stifling sky. This is not an argument – it is impressionistic prose poetry.

This hell of the present is his [the Absurd Man’s] Kingdom at last. All problems recover their sharp edge. Abstract evidence retreats before the poetry of forms and colors. Spiritual conflicts become embodied and return to the abject and magnificent shelter of man’ s heart. (p.52)

This poetic meandering results in the sometimes obscure nature of the text. Camus has a reputation for being clear and lucid, but this book is often surprisingly turgid and difficult to understand.

If thought discovered in the shimmering mirrors of phenomena eternal relations capable of summing them up and summing themselves up in a single principle, then would be seen an intellectual joy of which the myth of the blessed would be but a ridiculous imitation. (p.23)

I understand what he’s saying: if any of us could discover a really unified theory underlying the world of phenomena how happy we, and mankind, would be. But you can see how this is not anything like philosophy: it is more a description of what philosophy feels like.

When Karl Jaspers, revealing the impossibility of constituting the world as a unity, exclaims: “This limitation leads me to myself, where I can no longer withdraw behind an objective point of view that I am merely representing, where neither I myself nor the existence of others can any longer become an object for me,” he is evoking after many others those waterless deserts where thought reaches its confines. After many others, yes indeed, but how eager they were to get out of them! At that last crossroad where thought hesitates, many men have arrived and even some of the humblest. They then abdicated what was most precious to them, their life. Others, princes of the mind, abdicated likewise, but they initiated the suicide of their thought in its purest revolt. The real effort is to stay there, rather, in so far as that is possible, and to examine closely the odd vegetation of those distant regions. Tenacity and acumen are privileged spectators of this inhuman show in which absurdity, hope, and death carry on their dialogue. The mind can then analyze the figures of that elementary yet subtle dance before illustrating them and reliving them itself. (p.16)

Most of the book is like this. It is not a continuous philosophical argument, it is a series of psychological insights. He uses the Jaspers quote to create a poetic scenario using (aptly for the man of Africa) the image of a desert, and going on to describe how we ‘must’ stay out there, in the waterless desert of absurd knowledge, in order to study its peculiar features. (Camus uses the metaphor of the desert of human thought seven times in the book – but I don’t find human thought a desert; I find it a bounteous and infinite garden.)

When he says the thinking mind is ‘an inhuman show’ in which a dialogue takes place, you realise this is philosophy envisioned as theatre and from this point I became alert to the other metaphors of theatre and actors scattered through the text. Camus was, after all, himself a successful playwright and a section of the essay is titled Drama.

The irrational, the human nostalgia, and the absurd that is born of their encounter – these are the three characters in the drama that must necessarily end with all the logic of which an existence is capable. (p.32)

By thus sweeping over centuries and minds, by miming man as he can be and as he is, the actor has much in common with that other absurd individual, the traveler. (p.75)

It is a vision obscured, rather than clarified, by the author’s habit of imposing histrionic metaphors wherever they’ll fit. Absurdity, hope and death in the final sentence have specific meanings: absurdity is the lucid knowledge of the pointlessness of existence i.e the absence of any God or external values; hope is the word he gives to the thousand and one ways people turn away from and deny the reality of life, hoping for a God or a political party or a cause or something to transform the absurdity of the world; and death is the resort some people take from absurd knowledge, either getting themselves killed for a cause or doing away with themselves.

This tripartite categorisation does make a sort of sense. What makes a lot less sense is to talk about how ‘tenacity and acumen are privileged spectators of this inhuman show’ or ‘the figures of that elementary yet subtle dance’.

There is generally a discernible flow to the argument, but Camus’s writerly fondness for metaphors, similes, paradox, abrupt reversals and the counter-intuitive too often obscures rather than clarifies his meaning. This is what I mean when I say that he is not a lucid writer. He uses the word ‘lucid’ no fewer than 43 times in the text, and the continual chiming of this word may begin to unconsciously make you think he is lucid. But he isn’t. Sometimes his style descends into almost pure poetry, emotive, descriptive, incantatory.

‘Prayer,’ says Alain, ‘is when night descends over thought. ‘But the mind must meet the night,’ reply the mystics and the existentials. Yes, indeed, but not that night that is born under closed eyelids and through the mere will of man – dark, impenetrable night that the mind calls up in order to plunge into it. If it must encounter a night, let it be rather that of despair, which remains lucid -polar night, vigil of the mind, whence will arise perhaps that white and virginal brightness which outlines every object in the light of the intelligence. (p.62)

Here is no argument, just rhetoric, poetry, a particular type of melodramatic and harrowing poetry. Some of it teeters on gibberish.

Perhaps we shall be able to overtake that elusive feeling of absurdity in the different but closely related worlds of intelligence, of the art of living, or of art itself. The climate of absurdity is in the
beginning. The end is the absurd universe and that attitude of mind which lights the world with its true colors to bring out the privileged and implacable visage which that attitude has discerned in it. (p.18)

The end is the absurd universe and that attitude of mind which lights the world with its true colors to bring out the privileged and implacable visage which that attitude has discerned in it.

Every time I reread this sentence, it moves further away from me. Even when I think I understand it, it doesn’t really contribute to any logical argument – it is designed to create a similar climate or attitude in the mind of the reader. It is, thus, a form of attitudinising i.e. creating a mood through poetic means – for example, the way the ‘implacable visage’ is a melodramatic way of describing the Absurd, which is itself a melodramatic concept.

The text is designed to convert you to its histrionic (and theatrical) worldview. It is a pose. Every page is made up of this often hard-to-follow attitudinising.

