Wright of Derby: From the Shadows @ the National Gallery

The National Gallery uses the Sunley Rooms on the ground floor to host exhibitions which focus on a particular masterwork and place them in a broader historical and biographical context. Following a very enjoyable show about Constable and The Hay Wain comes this show, which looks in detail at Joseph Wright of Derby’s ‘candlelight’ paintings.

The show brings together two of Wright’s really big masterpieces, along with 8 or so related but smaller candlelight paintings, a dozen or so mezzotint prints showing how he had his work popularised and made accessible, and some fascinating objects – an orrery, an air pump, a model perspective. There are some 20 artefacts in all, which fascinatingly set the masterworks in their biographical, artistic and historical contexts.

Just the opportunity to see a group of Wright masterpieces hanging in the same space, to read the wall labels, go off and examine the other, lesser works, then come back to the masterpieces with a fresh eye and a deeper understanding, is a marvellous experience. Here are the two big masterpieces in chronological order:

Gallery

1766: ‘A Philosopher giving That Lecture on the Orrery in Which a Lamp Is Put in the Place of the Sun’

‘A Philosopher giving That Lecture on the Orrery in Which a Lamp Is Put in the Place of the Sun’ by Joseph Wright of Derby (exhibited 1766) © Derby Museums

1768: ‘An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump’

‘An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump’ by Joseph Wright of Derby (1768) © The National Gallery, London

Themes

Biography

Joseph Wright was born in Derby in 1734 to a respectable family of lawyers. Aged 17 and already knowing where his talents lay, he travelled to London where he became apprentice to the established society painter, Thomas Hudson (teacher of the young Joshua Reynolds), who he worked under until 1757. It was then he returned to Derby to establish himself as a portrait painter to the local wealthy clients.

All the works in this exhibition are from the crucial eight-year period between 1765 to 1773 when he made all his candelight works. In the latter year Wright set off for an extended visit to Italy which he spent concentrating on landscapes. When he returned, he moved to Bath in an effort to become a fashionable portrait painter. The spell was broken. He never regained the heights of his great candlelit works.

Science and Enlightenment

The Enlightenment is the name given to the intellectual and cultural movement in Europe during the 18th century that emphasised reason, logic, and science over faith and tradition. Also called the Age of Reason, it promoted ideals like liberty, equality and individual rights, and led to revolutionary changes in philosophy, politics, art and science. In Europe the movement is associated with names like Voltaire, Rousseau, Montesquieu and Immanuel Kant but Britain played a surprisingly large role, with leading figures of a new kind of rational, scientific, objective learning including John Locke, David Hume and Adam Smith. Towering over all of them was the great figure of Sir Isaac Newton from the previous century, who had established clear understandable laws which underpinned everything from the workings of gravity to the movements of the planets in the solar system, and the composition of white light from the colours of the spectrum.

The Midlands Enlightenment

Closer to home in the English Midlands, two of Wright’s most important patrons were Josiah Wedgwood (credited with the industrialization of pottery manufacture) and Richard Arkwright (creator of the factory system in the cotton industry). Wright also had connections with Erasmus Darwin and other members of the Lunar Society, which brought together leading industrialists, scientists and philosophers. Although meetings were held in or near Birmingham, Erasmus Darwin lived in Derby and some of Wright’s paintings were inspired by Lunar Society gatherings.

Scientific demonstrations

Advances in engineering and manufacturing made the creation of scientific devices easier and more available. Public demonstrations were held and wealthier families could buy and understand machines which worked on scientific principles. Wright’s most famous paintings depict two of these:

  • an air pump (used to pump air out of the glass bowl and so asphyxiate any create – in this case a bird – trapped in it)
  • an orrery (a mechanical model of the solar system)

The exhibition actually includes an antique air pump like the one depicted in the picture, and an antique orrery, so we can get a grasp of their size and presence.

The orrery at ‘Wright of Derby: From the Shadows’ at the National Gallery (photo by the author)

Tenebrism

BUT one of the key facts that comes over in the exhibition is that demonstrations of devices like this, either in public spaces or in private homes, usually took place during the day. A moment’s thought makes you realise it would be much easier for everyone to see what was going on in the plain light of day.

The decision to depict these wonderfully ornate inventions being put through their paces by candelight was entirely Wright’s and was an entirely artistic decision. He was very consciously (and successfully) implementing the style known as tenebrism. What is tenebrism? Google AI tells us that:

Tenebrism is a painting style characterised by extreme contrasts between light and dark, where figures are illuminated by a single, harsh light source against a predominantly dark or black background. Derived from the Italian word tenebroso meaning ‘dark’, tenebrism creates a dramatic, theatrical and intense effect by plunging most of the canvas into shadow. The style was popularized by Baroque-era painter Caravaggio (1571 to 1610) and his followers.

I’d heard of chiaroscuro, which is the use of strong contrast between light and dark to create drama; tenebrism is its more extreme cousin, chiaroscuro taken to extremes.

Wright of Derby is famous because he made extreme chiaroscuro his schtick or brand. In a competitive  art world, he quickly emerged as the master, in England, of this approach. The exhibition includes half a dozen other medium-sized works where Wright uses tenebrism to dramatic and striking effect. A couple rival the big two masterworks and are: An Academy by Lamplight (1769) and ‘Three Persons Viewing the Gladiator by Candlelight’ from 1765.

Joseph Wright ‘of Derby’, ‘Three Persons Viewing the Gladiator by Candlelight’, 1765, Private Collection. Photo © National Museums Liverpool

The source of light

Notice something about them? In all three, the light source – the lamp – is hidden. This is one element which creates a sense of mystery in the pictures. But the more obvious one is the way the single, small source of light creates a very dramatic contrast between centres of light and the surrounding darkness and this has all kinds of consequences and meanings.

The meaning of light

At its biggest, meta level, light had been associated for 1,760 years with Christianity which is rich in light metaphors. The ancient Jewish scriptures begin with God creating Light as the primal element, and the New Testament also describes Jesus as the light of the world. Building on this, countless western philosophers and writers associated light with knowledge and clarity and wisdom, contrasted with the darkness of ignorance and barbarism.

Indeed the metaphor is embedded in the very word Enlightenment which intellectuals across Europe used to describe the movement away from religious obscurantism and bigotry and towards reason and science (Aufklärung in German, éclaircissement in French).

So this is one of the things being dramatised in these paintings. The light of knowledge (of not just science as in the big two, but of aesthetic appreciation as in the gladiator and nymph paintings) is restricted to a few initiates, and beyond this magic circle is darkness and ignorance.

Wright’s painting dramatise the getting and having of knowledge. They dramatise learning and scholarship, light and reason against ignorance and darkness.

Light and sight

But the paintings also dramatise relationships among this knowledgeable elite. This can be explained most simply by thinking about the characters in the paintings as types. Thus the gladiator painting shows three different connoisseurs examining the gladiator but, to state the obvious, they are doing it from different perspectives. Even though they’re looking at the same object, they’re looking from different points of view, they are seeing different things.

The curators point out that Enlightenment philosophers were developing the notion that the mind was not the blank sheet of paper posited by the 17th century philosopher John Locke, but instead speculated that seeing is an active, creative process. The human mind is not a passive blank sheet, but proactively creates and elaborates and lends meaning to everything it sees.

So Wright’s paintings can also be seen as a dramatisation of this new idea. Different people, looking at the same object, see different things and react differently.

The ages of man

Another aspect of this is the notion that, in these paintings, Wright deliberately depicts different types and ages of people. To start simply, with the gladiator painting, the three men can be taken, from left to right, as old, middle-aged and young: wise old expert, middle-aged connoisseur, and young neophyte.

With this idea that the pictures depict types of ages in mind, look again at the air pump picture. You can now see that it’s packed with people, no fewer than ten, and that they present an almost allegorical typology of human age groups: the smallest girl, the older girl, a boy on the left, a single young man next to him (the young learner), a courting or married couple, the middle-aged expert reassuring the girls, and then the wise old natural scientist conducting the experiment. It’s a cross-section of ages and life stages.

The stages of knowledge

In fact, to go a step further, you could argue that the paintings depict different stages of knowledge. If you look again at the orrery painting, you could say that there is a kind of hierarchy of knowledge, with the two children delighted by a shiny toy, the young woman on the left knowing it’s important but puzzled (?), the young man on the right having brainy thoughts, the old master at the top and back having total control of the situation, and making observations to his experienced but subservient assistant on the left who is learned enough to take notes.

Composing with light

These paintings contain these almost allegorical levels of meaning and yet, what makes them masterpieces is the way all these figures are arranged so that the scenes feel perfectly natural. Or, more accurately, feel perfectly staged, all the figures artfully arranged so as not only to highlight the central action and the piece of scientific paraphernalia, but to maximise the play of the bright lamplight on the folds of their clothes and the contours of their faces.

The rise of sentiment

Arguably, the first half of the 18th century was the Age of Reason in art and literature. In England, poetry was dominated by the harshly satirical poems of Alexander Pope, who died in 1744, and his equivalent in the art world was William Hogarth, with his virulent satires of contemporary English society.

Wright quite obviously comes from a different generation than them. By the 1760s, when he produced his masterpieces, their pure and harsh rationalism had been replaced by a new focus on sentiment. This wasn’t as vague as it sounds. Philosophers like Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712 to 1778) in France and David Hume (1711 to 1776) in Britain, insisted that human beings are not the passionless calculating machines of a pure rationalism, but in fact are strongly swayed by sentiment and emotion. In fact they both assign the basis of morality not to pure reason, not to a calculation of moral principles and courses of action, but to how we feel and respond emotionally to situations.

Hence the drama at the heart of the air pump painting. The girls are upset and the older one is hiding her eyes because they’ve just learned that the point of the experiment is to extract the air from the glass bowl and thus asphyxiate – kill – the bird.

The middle-aged man with his arm round her is, presumably, explaining how the machine works and the scientific principles it demonstrates and so on, but it’s not comforting the girl, is it? All she knows is the philosopher is about to kill a poor defenceless creature and that her father (?presumably) is acquiescing in this horrible deed.

Thus the painting is using tenebrism not just to make a demonstration of an air pump more dramatic – but to dramatise a fundamental issue of the day, which is the clash between scientific knowledge-reason, and the newer, gentler culture of sentiment and feeling.

Who is right? Do we have the right to kill defenceless creatures in the name of science and learning? It’s a question which resonates right down to the present day.

The new sensitivity to children

It’s fascinating to learn from the wall labels that all Wright’s sketches and notes which survive show that right from the start it was the position and posture of the girls which was central to his conception, and not the standing figure of the natural philosopher or scientist who, at first glance, appears to dominate. They are closest to, and most illuminated by, the hidden lamp.

This, also, reflected the most advanced thinking of the day. While most children in the eighteenth century lived in poverty and were sent out to earn a living from the earliest years, in the households of the enlightened, of the middle-class followers of enlightened thinking, a new way of thinking was taking hold, one which recognised that childhood is a special, vulnerable and fragile period in a person’s life.

The classic text for this is Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Confessions (1770) which elaborated more than any writer had done before, how deeply children feel and how childhood experiences completely shape the adult we grow into.

Although written after Wright’s major paintings, in a sense Rousseau was simply giving voice to a feeling which had become widespread by the 1760s about the complex and sensitive nature of children’s feelings. The point being that the air pump painting is a classic expression of this new feeling (among the enlightened) for the validity of children’s sensitive and finer feelings.

Previous generations thought we adults had to thrash silly and wanton behaviour out of children. This new age, by complete contrast, thought we might be able to learn from the purity and innocence of children’s feelings, how to be better, more moral persons ourselves.

Again, this huge and complex debate is dramatised in the air pump painting: should we ignore a child’s naive and innocent response to some adult action we feel is necessary to carry out? Or should we acknowledge that we, the adults, have maybe lost our moral bearings and need to reconnect with our own finer feelings in order to create a better world? This, also, is still very much a live debate.

Wright’s portraiture

That’s probably enough stuff for you to take in. It was certainly an overflow of information for me to absorb as I read the wall labels of this fascinating and deeply rewarding exhibition. But I haven’t made the last, big, obvious point which is that, all these fine ideas, all these issues and debates may well be contained within the pictures, but they wouldn’t have the impact they do if it wasn’t for the fact that Wright was a painter of genius. Not just in his handling of complicated compositions and the immense skill of his tenebrism – but in  his faces.

The faces of the two men behind the orrery and of the two girls leaning towards it, are complete genius.  Beside the wall panel which explains the meaning and history of tenebrism, the exhibition places half a dozen paintings by other Old Masters who deployed, including the master, Caravaggio, of course, but also Rembrandt, famous for his use of chiaroscuro. The Rembrandt painting they choose is Belshazzar’s Feast dating from 1638.

Belshazzar’s Feast by Rembrandt van Rijn © The National Gallery, London

Now I’m sorry to be a philistine but I don’t actually like Rembrandt very much because I think he was a very poor painter of people’s faces. The overall composition, the dramatic use of dark and light, yes. But the faces of the old man, the women next to him and the king himself all look like bug-eyed cartoons.

Detail of Belshazzar’s Feast by Rembrandt van Rijn © The National Gallery, London

Compare and contrast with Wright’s faces. Wright’s people come over as extraordinarily vivid and real. You can imagine them just about to open their mouths and speak to us. I can hear the Midlands accent of the grey-haired man on the right.

Detail of ‘A Philosopher giving That Lecture on the Orrery in Which a Lamp Is Put in the Place of the Sun’ by Joseph Wright of Derby (exhibited 1766) © Derby Museums

Nowhere more obviously than in the face of the air pump lecturer, surely one of the most characterful faces in art and rightly chosen as the lead image for the exhibition and all its promotional material.

Detail of ‘An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump’ by Joseph Wright of Derby (1768) © The National Gallery, London

This is a supernaturally brilliant portrait and an apt motto for this wonderful, beautifully designed, richly informative and deeply pleasurable exhibition.


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Related reviews

To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf (1927)

One could not say what one meant.
(Mrs Ramsay laments, p.23)

Who knows what we are, what we feel?
(Lily Briscoe ponders, p.159)

No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low. Then one gave it up; then the idea sunk back again…
(Lily ponders some more, p.165)

‘To The Lighthouse’ is Virginia Woolf’s fifth novel and generally considered to be her most popular. It is really quite brilliant. It showcases her phenomenal strengths as a writer and also her limitations. It is divided into three parts.