It is barely possible to speak of the experience of others’ deaths. It is a substitute, an illusion, and it never quite convinces us. That melancholy convention cannot be persuasive. The horror comes in reality from the mathematical aspect of the event. If time frightens us, this is because it works out the problem and the solution comes afterward. All the pretty speeches about the soul will have their contrary convincingly proved, at least for a time. From this inert body on which a slap makes no mark the soul has disappeared. This elementary and definitive aspect of the adventure constitutes the absurd feeling. Under the fatal lighting of that destiny, its uselessness becomes evident. (p.21)

‘Under the fatal lighting of that destiny…’

The cumulative effect is to make you stop trying to elucidate what too often turn out to be spurious meanings.

Men who live on hope do not thrive in this universe where kindness yields to generosity, affection to virile silence, and communion to solitary courage. (p.68)

Even before I begin to make the effort to decode what he’s saying, I know in advance it will not be worth the effort. Trying to understand a book about quantum physics or about evolutionary cladistics or memorising the different Chinese dynasties – that’s the kind of thing that’s worth making an effort for, because the knowledge is real and will last. But trying to decide whether this is a universe where ‘kindness yields to generosity, affection to virile silence, and communion to solitary courage’ strikes me as being a waste of time.

In the rebel’s universe, death exalts injustice. It is the supreme abuse. (p.85)

What? Here he is describing music.

That game the mind plays with itself according to set and measured laws takes place in the sonorous compass that belongs to us and beyond which the vibrations nevertheless meet in an inhuman universe. (p.91)

An impressive display of rhetorical fireworks. But useful? Applicable? Enlightening? Memorable?

Quotable quotes

All this, the emphasis on rhetoric over logic, helps explain why it is much easier to quote Camus’s many catchy formulations in isolation than it is to remember any kind of reasoned argument.

An act like this [suicide] is prepared within the silence of the heart, as is a great work of art. (p.12)

Beginning to think is beginning to be undermined. (p.12)

Looked at from one point of view, the text is a kind of impenetrably turgid grey sea from which emerge occasional shiny wave crests, glinting in the sunlight.

In a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. (p.13)

It is always easy to be logical. It is almost impossible to be logical to the bitter end. (p.16)

At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman. (p.20)

A man is more a man through the things he keeps to himself than through those he says. (p.80)

Seen this way, Camus certainly does fit Sartre’s description of a traditional moralist, whose text is just the glue which joins together the periodic sententiae or moral statements about life, these jewels being meant to be taken away and meditated on.

To an absurd mind reason is useless and there is nothing beyond reason. (p.38)

Great t-shirt material.

The Absurd

A bit like Sartre circling round and round his central concept of ‘freedom’, Camus circles round and round his central concept of the Absurd. The word occurs 316 times in the text, again and again on every page.

Put simply, the absurd is the mismatch between man’s deep need for a meaning/purpose/rational order in the world, and the world’s all-too-obvious lack of any meaning/purpose or order – the world’s complete indifference to human wishes. Again and again Camus defines and redefines and approaches and reapproaches and formulates and poeticises the same fundamental idea.

  • At any streetcorner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face. (p.17)
  • That denseness and strangeness of the world is the absurd. (p.20)
  • The revolt of the flesh is the absurd. (p.20)
  • This discomfort in the face of man’ s own inhumanity, this incalculable tumble before the image of what we are, this ‘nausea’, as a writer of today calls it, is also the absurd. Likewise the stranger who at certain seconds comes to meet us in a mirror, the familiar and yet alarming brother we encounter in our own photographs is also the absurd. (p.21)
  • What is absurd is the confrontation of the irrational and the wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart. (p.27)
  • The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world. (p.32)
  • The absurd is essentially a divorce. It lies in neither of the elements compared; it is born of their confrontation. (p.33)
  • The absurd is not in man nor in the world, but in their presence together. (p.34)
  • The absurd is lucid reason noting its limits. (p.49)
  • [The absurd is] that divorce between the mind that desires and the world that disappoints, my nostalgia for unity, this fragmented universe and the contradiction that binds them together. (p.50)
  • [The absurd is] my appetite for the absolute and for unity and the impossibility of reducing this world to a rational and reasonable principle (p.51)

The basic idea is disarmingly simple. It is the way he repeats it with infinite variations, under the lights of numerous metaphors and similes, included in sentences which evoke emotional, intellectual and existential extremity, suffering, endurance, and so on, which make it more a poetics of living than philosophy.

The absurd mind cannot so much expect ethical rules at the end of its reasoning as, rather, illustrations and the breath of human lives. (p.65)

I’m not sure how you’d measure this but it seemed to me that, as the book progresses, the references to absurdity become steadily vaguer and more poetical and meaningless.

  • Being deprived of hope is not despairing. The flames of earth are surely worth celestial perfumes. (p.85)
  • All existence for a man turned away from the eternal is but a vast mime under the mask of the absurd. (p.87)
  • For the absurd man it is not a matter of explaining and solving, but of experiencing and describing. (p.87)
  • In the time of the absurd reasoning, creation follows indifference and discovery. (p.88)
  • The absurd work illustrates thought’s renouncing of its prestige and its resignation to being no more than the intelligence that works up appearances and covers with images what has no reason. (p.90)
  • The most destitute men often end up by accepting illusion. That approval prompted by the need for peace inwardly parallels the existential consent. There are thus gods of light and idols of mud. But it is essential to find the middle path leading to the faces of man. (p.94)

This impressionistic approach, this lack of a coherent logic, this mosaic of quotes from Great Thinkers or abstruse analyses of Great Writers, grandiose examinations of the Stage or the mentality of The Conqueror, interspersed with descriptions of everyday life – how, for example, a sense of the futility of life hits you as you look in the mirror to shave – this may account for Camus’s wider popularity than Sartre’s. His very patchiness, the way he’s less logical and consistent, more given to sudden flashes of insight which can be put on a t-shirt.

Thus even if a lot of Sisyphus is turgid and obscure, with much of it showing off or perverse paradox-making for its own sake, there are many other bits which suddenly leap out with great clarity and make you think ‘Yes’.

Sisyphus

It takes Camus a long time to get to the punchline which is that we must face the absurdity of the world and overcome it. We must be like Sisyphus who, in the Greek myth is being punished in hell by being made to roll a rock to the top of the mountain only for it to be dashed to the bottom again. Over and again.

That is how we must live. But we must do it with a smiling heart, happy in the knowledge that we do it because we will it. We want to live.

Teenage heroism

And it is not irrelevant to the book’s popularity, or the popularity of watered-down ‘existentialism’ that it helped promote, that throughout the book the person who holds this notion of the absurd, who doesn’t give in to false consolations or to the siren call of suicide, who faces the meaningless world without flinching – is considered a hero.

It is a heroic pose to be one man undaunted against an uncaring universe, walking a ‘difficult path’.

There is a profoundly adolescent appeal not only in the fascination with suicide but in the rather laughable descriptions of the bold, brave heroism required to outface the absurd, ‘fearlessly’ and stoically living with his bleak knowledge. Refusing consolation and false comfort, committing oneself to live under ‘this stifling sky’ in these ‘waterless deserts’, living a life of ‘virile silence’ and ‘solitary courage’. Sounds like a film noir hero, sounds like Alan Ladd in This Gun for Hire. Down these mean streets the ‘absurd man’ must go because, after all –

  • Sisyphus is the absurd hero

The essay is divided into three parts, the second of which is titled The Absurd Man. It’s heroic posturing is quite funny if read through the eyes of Tony Hancock or Sid James.

  • Not to believe in the profound meaning of things belongs to the absurd man. (p.69)
  • There always comes a time when one must choose between contemplation and action. This is called becoming a man. (p.81)
  • There is thus a metaphysical honour in enduring the world’s absurdity. (p.86)

Around page 70, while taking a break on the internet, I stumbled over several comic strips devoted to taking the mickey out of Camus and Sartre. From that point onwards found it hard to keep a straight face while reading it. This is all so old, so 80-years-old, so much another time. It was passé in the 1960s, now it is ancient history. Old enough to have been satirised and parodied for generations.

Existential Comics – Camus

There is also something specifically comical in the way a writer decides, at the summary of his masterwork about the meaning of life in a godless universe and so on, that the highest possible calling for the Absurd Man is to be… a writer! The section titled Absurd Creation is not much about music or art, but mostly about other writers. It is rather bathetic that a writer decides,after much cogitation, that being a writer is the pinnacle of the kind of lucid courage required to face The Absurd!

Of all the schools of patience and lucidity, creation is the most effective. It is also the staggering evidence of man’s sole dignity: the dogged revolt against his condition, perseverance in an effort considered sterile. It calls for a daily effort, self-mastery, a precise estimate of the limits of truth, measure, and strength. (p.104)

So – as the Existentialist Comic puts it – these bookish guys sitting around in cafés and apartments writing novels, plays and essays all agree that the true Resistance to the Nazis and the true heroes of their time must, logically, according to their ‘lucid’ and ‘precise’ philosophy — be bookish guys sitting around in cafés and apartments writing novels, plays and essays.

Guys just like them, who can therefore congratulate each other on their ‘self-mastery’, their ‘revolt’, their  dignity and their strength. How to be a Hemingway hero without even stubbing out your Gauloise!

But perhaps the great work of art has less importance in itself than in the ordeal it demands of a man and the opportunity it provides him of overcoming his phantoms and approaching a little closer to his
naked reality. (p.104)

‘Ordeal’. ‘Overcoming his phantoms.’ Outfacing ‘naked reality’. Braving the deserts of ‘lucid thought’. Mingling ‘intelligence and passion’. Summoning ‘diligence, doggedness and lucidity’ (p.106). Facing up to this ‘difficult wisdom’ (p.106). ‘Unceasing struggle’.

Wow. Never before or since has sitting at a typewriter smoking a fag been so heroic!

Brief discussion

When I was an over-intellectual 17 year-old these thoughts and Camus’ attitude helped to reassure me and calm me down from my own nihilistic panic. My family didn’t understand me, my friendships were superficial, I had no job, no wife, no children and little experience of the real world of work and effort. Looking back I can see why I was subject to panic attacks.

But now I’m a fifty-year-old family man with deep commitments, children to care for, bills to be paid and meals to be cooked – I find it impossible to recapture the mood of teenage hysteria which permeates all Camus’s books.

I go to the gym and watch, on the bank of TV screens, pop videos showing half-naked young men and women partying in the city or frisking on beaches, under waterfalls, in tropical islands around the world. My kids jet off to exotic destinations I could only dream of back in the 1970s. They text, Instagram and Facebook with friends in America, Spain, the Middle East, even China. The world just no longer is the limited world of one-town boredom and dull routine that Camus describes. Rather than a crushed, defeated, broken, humiliated culture as was the Nazi world of 1940 or the post-war ruins of the 1940s – my kids live in a vibrant, shiny world alive with music, movies, clothes, festivals, travel round the world and futuristic technology: they think life is great.

Looking back, Camus’s writings are really a kind of prose poetry which repeats pretty much the same idea from a thousand angles, expressed in countless metaphors and images, laced with wit and paradox in the typical French tradition, but essentially static.

A stranger to myself and to the world, armed solely with a thought that negates itself as soon as it asserts, what is this condition in which I can have peace only by refusing to know and to live, in which the appetite for conquest bumps into walls that defy its assaults? To will is to stir up paradoxes. Everything is ordered in such a way as to bring into being that poisoned peace produced by thoughtlessness, lack of heart, or fatal renunciations. (p.25)

The ‘appetite for conquest’, the ‘poisoned peace’, ‘fatal renunciations’?