Part 1. The Window (105 pages)

Mr and Mrs Ramsay are the parents of no fewer than eight children who are, of course, in the approved upper middle-class way, all exceptional.

  1. Andrew (extraordinary gift for mathematics)
  2. Jasper (likes shooting birds)
  3. Roger
  4. James (aged 6)
  1. Prue (takes your breath away with her beauty)
  2. Rose (wonderfully gifted with her hands)
  3. Nancy
  4. Cam (aged 7)

The Ramsays take their children for their annual holiday to an island in the Hebrides (called Finlay? p.56), where every summer they rent the same ramshackle old house. The rent of the house (presumably for a week), along with the garden and tennis court, is precisely two-pence ha’penny, or about one modern penny (p.29).

It is a Victorian family so Mrs Ramsay has also brought servants – Mildred the cook, and two maids, one named Marie from Switzerland (her father is dying of cancer, poor thing, p.30), the other named Ellen. (Back at home, in Oxford (?) they have Kennedy the gardener who Mrs R routinely accuses of being lazy, p.63. You just can’t get the servants!)

Mr Ramsay tends to abrupt and unfeeling truth-telling, often upsetting their children. Mrs Ramsay (aged 50) is, of course, much more conciliatory and supportive. She is a great empathiser. She visits the sick and poor of their parish, helping them out, writing down in her notebook details of their wages and spending. She wants to go out to the lighthouse on an island in the bay purely to give gifts to the lighthouse keeper, Sorley, and his son who is afflicted with a tuberculous hip, lonely souls!

Mr Ramsay supports all this by being an academic philosopher, writing about ‘Subject and object and the nature of reality’ as his son, Andrew, sums it up (p.26).

Mrs Ramsay is, of course, too busy being a mother to read any of his books or the books given to her by the poets and authors of their acquaintance (‘Croom on the Mind and Bates on the Savage Customs of Polynesia’). Like Mrs Dalloway, she has a superficial smattering of culture but isn’t that bothered. But then she has something more important than education or culture; she has feeling.

She knew then — she knew without having learnt. Her simplicity fathomed what clever people falsified. Her singleness of mind made her drop plumb like a stone, alight exact as a bird, gave her, naturally, this swoop and fall of the spirit upon truth which delighted, eased, sustained… (p.31)

The novel opens with Mrs Ramsay promising one of her children, James, aged 8, that they will go out to the lighthouse on the island, tomorrow. To her irritation, her husband immediately contradicts her, saying the wind is in the wrong direction.

Her husband is a successful academic and author, a philosopher, and has an irritating habit of attracting fan students, young men who come and stay with them and the rest of the family has to put up with. On this holiday it is a bony youth, a ‘conspicuous atheist’ named Charles Tansley. (For Mr Ramsay’s supposed ‘thoughts’, see ‘Intellectual shallowness’ below.) When Mr Ramsay says the wind is in the wrong direction, he is immediately backed up by Tansley to Mrs Ramsay’s irritation.

After breakfast one day Mrs Ramsay invites Charles to accompany her into the nearest village to do a few chores. They pass a Mr Augustus Carmichael, the old poet, lying out in the sun. In town she sees a one-armed man pasting up a big poster on a wall for a circus that’s coming to town. She finds out more about Tansley, that he’s one of nine children, his father was a lowly chemist, he paid his way from the age of 13, he’s dragged himself up by his shoestrings to become a junior academic and is now writing a book about the influence of someone on someone else. (Mrs Ramsay is a mother of a certain age; she’s not interested in the details, she doesn’t really listen to whatever Tansley’s dissertation is about, a point so important to Woolf she repeats it, on pages 16, 64 and 96).

They go to a house where Mrs Ramsay disappears upstairs, presumably to talk to the wife or mother, Elsie (?), maybe bed-bound. As they walk the street, a workman stops his digging to look at her. Tansley realises he’s half in love with her.

Cut back to the present where Mrs Ramsay is cheering James up by selecting pictures in the Army and Navy catalogue to cut out. The other children are playing cricket. She, Mrs R, is being painted by another guest, young Lily Briscoe (33). In fact Lily is staying in a house in the village, along with William Bankes (60), ‘old enough to be her father too, a botanist, a widower, smelling of soap, very scrupulous and clean’.

Twitchy young Charles Tansley has made an enemy of Lily by boldly telling her women can’t paint and women can’t write, a phrase she remembers with scorn half a dozen times, more or less every time she looks at him. (And comes to realise is typical of the way people say things which aren’t meant to be true but feed some kind of need in themselves.)

Tradition and innovation

At the time, the way the narrative of ‘To The Lighthouse’ weaves in and out of the characters’ thoughts and memories which, by definition, are from various points in the past, was considered highly innovative. A hundred years later, we have become so used to mixed-up narratives, not just in high literature, but in popular films and TV shows, that the technique feels completely natural and accessible, more or less transparent.

No, what comes over instead is the deep, deep traditonalness of the subject matter: the sensitive feelings of an upper middle-class mother and those around her, with a central focus on Love. As Anthony Burgess says in his biography of D.H. Lawrence, the novel is an essentially bourgeois art form and Virginia Woolf’s novels describe characters at the upper end of the bourgeoisie. Lovely people having lovely thoughts, no wonder they have remained popular to this day with bookish ladies who pride themselves on their sensitivity.

One of the commenters on one of her novels on Amazon says how lovely and elegant Woolf’s prose is. Exactly. It is exactly this quality which holds it back. No matter how ‘modernist’ her enjoyment of flitting between her characters’ points of view, the actual sentences themselves are constrained by good manners. Their vocabulary is limited by good taste. They always strive for the same effect of melliflousness, of politesse and refinement. The result is that they delve, exquisitely and with perfect decorum, but into a very limited, narrow, blinkered experience of the world: the same calm and demure and polite good taste.

Here’s an example. It’s a long sentence but the subordinate clauses are arranged clearly and logically, so it flows simply enough.

Qualities that in a desolate expedition across the icy solitudes of the Polar region would have made him the leader, the guide, the counsellor, whose temper, neither sanguine nor despondent, surveys with equanimity what is to be and faces it, came to his help again.

The balancing of antitheses – ‘neither sanguine nor despondent’ – and the vocabulary itself – counsellor, temper, equanimity – hark back to the stately elegancies of the eighteenth century. Although her perceptions are often ‘modern’, Woolf’s style is almost always Georgian.

Woolf’s novels radiate all the pampered privilege of her class while mocking the very men – the politicians and financiers and businessmen and imperial soldiers – which made her life of sensitive impressions possible, whose farflung empire provided the flowers and foodstuffs and finery which her privileged female protagonists enjoy sampling and savouring. And she is aware of it and expresses it.

A square root? What was that? Her sons knew. She leant on them; on cubes and square roots; that was what they were talking about now; on Voltaire and Madame de Staël; on the character of Napoleon; on the French system of land tenure; on Lord Rosebery; on Creevey’s Memoirs: she let it uphold her and sustain her, this admirable fabric of the masculine intelligence, which ran up and down, crossed this way and that, like iron girders spanning the swaying fabric, upholding the world, so that she could trust herself to it utterly, even shut her eyes, or flicker them for a moment, as a child staring up from its pillow winks at the myriad layers of the leaves of a tree. (p.98)

It just doesn’t matter to her. It’s not what she’s about. Men are the adults who create and maintain the structure of the world, and women…? Women do something else, no less important, subtle and enduring.