You either enjoy this kind of poetry or you don’t. I can feel my way into it as I feel my way into the harsh world of the Icelandic sagas or the sweet humour of Chaucer’s poetry or the gargoyle world of early Dickens or the bumptious jingoism of Kipling. Those writers, also, have their truths and their insights, create internally consistent imaginative universes, generate quotable quotes which I may or may not apply to myself or others or the world in general.

But whereas I carry Chaucer and Kipling out into the world, remembering their best lines and beauty to enrich and colour my life, when I closed The Myth of Sisyphus I could remember almost nothing of it. — Some people find life absurd and it drives a tiny minority to suicide but it’s best, on balance, to face up to the meaninglessness of a godless universe and to create your own values and purpose within it.

The absurd man catches sight of a burning and frigid, transparent and limited universe in which nothing is possible but everything is given, and beyond which all is collapse and nothingness. He can then decide to accept such a universe and draw from it his strength, his refusal to hope, and the unyielding evidence of a life without consolation.

Being aware of one’s life, one’s revolt, one’s freedom, and to the maximum, is living, and to the maximum. (p.61)

The present and the succession of presents before a constantly conscious soul is the ideal of the absurd man. (p.62)

OK. I get it. Most people nowadays do that anyway, and don’t need a laboriously over-written, obscure and attitudinising text to help them.

Why is absurdity negative?

My son’s just got an ‘A’ in his Philosophy A-level. He didn’t study Camus (who is, after all, not a philosopher) though he did spend a lot of time on Martin Heidegger, the grand-daddy of 20th century existentialists.

I explained Camus’s notion of the Absurd to him i.e. the mismatch between the human wish (it’s always translated as nostalgia; maybe it means ‘longing’ as well) for order and meaning in the world and the lack of any such order – and the way it is always presented by Camus as a challenge, a trial, an ordeal, a desert under a hostile sky that only the strongest can face up to and confront, and my son said – ‘Why?’

He understood the idea of the mismatch, he got the absurdity of looking for meaning in a ‘godless universe’. OK. But… why does it have to be negative? Why does this mismatch have to have a value? Why can’t it just be… a mismatch, and up to each of us to make of it what we will, to give it a value? Where does all the horror and anguish come from? The absurd can be funny. In fact all of us know that absurdity often is funny in everyday life. The horror and the anguish which Camus describes aren’t logically entailed in the concept of a mismatch. They are a value imposed on the situation.

My son suggests that the entire climate, to use Camus’s word, of Sartrean existentialism and Camusian Absurdity, the rhetoric of anguish and despair and futility (in Sartre) and being an alien, an outsider in arid deserts under a stricken sky (in Camus) reflects the grim situation of 1930s and 40s France – the political chaos of the 1930s, the crushing humiliation of defeat by the Nazis in 1940, and the even worse humiliation of liberation by the hated Anglo-Saxons in 1944.

Very few people at the time followed the ‘logic’ of the existentialists’ arguments (where a ‘logic’ could be discerned) but everyone grasped the way their negativity crystallised into words and ideas the vast, continent-wide, wartime destruction and the collapse of all established social values, the loss of so many friends and family, hecatombs of corpses, which really did spread an atmosphere of anguish and despair through an entire generation.

There was no existentialism in Britain because we never underwent this national humiliation and collapse of values.

The last few pages of the book describe the Greek myth of Sisyphus and the text gives way to an orgy of rhetoric and poetic prose. Sisyphus is condemned in Hades to roll his rock up a hill and then watch it be tumbled back to the bottom, and forced to go back down and start rolling it up again – for all eternity. And yet Camus sees him as a positive figure, the epitome of the Absurd Man who sees the futility of life but sets himself to live it, regardless. All this is expressed with rhetoric not reason.

All Sisyphus’ silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is his thing. Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his effort will henceforth be unceasing. (p.110)

In its way, and taking into account its very different context, this stirring rhetoric is as full of moral uplift as a speech by Churchill.


Credit

The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus was published in France in 1942. This translation by Justin O’Brien was published by Hamish Hamilton in 1955, and as a Penguin paperback in 1975. All quotes & references are to the Penguin paperback edition (which I bought in 1977 for 75p).

Related links

Reviews of other Camus books

Reviews of other Camus books

Reviews of books by Jean-Paul Sartre

The Battle of France

Algerian war of independence

The Outsider by Albert Camus (1942)

And just then it crossed my mind that one might fire, or not fire – and it would come to absolutely the same thing
(The Outsider, page 62)

Part one

Mersault is a young French man, born and bred in Algeria, living and working in the capital Algiers. He is directionless, aimless, never really knows what to say to people, goes along with whatever people suggest. His mother’s been living in a home for over a year and the story opens as Mersault receives news of her death. He doesn’t know which day she actually died on, the telegram could have been delayed a day or two. Doesn’t know and doesn’t really care. He never used to visit her. It would have been too much bother.

Mersault catches a bus out to the village of Marengo and walks to the home to attend a night-long vigil and then the funeral, all of which he finds a chore. When they ask him if he wants a last look at his mother before they put the coffin lid on he says no. They look at him. He realises it was a mistake. The home and church officials talk to him but he hesitates, says whatever comes into his mind and generally makes a bad impression. When asked, he guiltily realises that he doesn’t know how old she was. He looks out the window and thinks what a nice walk he could have had, if only his mother hadn’t gone and died.

Back in Algeria his boss commiserates with him but Mersault, typically, doesn’t know what to say, exactly. Once or twice he lets slip his real feelings which is that he doesn’t feel anything but this goes down badly so he errs on the side of keeping his mouth shut. We meet his neighbours in his shabby tenement block (he can hear his neighbours through the walls), notably the old guy, Salamano, who walks his mangy mutt every day, and spends all his energy shouting and abusing it, until one day it runs off never to return.

Mersault observes the street life of his quarter of Algiers, the hot sun climbing the sky, the shop shutters opening, a bourgeois family going to church. Later, in the evenings, he observes the lads, the local ‘bloods’, coming back from the cinema, eyeing a gaggle of girls on the corner. All very laid back and evocative.

Mersault himself has picked up a girlfriend he meets casually at the beach, Marie Cardona who used to be a typist at his office. There are long sensual descriptions of swimming at the public pool or at a secluded bay. On the beach, in the cinema he touches her breast. They kiss. They go back to his flat and make love. Sunday follows Sunday in this lazy sensual way. When she asks him whether he loves her, he shrugs: probably not. She asks if he wants to get married. OK. Why not? He has no idea how much his indifference hurts her. Doesn’t care, either.

Also in his block is a loud young man, Raymond Sintès, who the neighbours often hear beating up his Arab girlfriend. Local rumour has it he’s a pimp, though he denies it. Mersault, drifting as usual, finds himself getting to know Raymond. He listens passively to Raymond’s harrowing description of how he routinely beats up his girl. In fact he’s recently been in a fight with the girl’s Arab brother. Mersault nods vague approval.

This is enough for rough Raymond to think Mersault is his friend and he asks Mersault to write a letter to the girlfriend, asking her to come to Raymond’s flat so they can make up. Them he explains, he’ll get her sexually aroused, begin to make love to her – and spit in her face.

Mersault can’t see any reason not to. A few days later, after the unfortunate girl does come back to Raymond’s flat, he beats her up, the cops are called, Mersault even allows himself to accompany Raymond to the police station to testify that it was the girlfriend’s fault, that Raymond caught her cheating on him. He doesn’t know whether this is true, it’s just Raymond asked him to help out and, you know, why not.

Thinking Mersault is now his pal, Raymond invites Mersault and Marie out to the house of a friend of his, Masson, on the coast. As they leave the apartment building to head for the bus station, Raymond points out a couple of Arabs watching from across the street: it’s the brother of the woman he beat up, and a mate.

Out at Masson’s place, they swim. They cook. They drink and chat. Raymond flirts with Marie who is uncomfortable but Mersault doesn’t really care. They have a massive lunch, fried fish then steak and chips with lots of wine, till they’re all pretty tipsy.

The menfolk decide to go for a stroll. They notice they’re being followed by the brother and his mate. Suddenly there’s a confrontation. Masson beats up the mate while Raymond takes on the brother. The latter pulls a knife and cuts Raymond badly on the arm and lip but the Europeans manage to fight them off. Masson and Mersault help Raymond back to the beach cottage and Masson recommends a doctor who always spends his Sundays out there, so he takes Raymond off to get patched up. A hour later he reappears, stitched up and in a bad mood. He insists he wants to go for another walk, the others discourage him, he gets cross and sets off with Mersault following.

Inevitably they come across the Arabs, again, tending their wounds by a stream across the beach. Raymond is now packing a gun, a revolver. He asks Mersault whether he should plug the Arabs and Mersault finds himself saying the first thing which comes into his head which is – Not unless they strike first. ‘Here, let me take the gun,’ Mersault says, and Raymond passes it over. All four actors stare at each other, turned to stone under the pitiless sun.

Then the Arabs have gone, ‘like lizards’ disappearing into the rocks. The spell is broken and Raymond and Mersault return to the cottage, Raymond swaggering and happy. As they climb the steps Mersault decides, on a whim to go back along the beach. The sun is pressing on his skull. He’s vaguely thinking of the shade under the rock and the tinkling stream. But the Arab is there, the brother, lounging by the little stream. They look at each other. Mersault walks closer. The Arab pulls a knife and there is a still moment while he holds it up, glinting in the fierce sunlight. Mersault fires the gun. Pauses. Then fires four more shots.

Part two

He’s in prison, charged with murder. Mersault is held on remand for an interminable 11 months during which he carries on feeling nothing whatsoever, either about his plight or his responsibility, while he is interrogated by the magistrate, discusses the case with his lawyer, goes to trial and slowly rumbles along the conveyor belt of the Law.

The magistrate reveals that he is a devout Catholic and claims that if only Mersault will acknowledge God and throw himself on the mercy of the Lord etc will he experience forgiveness and be relieved of his guilt. But Mersault feels no guilt. He doesn’t know what the magistrate’s on about. Instead of regret and guilt Mersault appals the magistrate by saying he feels, on reflection, ‘a kind of vexation’ (p.74). From then on the magistrate humorously refers to Mersault as ‘Mr Antichrist’.

Killing a man has made no difference at all to Mersault. Marie comes to visit him but he can’t get very worked up. She’s in floods of tears, and says they’ll fight for his freedom and when he gets out they’ll get married. Oh. Alright, he shrugs, in his usual listless way.

When the trial finally comes round Mersault discovers that everything he did and said in since his mother’s death (and which we saw being carefully annotated in part one of the book) has been collected up and is now being thrown in his face and used against him. His lack of emotion at his mother’s funeral is reported as ‘great callousness’ (p.68). His listless replies to the people at the Home or at the funeral or to his boss incriminate him. Marie is made to admit that they started their liaison the day after the funeral, swimming on the beach and going to a comic movie. In the hands of the prosecution all this goes to demonstrate that Mersault is:

an inhuman monster wholly without moral sense. (p.97)

His lack of concern for his girlfriend is brought up. Even the way he fired once and then paused before firing a further four times. We know this is all the result of Mersault’s profoundly hollow lack of emotion, of affect or personality – but to the prosecuting lawyer it can all be built up into the image of a cold calculating killer.

The text reports the apparatus of the court and the palaver with the barristers for the prosecution and defence but Mersault, typically, zones in and out of their arguments and the development of the trial.

Finally, he is found guilty of murder and sentenced to execution by a judge who finds him repellent, cold murderer.