Intellectual shallowness (Mr Ramsay)

Like so many novelists, Woolf would have us believe that her male protagonist is a successful and respected Thinker, a philosopher with a post at Oxford (I think, since there’s mention of Balliol College). He is said to be frequently distracted from everyday life by Great Thoughts about philosophy. And yet, when she comes to portray these Great Thoughts, they are pitifully inadequate. In fact they aren’t philosophy at all. Does he ponder on the mathematical bases of philosophy like Bertrand Russell and Alfred Whitehead, does he respond to the dazzling theories of the young Ludwig Wittgenstein, does he engage with the moral philosophy of G.E. Moore, is he aware of the turn to linguistics signalled by the rise of the logical positivists or the Vienna Circle, does he engage with the sociocultural implications thrown up by Darwin’s theory of evolution or its recasting into the scientific positivism of Herbert Spencer? Has he heard of Continental philosophy? What does he make of the German tradition of Kant, Hegel, Feuerbach, Marx, or Nietzsche? Does he have views on the creative evolution of Henri Bergson?

No. Instead Woolf has Mr Ramsay wandering up and down his garden with a head full of tragically simple-minded, obvious, trite and clichéd cultural questions from mid-nineteenth century magazines: would culture have been different if Shakespeare had never lived? Is culture the product of great men? How do you measure culture and civilisation, by how it affects everyone, or as a product for an elite? And so on (pages 43 to 44).

These are not the questions asked by professional philosophers anywhere, they are the tired, hackneyed themes of thousands of half-baked essays by half-educated litterateurs. What a complete failure to understand or depict the thoughts of a supposed ‘philosopher’. Mr Ramsay is (rather hilariously) described as ‘so brave a man in thought’ and yet, on the evidence of these ‘thoughts’, he could barely think his way out of a paper bag; is not much different from the guide on a coachload of American tourists: ‘And on our left, ladies and gentlemen, the birthplace of William Shakespeare, the jewel in the crown of our national culture’ etc.

(Same happens a bit later when Mr Ramsay walks by chuckling to himself at the thought of the philosopher David Hume grown so fat he once got stuck in a bog. Is he given a witty joke about Hume’s philosophical scepticism and metaphysical naturalism, his devastating demolition of the argument from induction? No. Instead, Ramsay chuckles over Hume getting fat and falling in a bog. This is Laurel and Hardy, not philosophy. And Woolf likes it so much she has Mr Ramsay think about it on three separate occasions, pages 62, 66 and 70)

It is not for the quality of her ‘thought’ that anyone reads Virginia Woolf. There isn’t much ‘thought’ on display. Move Woolf a few inches outside her comfort zone of bookish book chat and she is lost. It is the extraordinary quality of her art which makes her great – which means a combination of her perceptions and insights into human psychology, arranged into beautiful patterns, and expressed in elegant and mellifluous prose.

The beautiful protagonist (Mrs Ramsay)

It helps a lot when your protagonist is effortlessly beautiful, ‘astonishingly beautiful’ (p.112):

She bore about with her, she could not help knowing it, the torch of her beauty; she carried it erect into any room that she entered; and after all, veil it as she might, and shrink from the monotony of bearing that it imposed on her, her beauty was apparent. She had been admired. She had been loved.

This – being beautiful and sensitive – is much more important than reading books and knowing things. Woolf is a great feminist saint but I always find it ironic how counter-feminist her fictions actually are. Mrs Ramsay, like Clarissa Dalloway, isn’t clever or well-read or particularly cultured or well-informed, but she is valued by Woolf simply because she is beautiful and sensitive.

And because she wants to give. Mrs Dalloway thinks her own strength is in bringing posh people together at her house, being a wonderful party host. Mrs Ramsay thinks her strength is caring for her eight children plus all sorts of miscellaneous good causes – ‘this desire of hers to give, to help’. Both, as you can see, live for others in the most clichéd stereotype of the selfless, empathetic upper middle-class woman.

The core subject of ‘Mrs Dalloway’ and ‘To The Lighthouse’ is Love. Women are depicted as a) a bit dim and ineffectual but that’s OK because they are b) continually thinking about lost loves, past loves, present loves – as if a woman’s life was entirely one of emotions and feelings, and nothing to do with rational thought and achievement. What could be more sexist?

More events in part 1

‘Plot summary’ or ‘synopsis’ are both a bit too precise for what happens in a Woolf novel. Things happen but mostly people have sensitive feelings, memories, perceptions and polite conversations.

Lily just can’t capture on canvas the vivid colours she sees in real life. She is embarrassed when Mr Ramsay wanders by and sees her canvas.

Two other young people are staying, Minta Doyle (24; a tomboy) and Paul Rayley. As is the way with classic bourgeois fiction, the interest here is in whether Paul will propose to Minta and whether she will accept him. Women, in this ideology, have only one purpose and that is to get married – at least, this is Mrs Ramsay’s view.

Minta must, they all must marry, since in the whole world, whatever laurels might be tossed to her (but Mrs Ramsay cared not a fig for her painting), or triumphs won by her (probably Mrs Ramsay had had her share of those), and here she saddened, darkened, and came back to her chair, there could be no disputing this: an unmarried woman (she lightly took her hand for a moment), an unmarried woman has missed the best of life. (p.49)

Later, Mrs R suddenly wants young Lily Briscoe to marry William Bankes. ‘What an admirable idea! They must marry’ (p.68). Maybe it’s only here, though. At the end of the novel, Lily wonders what lay behind Mrs Ramsay’s ‘mania’ for marriage (p.163).

Mrs Ramsay reads her son, James, the story of the Fisherman and his Wife, continually interrupted by her own thoughts about her husband, her marriage, her children (they grow up so fast, don’t they?), wondering whether Paul has proposed to Minta, worrying why they haven’t come back for a walk.

She finishes the story and James goes off to have supper with the rest of the children. Mrs Ramsay mentions them all being given baths and then put to bed, activities she seems to have no involvement in and so, presumably, are conducted by the three woman servants. Hard life.

During all this the lighthouse light is lit and she observes the triple beam which swings over sea and shore. Sometimes she wakes and sees it on the floor of the bedroom.

She is continually worrying that repairs to the greenhouse back home are going to cost £50 and she hasn’t plucked up the courage to tell her husband yet. She thinks their gardener, Kennedy, is lazy. She remembers her Aunt Camilla who was, of course, ‘the most beautiful woman I ever saw,’ said Mrs Ramsay. (She also has an Uncle James, in India.)

Mr and Mrs R are walking in the garden. It’s just past 7pm. They arrive at the gap in the red hot pokers and see the lights of the town twinkling on the sea. He wants to apologise for being a bit harsh when rebuffing her suggestion they all go to the lighthouse tomorrow, but can’t. They are happily married but there are gulfs between them.

Lily sees them walking and, as dusk falls, has a vision of them as perfect emblems, ‘symbols of marriage, husband and wife’.

Early on in the book we learned that old Mr Ramsay is developing the habit of wandering round declaiming poetry out loud, because the early pages have lines from Tennyson’s poem The Charge of the Light Brigade scattered through them. Once again it’s not the idiosyncrasy it’s the extreme ancientness of the poem, published in 1854, which is striking.