In the last few pages there’s a set piece scene between Mersault and a priest who comes to try and persuade him to repent and have faith in God. This strikes me as unimaginative, a cliché of this kind of meaning-of-life novel stretching back to the vast arid wastes of Dostoyevsky’s obsession with religion. The priests’ persistence in trying to get Mersault repent finally drives him to his only display of emotion in the book, when he grabs the priest’s collar, shaking him, and shouting what right has he got to impose his lifeless creed on Mersault? Mersault’s destiny is what it is, when he’s dead that’ll be it, done, over.

Guards come and release the priest. Mersault collapses on his bed exhausted and drifts into sleep. When he awakes it is the middle of the night and he can see the stars shining out of a pitch black sky. He knows in the morning he will die. But suddenly he feels cleansed and free.

For the first time, the first time, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. (p.120)

He realises that he is happy.

Commentary

Contemporary critics went mad for this book. It caught the mood of the times and made Camus a literary phenomenon.

  • It chimes with the tough guy films noirs coming out of America at the time (This Gun For Hire, Journey into Fear, The Glass Key), with their brutal but highly stylish violence. I visualised the scene where Marie visits Mersault in prison and has to struggle to make herself heard among the other prisoner-visitor conversations, in black and white, out of a James Cagney movie.
  • It chimes with something fatal about the Second World War, about the Nazi occupation of France and the undermining of French Enlightenment values, the end – possibly – of European civilisation.
  • It seems to say something about our post-Christian age and confirm Dostoyevsky’s worst fears – if there is no God, everything is permitted; Mersault kills with no guilt whatsoever.
  • For others Mersault is a symbol of the mindless superiority complex of European colonialism – a hollow shell himself, he doesn’t give a damn about the Arab woman getting beaten up or about murdering the Other, the Arab, the colonised. None of the Arabs are given names or even speak.
  • Or Mersault is a type of the rootless young European male, no values, no role models, living a casual empty life, a type of the tough or hoodlum threatening society, a precursor to the rebellious rockers of the 1950s.
  • To the Communists Mersault is the type of the rootless petit bourgeois, obsessed with his own petty affairs, whose life is meaningless and aimless – he needs to find solidarity with the working classes and join himself to the Forward March of History by joining the Communist Party.
  • To yet others, Mersault is like the protagonists of Kafka’s novels, an everyman figure who is caught up in a terrifying web of misunderstandings, whose life takes a turn for the worse through no fault of his own.
  • The long trial scene is enough to put anyone off getting involved in the Law, especially criminal law where barristers are paid to twist the truth out of all recognition in order to get a result
  • To the philosophically-minded, Mersault is an epitome of Camus’s own philosophy of ‘the Absurd’ as outlined in The Myth of Sisyphus: the lumbering mechanism of the rational, common sense Law can’t hope to capture the intensity, the weirdness, the irrationality of human nature.
  • To feminists The Outsider is a typical patriarchal story of men fighting over the body of a woman who isn’t even named – all three women in the story – his mother, Marie, the unnamed Arab woman – are victims of male indifference or violence.
  • To literary types Mersault’s central defining act is like the acte gratuit idea of André Gide – the notion that life is empty and meaningless and that we must rebel against its emptiness with one great decisive irrevocable act, which has no meaning in itself but represents our protest against meaningless existence.
  • To other commentators Mersault is a representative of ‘Mediterranean Man’, a kind of throwback to pagan times, untroubled by Christian conscience or guilt, he lives in a permanent present of the senses, a kind of post-Christian hero.
  • To yet others the protagonist of the story isn’t the man Mersault at all, it is the pitiless landscape of Algeria with its blistering heat and inhuman craggy landscape. Arguably, the ‘scorching hot’ sun is as much a character in the book as any human.

The light was almost vertical and the glare from the water seared one’s eyes. (0.58)

The sand was as hot as fire and i could have sworn it was glowing red. (p.59)

It was like a furnace outside, with the sunlight splintering into flakes of fire on the sand and sea. (p.60)

  • Rereading it carefully, it struck me that Mersault is an uneducated, working class man living in a pretty rough milieu. Surprisingly, he admits that he was once a student but, more true to form, says that when he was forced to give up his studies he realised ‘all that’ i.e. studying, was pretty futile anyway (p.48). He gets on just fine with the violent bullying abuser Raymond, Marie is a callow typist, his mate Emmanuel often doesn’t understand what’s going on at the cinema. Noscitur a socio. I think Mersault is rougher, chavvier, than is often realised. This is certainly the impression the prosecution lawyer seeks to give, that Mersault is part of a squalid low-life vendetta.
  • The final chapter, with its protagonist crying out against the ‘brutal certitude’ of his execution could easily be taken for a tract against the death penalty which was only abolished, in France, in 1981.
  • There’s even a theory that Mersault is on the autistic spectrum, possibly with Asperger’s Syndrome: incapable of making out other people, lacking the ability to know what is required in pretty much every social situation he finds himself in. Which also explains why he sees things in such uncomfortable detail – the blobby red ears of an old man, the sopping wet hand towel at work – while not having a clue what to say to people. An indication of this comes late on when we learn that he hasn’t looked once at Marie who has come day after day to support him through the trial. And when he does, for the once and only time, look at her and she smiles wanly and gives him a little wave – his face doesn’t flicker. He neither waves nor smiles back. Heart of stone.

I could go on.

What strikes me rereading The Outsider today is that the descriptions of lazy swimming in the sun are not quite as good as I remembered. I prefer Ernest Hemingway’s descriptions of swimming off the Riviera in The Sun Also Rises. I liked the scene where he watches from his balcony a gang of young men sauntering along the boulevard, backchatting with young women – I feel I’ve seen that scene hundreds of times.

I’ve just read Jean-Paul Sartre’s Roads To Freedom trilogy. What bursts from Sartre’s texts is their enormous super-abundance of hyper-sensitive self-awareness, a prolific stream of profuse and varied perceptions, characters bursting with ideas about ‘existence’ and ‘freedom’, sensations turning into ideas, ideas turning into feelings, freedom and anguish mingled with night and the cold snow, a bombardment of ideas and concepts.