Minta and Paul had indeed gone down to the beach as Mrs Ramsay suspected, taking with them not only Andrew but Nancy, too. They are still children and scatter to explore rock pools. When the tide starts coming in, Nancy squeals and runs up the beach, round a big rock and bang into Minta and Paul who are having a kiss. They separate and Nancy and Andrew are bad tempered on the walk back because of the embarrassment. Half way back Minta realises she’s lost the brooch her grandmother gave to her and starts crying. They go back to look but the tide’s coming in and it’s getting dark. Paul promises to get up at dawn and come and find it tomorrow.

The dinner

It’s getting dark as they arrive back at the house and the lamps are being lit for dinner. There are fifteen for dinner (Mr and Mrs R and their 8 children, Charles Tansley, Minta and Paul, Mr Carmichael, and Mr Bankes has agreed to dine with them for the first time.)

Mrs Ramsay looks out the window at the rooks settling in the trees. She’s nicknamed the oldest one Old Joseph.

A servant rings the gong for dinner, Mrs Ramsay proceeds in stately manner to the dining room, everyone assembles and sits and starts on the soup, and there is a Woolfian smorgasboard of everyone’s thoughts intertwining.

Young uncomfortable Charles Tansley covers his embarrassment by despising everyone for their dinner tittle-tattle. Mrs Ramsay talks to Mr Bankes about a mutual friend, Carrie Manning whose house at Marlow she used to visit, who she hasn’t thought about in decades. Mrs Ramsay is interrupted to give orders to the servants and Bankes wistfully wonders how perishable human friendships are, wonders what it’s all about, really etc.

Charles is twitching with frustration so Lily very consciously, as a favour to Mrs Ramsay, speaks to him and sparks a torrent of feeling about the plight of poor fishermen, which involves criticising the present government, and both Lily and Mrs R can sit back and let the men crap on. God, how boring they and their politics are!

It’s dark and Mrs Ramsay orders the candles to be lit which suddenly transforms the room and the long table into a fairy land. Minta and Paul burst into the dining room, very late indeed, Minta crying about losing her grandmother’s brooch. Minta sits down next to Mr Ramsay and he immediately starts flirting with her. Mrs Ramsay is jealous but, then again, likes the way the young women he likes surrounding himself with keep him young. Also, Minta has a golden aura about her and Mrs R guesses Paul proposed and she said yes (since getting married is, in her eyes, the most important thing a young woman can do with her life).

When Paul tells his end of the table that he’s planning to get up at the crack of dawn and go and find the brooch, Lily is swept with enthusiasm and asks if she can come and help him, to which he is suddenly brutally indifferent. Please yourself. Mrs Ramsay notices this, thinking how cruel love can be, has made the handsome Paul. Sitting near him both plain Lilly and ugly Charles suffer in comparison.

Some argument starts up about Sir Walter Scott’s Waverley novels and when someone says something about work which lasts she knows that will trigger her husband, who is very conscious of not being truly great, that his best years are behind him, that he is already turning into a back number. But luckily Minta with her golden glow says something flattering and defuses the tension.

Incidentally, the centrepiece of the dinner is a big chunk of beef, cooked Bœuf en Daube according to a recipe of Mrs Ramsay’s grandmother. (There’s a passage of conversation about how lamentable British cooking is.)

Most people have finished eating when she hears her husband reciting a poem to golden Minta and slowly the general conversation dies down as they all listen. Mrs Ramsay stands and walks to the door, taking Minta’s arm. This rather glorious family dinner is over.

The party breaks up. Mr Bankes takes Charles Tansley out onto the terrace to carry on talking about politics, as men will. Lily watches Mrs Ramsay walk stately upstairs to check on the younger children who should be in bed. It has been a memorable evening, one everyone present will remember. She pauses to look out the window at the black outline of the elm trees, to steady and centre herself. The ghost of Woolf’s madness momentarily casts its shadow…

Irritatingly, the children are still awake, not least because someone called Edward (not otherwise mentioned in the text) had sent the children the skull of a pig which someone nailed to the wall of their bedroom and now they can’t sleep for fear of it. So Mrs Ramsay covers it in her shawl and tells her impressionable young daughter, Cam, that now it’s like a lovely bird’s nest.

As she goes back downstairs Prue calls up that some of them had thought of going down to the sea to watch the waves, and Mrs Ramsay is transfigured with girlish enthusiasm. Off they go but, in fact, something keeps her behind; it is her duty to go into the living room and be with her husband who is anxiously reading a novel by Walter Scott, anxious because he is always anxious whether his work will last.

She picks up a volume of poetry and they both read in companionable silence. Marriage, reflects Mr Ramsay, probably reflecting an opinion of Woolf’s, is not all about going to bed with a woman. There are also these moments of soul peace.

Suddenly he wants her to tell him she loves him. She knows it but rarely says it. She stands at the window looking at the beams of the lighthouse. Then she turns and, astonishingly beautiful as she is, gives him a radiant smile.

Part 2. Time Passes (15 pages)

I was expecting some major change of time or setting but part two follows on without a break from part 1. Mrs Bankes, Prue and Andrew come back from the beach. It was so dark they couldn’t distinguish between the sea and the sand. Slowly the lamps go out all round the house. Darkness falls and cheeky little draughts explore the old house.

But then it kicks in, and part 2 becomes a wild farrago of purple prose, about winter winds, hails, waves destroying, ravages, tattered flags, gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and bones bleaching in faraway deserts. I presume this all refers to the First World War. In the long dark winter Mrs (Maggie) McNab the housekeeper comes to air and tidy the house. Spring comes round and summer and another winter.

Meanwhile, bracketed against the long convoluted paragraphs of purple prose, is a series of short, factual declarations which tell us the news of the family, in hard square brackets. It is hard, heart-breaking news.

  • In a throwaway sentence we learn that Mrs Ramsay, heart and soul of part one, has died.
  • In May Prue, looking beautiful, gets married.
  • A year later Prue dies from complications of childbirth.
  • Andrew, in the British Army in France, is killed instantly by a shell.
  • Old Carmichael brings out a volume of poetry which has an unexpected success. War has given the public a taste for poetry.

It is some years later and Mrs McNab surveys the mouldering old house, all the clothes rotting in their wardrobes, the pipes overflowed and the carpet ruined. Rats in the attic. The garden overgrown and alive with rabbits. The family had promised to return but the war made travel difficult.

Suddenly after years of silence Mrs McNab receives a letter asking her to make the place ready. It is such a ruin she has to recruit the help of her friend Mrs Bast and her son, George. Builders have to replaster, fix doors, and locks. It is an epic amount of work.

Then one day Lily Briscoe arrives, followed by old Mr Carmichael. Mrs Beckwith (who we’ve never heard of before) comes to stay.

Part 23 The Lighthouse [ten years later] (55 pages)

Overnight, as if by magic, the other surviving members of the family have arrived – Mr Ramsay, Nancy, James and Cam. And somehow, the next morning they breakfast early because it has been arranged to go out to the lighthouse.

And Lily, rather like the reader, dazed and confused by everything which has happened, sits at the breakfast table wondering what it’s all about: What does it mean then, what can it all mean? What does one do? Why is one sitting here after all?

I’ve mentioned Woolf’s mental illness more than once: here again, in the sense of profound disorientation, the reader feels it again.