Camus’s novel, by contrast, feels empty. The hollow shell which is the central character goes about his life, barely involved in it, certainly not thinking anything, finding himself in situations with other people rather than creating them, and always taking the easy way, out, saying whatever first comes to mind. He is not even stupid, he’s just not there.

  • I just nodded to cut things short. I wasn’t in the mood for talking.
  • I had nothing to say and the silence lasted quite a while.
  • After that I don’t remember much. Somehow the night went by.
  • I nodded… I made no comment… I had no objection… I just listened without speaking… I didn’t say anything… I kept silence… I didn’t care one way or the other…
  • I told him I hadn’t expected anything whatsoever… I told him I had no objection…
  • really I didn’t care one way or the other…
  • I found him rather boring but I had nothing to do…
  • I said the first thing that came into my head…
  • I said the first thing that crossed my mind…
  • I found that my mind had gone blurred: everything was dissolving into a greyish, watery haze…
  • I had stopped thinking altogether…

As he says, with deliberate downbeat irony, ‘Imagination has never been one of my strong points’ (p.111).

It is a portrait of vacancy. And that’s why so many different critics and interest groups were able to fill the novel up with their own interpretations. It is an empty vessel, a mirror.

Algeria

The Algerian War of Independence broke out in 1954 but there had been violent incidents of rebellion and harsh repression immediately following the end of the Second World War. Knowledge of this later history sheds a harsh historical light back on Camus’s novels set in Algeria. His people, the pieds noirs, the French settlers in Algeria, would eventually be forced to flee into exile back in France, all one million of them.

At the time of its publication the book was most widely read as an epitome of ‘existential man’, confronting the meaninglessness of existence on a rocky coastline stripped of all colour and help. Seventy years later it is hard not to read it, at least in part, as a record of the hollow, heedless, empty-headed arrogance of French colonial culture… whose days were numbered.


Credit

L’Étranger by Albert Camus was published in France in 1942. This translation by Stuart Gilbert was published by Hamish Hamilton in 1946, and as a Penguin paperback in 1961. Quotes and references are to the Penguin paperback edition (which I bought in 1977 for 60p). All quotations are for the purposes of criticism and review.

Related reviews

  • Camus reviews
  • Sartre reviews

The High Window by Raymond Chandler (1942)

A lot of smart conversation, full of worldliness and sly wit.
(The High Window, Chapter 7)

Being a hard-boiled tough guy in these books seems to involve an awful lot of posing, a lot of acting the part, a lot of knowing that you’re acting the part, and a lot of judging how other people are acting their parts. Chandler’s texts are very stagey. All the characters point out to all the other characters how they’re putting on an act. Or watch each other closely to try to assess just how much of an act they’re putting on.

It’s this artful self-consciousness combined with stylish one-liners which continually makes me think of the plays of Oscar Wilde. And, of course, they’re both funny 🙂

Tough guys

‘I wouldn’t carry that tough-guy manner too far, if I were you, Mr Marlowe.’ (Ch. 2: Miss Davies to Marlowe)

‘If you will pardon a homely phrase, your tough guy act stinks.’ (Ch. 3: Murdock to Marlowe)

‘In my business,’ he said, ‘tough guys come a dime a dozen. And would-be tough guys come a nickel a gross. Just mind your business and I’ll mind my business and we won’t have any trouble.’ (Ch. 17: Morny to Marlowe)

‘What I like about this place is everything runs so true to type,’ I said. ‘The cop on the gate, the shine on the door, the cigarette and check girls, the fat greasy sensual Jew with the tall stately bored showgirl, the well-dressed, drunk and horribly rude director cursing the barman, the silent guy with the gun, the night-club owner with the soft grey hair and the B-picture mannerisms, and now you – the tall dark torcher with the negligent sneer, the husky voice, the hard-boiled vocabulary.’ (Ch. 19: Marlowe to Linda Conquest)

Influence of the movies

In particular, Marlowe complains that various hoods and would-be tough guys he meets have copied their patter and manner from the movies. Since the first talkie is generally taken to be The Jazz Singer in 1927, that’s barely 12 years of talkies by the time The Big Sleep (1939) was published, and since we know the novels are based on short stories published as early as 1933, that’s less than a decade in which actors like James Cagney and George Raft popularised a look and walk and talk which Marlowe complains lowlife crims are consciously copying.

‘All those boys have been to picture shows and know how night-club bosses are supposed to act.’ (Ch. 4)

The blonde sobbed in a rather theatrical manner and showed me an open mouth twisted with misery and ham- acting. (Ch. 9)

‘Oh Alex – darling – don’t say such awful things.’
‘Early Lilian Gish,’ Morny said. ‘Very early Lillian Gish.’ (Lillian Gish being a very early movie star.)

Morny lifted his cigarette away from his lips and narrowed his eyes to look at the tip. Every motion, every gesture, right out of the catalogue. (Ch. 18)

A fallen world

Detective novels and stories are generally written by conservatives. They all-too-easily fall into lamenting the decline and fall of civilisation and the collapse of old-fashioned standards. The tough guy, whose job it is to navigate the lower reaches of society’s pond life, is continually brought up against the so-called collapse in standards of behaviour and is given plenty of opportunity to plaint.

Chandler adds a peculiar wrinkle to this as he had, of course, been brought up in England and attended a notable English public school, Dulwich College, in the pre-Great War years. He is, amazingly, a product of English Edwardian society which we tend to associate with a E.M. Fosterish politeness and gentility. No wonder the rough-house politics, business and underworld of post-War California came as a bitter shock.