Sitting alone (for Nancy went out again) among the clean cups at the long table she felt cut off from other people, and able only to go on watching, asking, wondering. The house, the place, the morning, all seemed strangers to her. She had no attachment here, she felt, no relations with it, anything might happen, and whatever did happen, a step outside, a voice calling (‘It’s not in the cupboard; it’s on the landing,’ some one cried), was a question, as if the link that usually bound things together had been cut, and they floated up here, down there, off, anyhow. How aimless it was, how chaotic, how unreal it was, she thought, looking at her empty coffee cup. (p.138)

The extraordinary unreality was frightening… Such were some of the parts, but how bring them together?… If only she could put them together, she felt, write them out in some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of things…

Here, as in the mad sections of ‘Mrs Dalloway’, it feels like Woolf is recycling her many weeks and months and years of illness and mania, of the special peripheral vision it gives you, of the world and of yourself.

It is ten years since Lily left her painting unfinished (which is why commentators generally take the dates of the two visits to be 1910 and 1920). She is now 44 with an ‘old maidish’ manner. A long passage is devoted to Mr Ramsay coming up to her where she’s painting and exerting the full weight of his grief, his need, his exorbitant self pity, on her, demanding that she say something sympathetic, but she just stands there, hostile and dumb.

Suddenly, randomly, she notices his lovely brown boots and says out loud how nice they are, and to both their astonishment, he bucks up, becomes proud and lively and shows them off, and a knot he uses, of his own invention. Cam and James arrive (sulky 16 and 17 year olds) and Mr Ramsay declares they’re off to the lighthouse and marches them down the garden.

Leaving Lily facing a blank white canvas and riddled with doubts and conflicting emotions. Woolf spends quite a while describing the feelings she has as she makes the first marks on the canvas. It is an essay on the feeling of painting. It’s also mixed up with her love-hate relationship with patronising poor Charles Tansley. She remembered a happy moment when they took to playing ducks and drakes across the sea, and how it only happened because Mrs Ramsay, like God in Bishop Berkeley’s philosophy, watched it happen.

What is the meaning of life? Is there a meaning to life? No. There is no one great Revelation. Instead there’s a steady stream of epiphanies and insights.

What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark… (p.150)

She walks over to a view of the sea and sees the little boat with Mrs Ramsay, James and Cam in it set sail and move out beyond the others, towards the lighthouse.

In the little sailing boat Mr Ramsay gets impatient. He has forced two more new characters, Macalister and Macalister’s boy, to come with them. He makes Macalister tell him about the great storm last Christmas, which drove 11 ships into the bay of which three were shipwrecked. When the wind picks up and they start properly sailing, tense Mr Ramsay can relax. But Cam and James are surly and resentful at having been forced to go on this trip, purely to lay their father’s ghosts. They really hate him, Cam in particular remembering:

that crass blindness and tyranny of his which had poisoned her childhood and raised bitter storms, so that even now she woke in the night trembling with rage and remembered some command of his; some insolence: ‘Do this,’ ‘Do that’; his dominance: his ‘Submit to me.’ (p.158)

Back in the garden, Lily continues trying to pain, her mind aswirl with memories of Mrs Ramsay’s presence, when she last tried to paint here, when she played ducks and drakes with Charles Tansley, moments in time, why does she remember some and forget huge stretches of others?

She remembers going to visit the Rayleys (Paul and Minta after they married) in their place at Rickmansworth and finding the atmosphere terribly strained. Some time later she went back and found them reconciled and friendly, and this was because Paul had taken a mistress with radical political views like his, and Minta thoroughly approved.

From this Lily rambles on to thinking about her own relationship with the much older William Bankes. How Mrs Ramsay wanted them to get married and how they dated and went places together and felt great affection but never enough to marry. This long passage of meandering thought has taken us deep into mysteries:

What was it then? What did it mean? Could things thrust their hands up and grip one; could the blade cut; the fist grasp? Was there no safety? No learning by heart of the ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly people, that this was life?—startling, unexpected, unknown? (p.167)

And she finds herself crying and saying Mrs Ramsay’s name out loud.

Cut to James in the sailing boat. The wind slackens and the sail flaps and James lives in terror of his father looking up from the book he’s studiously reading and reprimanding. James lives in permanent terror of his father’s reprimands and hates him with a white-hot hatred. He remembers being seven and wanting to go to the lighthouse and the harshness of his father’s refusal – the scene which opens the novel, a resentment he’s never forgotten. His memories of boyhood are like grains of misery.

Cut to Cam remembering being small and coming across her father sitting quietly in his study, accompanied by another venerable old gentleman, a copy of the Times crinkling in someone’s hand, as her father wrote slowly and neatly across the pages of his book. And she looks at her father now, curled up in the middle of the boat and quietly, purposefully reading, and her heart softens towards him.

Cut to Lily on land thinking about what you feel for things depends on whether they’re far or near: the nearer, the more familiar and funny; the further away, the more hazy and venerable. Then the light changes, the mood of the sea changes, and she is unhappy. She looks at her painting and thinks she hasn’t caught it at all. And Woolf delivers a little lecture on the struggle to create, to capture life in art.

Phrases came. Visions came. Beautiful pictures. Beautiful phrases. But what she wished to get hold of was that very jar on the nerves, the thing itself before it has been made anything. Get that and start afresh; get that and start afresh; she said desperately, pitching herself firmly again before her easel. It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling; it always broke down at the critical moment; heroically, one must force it on. (p.178)

Compare T.S. Eliot 1940:

       and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate,
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion…

Samuel Beckett in 1983:

Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.

And plenty of other examples in between. The inability of language to adequately express our feelings and perceptions is a fairly common trope in the literary world.

Lily looks at slumbering Mr Carmichael. He’s famous now but still the same polite old geezer she’s always known. People can be two people, in fact people can be many people. One thing leads to another and she tells us that Charles Tansley got his fellowship, got married, lives in Golders Green. She went to hear him speak during the war, in a half-empty hall droning on about brotherly love, and again she remembers for the third or fourth time the occasion when she and he played ducks and drakes at some cask which came floating in on the waves while Mrs Ramsay watched them.

Lily remembers countless times seeing Mr Ramsay losing his temper, shouting, behaving badly, throwing a plate through the air, then loitering round his wife waiting for her forgiveness. Odd that all this comes out at the very end of the text because only now does it make sense of the scene which opens the novel, the couple’s sharp disagreement about whether to go to the lighthouse on the morrow. Canny withholding.

Lily notices someone has finally gotten up and is moving about inside the house and for a mad moment she thinks it’s her beloved Mrs Ramsay.

Cut to James in the sailboat. They are getting close to the lighthouse now and he can see it, a tall tower on jagged rocks. He observes his father getting to the end of the book he’s been reading. Finally he finishes it and announces he’s hungry. He opens the packet with their sandwiches in. Out of respect to Macalister he stops Cam throwing a half-eaten sandwich over the side. Macalister is 75 and Mr Ramsay shares that he’s 71.

And his father finally praises James’s steering. All this time James’s hatred is based on his father’s unerring criticism. Just one word of praise makes him pitifully grateful. All through this Cam lives in two worlds, part of her seeing her shabby father, the other part excited because he is taking them on an adventure. Freudian ambivalence.

Finally the boat reaches the lighthouse jetty, Mr Ramsay buttons his jacket, puts on his hat, tells the kids to get the packets which Nancy had wrapped for the lighthouse keeper, stands erect at the bow and steps ashore.

Cut back to Lily on the island who is joined by Mr Carmichael standing up. They both look towards the lighthouse which has become hazy and agree they must have arrived by now. And Lily looks from the steps up to the terrace, then back at her painting, and then has the inspiration on how to finish it. And the novel ends with a symbolic phrase which describes not only what Lily has seen and captured, but what Woolf the author has also done – achieved her vision.

She looked at the steps; they were empty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred. With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre. It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision. (p.192)

It’s a masterpiece.

Cast

Woolf’s fictions overflow with people, not just the primary characters but also a throng of secondary and tertiary characters, people who pop up sometimes for just one mention, for one sighting only, but who add to the sense her novels give of a dense tapestry of human lives all impinging on each other.

The Ramsays

1. Mr Ramsay

2. Mrs Ramsay

3. Lily Briscoe

4. Andrew Ramsay

5. Jasper Ramsay

6. Roger Ramsay

7. James Ramsay

8. Prue Ramsay

9. Rose Ramsay

10. Nancy Ramsay

11. Cam Ramsay

House guests

16. Charles Tansley, student writing his dissertation

17. Augustus Carmichael, old poet with white beard stained yellow

18. Lily Briscoe, painter

19. Minta Doyle, tomboy

20. Paul Rayley, young and handsome

21. William Bankes, scientist

Servants

12. Mildred the cook

13. Marie the Swiss maid

14. Ellen the maid

15. Kennedy the gardener

22. Aunt Camilla

23. Uncle James

24. Mrs McNab

25. Mrs Bast, helps Mrs McNab clean up the old house

26. George Bast, scythes the grass

27. Mrs Beckwith, turns up as a guest in part 3

28. Old Macalister

29. Macalister’s boy

30. Miss Giddings – mentioned just once, as being startled when Mr Ramsay suddenly, randomly quoted some poetry at her.

31. Mr Langley – also mentioned precisely once, in an anecdote Mrs Ramsay tells, that he had been round the world dozens of times but told her he never suffered as he did when my husband took him across to the lighthouse (p.85).

32. Mrs McNab – the housekeeper who airs and maintains the house in the family’s absence, through the long dark winters.


Credit

‘To The Lighthouse’ by Virginia Woolf was first published by the Hogarth Press in 1927. Page references are to the 1977 Granada paperback edition, although the text is easily available online.

Related links

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Preface to Major Barbara by George Bernard Shaw (1905)

I, the dramatist, whose business it is to show the connection between things that seem apart and unrelated in the haphazard order of events in real life…
(Shaw describes his role in the Preface to Major Barbara)

George Bernard Shaw became notorious for the long prefaces he attached to his many plays. The preface to Major Barbara is one of the longest, at 40 pages long! So long it is divided into sections with their own headings. I’d heard so much about Shaw’s prefaces that I was really looking forward to their wit and wisdom, to learning something but this one felt like 40 pages of often dazzling, sometimes incomprehensible, but ultimately pointless rhetoric.

First aid to critics

Shaw has a very poor opinion of British critics and so explains that his preface is so long because he is going to explain the major themes of his play to them and how to think and write about it.

For starters, as a prologue, Shaw takes critics to task who, whenever he tackles a serious subject, accuse him of being influenced by Ibsen or Nietzsche or Schopenhauer or some fancy Continental thinker. Shaw irritably declares that he was much more influenced by little-known British writers such as:

  • the Irish novelist Charles Lever, whose novel ‘A Day’s Ride: A Life’s Romance’ contains the theme of the clash between romantic ideals and harsh reality
  • the amoral antinomianism of Ernest Belfort Bax who defended the positive value of crime
  • Captain Wilson who criticised Christianity for its slave morality who criticised the Sermon on the Mount as a justification of cowardice and servility
  • or the historian Stuart-Glennie who argued that Christianity was invented by white races to subjugate all the other races of the world

The Gospel of Andrew Undershaft

Here beginneth Shaw’s explanation of his play. He tells us that he conceived the character of Andrew Undershaft as a man who has grasped that the greatest human value is to avoid being poor. He picks up the typical middle-class comment ‘Let him [the working man] be poor’ and asks what it means in practice:

It means let him be weak. Let him be ignorant. Let him become a nucleus of disease. Let him be a standing exhibition and example of ugliness and dirt. Let him have rickety children. Let him be cheap and let him drag his fellows down to his price by selling himself to do their work. Let his habitations turn our cities into poisonous congeries of slums. Let his daughters infect our young men with the diseases of the streets and his sons revenge him by turning the nation’s manhood into scrofula, cowardice, cruelty, hypocrisy, political imbecility, and all the other fruits of oppression and malnutrition.

Shaw turns to the play and says he conceived of Undershaft, ‘resolute and clearsighted’, as a man who has grasped the great truth that you ought to do anything, anything at all, to avoid being poor. Against him is contrasted Peter Shirley, a feeble specimen of the weak-willed ‘deserving poor’ who is incapable of bettering himself and always complaining about his lot.

Shaw lambasts high-minded do-gooders like William Morris with his fancy arts and crafts for not grasping the basic fact that most people do not want hand-designed wallpaper or expensive editions of Chaucer, they want more money.

Money is the most important thing in the world. It represents health, strength, honour, generosity and beauty as conspicuously and undeniably as the want of it represents illness, weakness, disgrace, meanness and ugliness.

Thus:

The crying need of the nation is not for better morals, cheaper bread, temperance, liberty, culture, redemption of fallen sisters and erring brothers, nor the grace, love and fellowship of the Trinity, but simply for enough money. And the evil to be attacked is not sin, suffering, greed, priestcraft, kingcraft, demagogy, monopoly, ignorance, drink, war, pestilence, nor any other of the scapegoats which reformers sacrifice, but simply poverty.

The Salvation Army

Critics thought he was mocking the Salvation Army or took Barbara’s view that it should never accept tainted money, but Shaw spends several pages explaining that all money is tainted, none of us can stand all of from the exploitation inherent in our society, and the real life Salvation Army officer who exclaimed that of course they’d accept the donations of a distiller and an arms manufacturer, ‘they would take money from the devil himself and be only too glad to get it out of his hands and into God’s.’ Army officers he quizzed questioned the plausibility of the play not because Mrs Baines accepted the tainted money but because Barbara refused it. The fact that so many playgoers and critics saw her gesture as noble and good indicates how out of touch with ‘the life of the nation’ so many playgoers and critics are.

Barbara’s Return to the Colours

Shaw makes the simple but striking point that fine writing changes nothing, only physical force changes society. It is a truism to claim that Voltaire, Rousseau and the Encyclopedists caused the French Revolution but it’s also wrong. When Voltaire was at the peak of his career, French society only became more repressive and barbaric. The simple truth is that only physical force changes things. Likewise the nineteenth century in Britain had the high-minded writings of its Utilitarians, its Christian Socialists, its Fabians, of Bentham, Mill, Dickens, Ruskin, Carlyle, Butler, Henry George and Morris but they changed nothing. Only strikes and illegal organisation among working men changed anything.

Which is why Shaw finds it extremely significant that the Salvation Army is named and organised as an army, and that its chief campaign is for money. Both of these aspects denote a realism about how society needs to be changed.