The expression of the face lacked something. Once the something might have been called breeding, but these days I don’t know what to call it. (Ch. 2)

There are recurring laments that, in these times, when politicians, cops and judges are corrupt, a man can only do the best he can do to carve out a little justice in an unjust world. Laments that would have found an echo with the author of Beowulf, with Shakespeare, with Hogarth, with Juvenal, with the later Dickens, with, er, lots of writers.

The white moonlight was cold and clear, like the justice we dream of but don’t find. (Ch. 32)

This is not a sophisticated worldview. For all pulp’s hard-boiled veneer, it is, in its deep attitudes, curiously simple-minded.

‘A shop-soiled Sir Galahad’

Nonetheless, what makes the novels comedies no matter how many people get killed (and it’s generally only ever 4 or 5 not very nice people) and how many crooks get away, is that Marlowe’s innate chivalry, honour, his sense of justice and morality, are never seriously called into question. Possibly the High Window is the novel which shows this most clearly in that the strongest plot thread is Marlowe’s chivalric rescue of a damsel in distress, the psychologically damaged and exploited young secretary Merle Davis, an act of chivalry which leads his friend the doctor to jokingly call him ‘a shop-soiled Sir Galahad’ (Ch. 28).

As I mentioned in a previous post, the most Victorian of poets, Tennyson, was brought to mind by some of Chandler’s lush phraseology. And now, again, is brought to mind for his famous or infamous lines about Sir Galahad:

My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.

It somehow makes sense that, just as the master of such effortlessly lyrical prose made huge efforts to rein it in and keep it simple, so, on the level of characterisation, an author who goes on and on and on about how hard-boiled, tough and cynical his hero is, in fact continually reveals him to be sentimental, principled and old-fashioned. This is the thrust, after all, of Chandler’s most famous piece of critical writing, the short essay about contemporary crime fiction, The Simple Art of Murder:

But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. I do not care much about his private life; he is neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I think he might seduce a duchess and I am quite sure he would not spoil a virgin; if he is a man of honor in one thing, he is that in all things. He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness. The story is his adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure.

It is a notion of chivalry as pure as anything in Malory or Spenser or Tennyson.

Contemporary slang

As a side note, Chandler picks up on what were apparently modish and fashionable phrases, phrases we take for granted but which were newer in 1942, and which he is obviously satirising:

The blonde coughed. ‘Sit down and rest your sex appeal.’ (Ch. 5)

The online dictionary dates the origin of the phrase ‘sex appeal’ to the mid-1920s and associates it with post-War style of advertising i.e. it is still relatively new in the 1940s and, like lots of advertising slogans, mainly used by its target audience as material for knowing jokes.

‘She’s a tall, handsome blonde. Very – very appealing.’
‘You mean sexy?’
‘Well – ‘ she blushed furiously, ‘in a nice well-bred sort of way, if you know what I mean.’ (Ch. 2)

Was saying ‘sexy’ in this way a relatively new thing? Certainly it was post-War. How widespread did the usage become in the 1920s? Did anyone take it seriously?

‘I wouldn’t carry that tough-guy manner too far, if I were you, Mr Marlowe.’
‘I’m not tough,’ I said, ‘just virile.’ (Ch. 2)

Presumably this is a smart-ass wisecrack and sounds like the humour relies very precisely on contemporary usage. Was ‘virile’ in the news or in certain ads or part of the wave of Freudian psychology (which specifically features in The High Window in the doctor’s diagnosis of Merle Davis’s psychological trauma)? Here and throughout Chandler’s quips clearly depend on a knowledge of contemporary buzzwords, advertising slogans etc, and are taking the mickey out of contemporary culture.

I wonder if there are any plans for the Annotated Raymond Chandler. His novels are getting old enough that they would benefit from intelligent footnotes which go beyond the obvious truisms and help to explicate these buried references. Chandler is a writer of exquisite precision. It would be wonderful to have the precisions we have lost with the passage of time sensitively explained and restored.

Pulpy cover of 'The High Window'

Pulpy cover of ‘The High Window’, costing 25 cents!


Related links

  • The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler (1939) Introducing private detective Philip Marlowe, who is hired by wealthy General Sternwood to investigate the blackmail of his daughter Carmen, but the case quickly expands into a complex web of crime involving pornography, gambling, and multiple murders.
  • Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler (1940) Philip Marlowe returns to be hired by ex-convict Moose Malloy to find his missing girlfriend Velma, but the case quickly entangles him in a web of deception involving a stolen jade necklace, corrupt officials, and a series of murders, as Marlowe himself gets beaten, drugged, and misled.
  • The High Window by Raymond Chandler (1942) Marlowe is hired by wealthy widow Elizabeth Bright Murdock to recover a stolen rare coin, but his investigation leads into a murky world of blackmail, counterfeit schemes, and multiple murders involving her son Leslie and criminal associates, ultimately revealing both a criminal conspiracy around fake coins, and a hidden family secret.
  • The Lady in The Lake by Raymond Chandler (1944) Marlowe is hired by wealthy businessman Derace Kingsley to find his estranged wife Crystal, and his investigation—stretching from Los Angeles to a mountain town—uncovers a series of deceptions, murders, false identities, and police corruption.
  • The Little Sister by Raymond Chandler (1949) Marlowe is hired by a young woman, Orfamay Quest, to find her missing brother Orrin, but his search through post‑war Los Angeles uncovers blackmail, murder, Hollywood glamour and corruption, involving a movie star, organized crime figures and hidden motives.
  • The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler (1953) Marlowe befriends alcoholic war veteran Terry Lennox then helps him flee to Mexico after Terry is accused of murdering his wealthy wife. But this is just the start of his entanglement in a deeper conspiracy involving corruption, betrayal, and social hypocrisy.
  • Playback by Raymond Chandler (1958) Marlowe is hired by actress Claire Winter to find her missing husband, journalist Paul Marston, and his search uncovers a complex maze of deception, professional rivalries, and hidden motives across Hollywood and Los Angeles social circles.