Weaknesses of the Salvation Army

That said, he bemoans its Christianity, its ties to arch conservatives and old-school evangelists. This section disappears into squabbles about whether Salvationists do or don’t believe in an afterlife, what kind of afterlife, whether belief in an afterlife robs death of its sting etc, all of which feels like dancing on a pinhead which has been stomped into the ground millions of times over the past two thousand years.

He disapproves their habit of sinners making a grand confession of their previous sinful lives before they saw the light, as this just encourages exaggeration or downright lies. He goes on to attack Christianity (as far as I can make out) claiming that:

the Salvation Army instinctively grasps the central truth of Christianity and discards its central superstition: that central truth being the vanity of revenge and punishment, and that central superstition the salvation of the world by the gibbet.

Who cares. Christianity has no place in modern public life which is, as I write in 2024, more dogged by worries about Judaism and Islam. But it was 120 years ago and the play is about the Salvation Army so Shaw continues with his paradoxical and provocative views:

Forgiveness, absolution, atonement, are figments: punishment is only a pretence of cancelling one crime by another; and you can no more have forgiveness without vindictiveness than you can have a cure without a disease.

You can see how this chimes with his view that imprisoning people for crime is barbaric, simply returning one crime for another. the trouble with all Shaw’s clever demolitions of contemporary social values is it’s hard to make out what he would put in their place. If we don’t lock up rapists and murderers, what should we do with them?

It gets, in my opinion, worse, as Shaw rambles on to talk about super successful millionaire businessmen.

Our commercial millionaires to-day, they begin as brigands: merciless, unscrupulous, dealing out ruin and death and slavery to their competitors and employees, and facing desperately the worst that their competitors can do to them. The history of the English factories, the American trusts, the exploitation of African gold, diamonds, ivory and rubber, outdoes in villainy the worst that has ever been imagined of the buccaneers of the Spanish Main.

We might all agree about the exploitation of Africa, but did English factory owners, mine owners, big businessmen deal out ‘ruin and death and slavery to their competitors and employees’? No, not really. And the unreliable exaggeration of this renders everything which follows flaky and invalid. For he goes on to describe the type of the successful tycoon who believes his own propaganda, writes books of advice, sponsors charitable foundations etc. I guess he’s describing the John D Rockefellers of his age. Would the same apply to our modern leading charitable millionaires, Elton John, David Sainsbury, Dame Janet de Botton, Sigrid Rausing?

Anyway, all this degenerates into the kind of wordy gibberish Shaw is so prone to:

just as our persistent attempts to found political institutions on a basis of social inequality have always produced long periods of destructive friction relieved from time to time by violent explosions of revolution; so the attempt – will Americans please note — to found moral institutions on a basis of moral inequality can lead to nothing but unnatural Reigns of the Saints relieved by licentious Restorations; to Americans who have made divorce a public institution turning the face of Europe into one huge sardonic smile by refusing to stay in the same hotel with a Russian man of genius who has changed wives without the sanction of South Dakota; to grotesque hypocrisy, cruel persecution, and final utter confusion of conventions and compliances with benevolence and respectability.

‘To found moral institutions on a basis of moral inequality’ 1) I don’t quite understand what ‘moral institutions’ are or what ‘moral inequality’ means so 2) I can’t see any way it applies to anything in the real world.

Shaw comes out with sweeping but schoolboy criticisms of society:

Churches are suffered to exist only on condition that they preach submission to the State as at present capitalistically organized.

The police and the military are the instruments by which the rich rob and oppress the poor (on legal and moral principles made for the purpose)…

These sound like the childish nostrums of 1960s radicals who all grew up and went into advertising, silly on so many levels. Would you expect the state religion to preach violent overthrow of the status quo? How would that work? And as we discovered during the Thatcher years, sometimes the greatest opposition to the government’s policy came from senior figures in the Church of England.

As to the police, it is another old chestnut that they oppress the poor but 1) what happens if you defund the police and withdraw any force of law and order from inner cities? Do they become paradises of ‘moral equality’? Nope. Surely the police are the least worst option in terms of trying to curb the evil instincts of so many men. And 2) it is 40 years of neo-liberal economics, with its casualisation of millions of low-paid jobs, the lack of social housing and the demonisation of benefits scroungers which oppress the poor, not cops whizzing round in fancy cars.

Christianity and Anarchism

Thus, according to Shaw, the Salvation Army and all organised religions are placed in a false position until society is comprehensibly restructured. Shaw refers to the Morral Affair without (as is the habit of him and so many of the authors of his age) giving the necessary names or details. The reader has to turn to Wikipedia to find out what he’s on about.

On May 31, 1906, Mateu Morral threw a bomb at King Alfonso XIII’ of Spains car as he returned with Victoria Eugenie from their wedding in Madrid. It was a year to the date following a similar attack on his carriage. The bomb was concealed in a bouquet of flowers. While the King and Queen emerged unscathed, 24 bystanders and soldiers were killed and over 100 more wounded. A British colonel observing the scene compared it to one of war. The bride’s wedding gown was splattered with horse blood.

But Shaw seems to imply that the attack was justified.

The horses alone are innocent of the guilt he is avenging: had he blown all Madrid to atoms with every adult person in it, not one could have escaped the charge of being an accessory, before, at, and after the fact, to poverty and prostitution, to such wholesale massacre of infants as Herod never dreamt of, to plague, pestilence and famine, battle, murder and lingering death – perhaps not one who had not helped, through example, precept, connivance, and even clamour, to teach the dynamiter his well-learnt gospel of hatred and vengeance, by approving every day of sentences of years of imprisonment so infernal in its unnatural stupidity and panic-stricken cruelty, that their advocates can disavow neither the dagger nor the bomb without stripping the mask of justice and humanity from themselves also.

So do I deserve to be blown up by a terrorist bomb because I acquiesce in all the poverty and exploitation to be found in contemporary London? As he continues his narrative, Shaw seems to sympathise with the Madrid newspaper editor who helped the assassin escape, at least temporarily, from the Spanish police, while his bile is especially reserved for public opinion across Europe – ‘the raging fire of malice’ – which was horrified at the mass murder of the bombing.

Maybe Shaw would have approved of 9/11 on the basis of his claim that none of us are innocent? Or, closer to home, of the 7 July 2005 London bombings? That seems to be the logical consequence of his claim that no one who lives in a capitalist society is innocent of the exploitation inherent in capitalism. We all deserve to be blown up.

Sane Conclusions

Shaw continues with his hobbyhorse against the police and against any form of judicial punishment, especially the ‘barbarity’ of imprisonment. Instead he suggests every man is an anarchist when it comes to laws which are against their consciences. At times of great social change, institutions and laws need to change with them but rarely do, end up being 50 years or more out of date with the result that most sane men break them with a clean conscience.

As so many writers of this ilk do, he appeals not to data or facts, but to his own personality:

Here am I, for instance, by class a respectable man, by common sense a hater of waste and disorder, by intellectual constitution legally minded to the verge of pedantry, and by temperament apprehensive and economically disposed to the limit of old-maidishness; yet I am, and have always been, and shall now always be, a revolutionary writer, because our laws make law impossible; our liberties destroy all freedom; our property is organized robbery; our morality is an impudent hypocrisy; our wisdom is administered by inexperienced or malexperienced dupes, our power wielded by cowards and weaklings, and our honor false in all its points. I am an enemy of the existing order for good reasons; but that does not make my attacks any less encouraging or helpful to people who are its enemies for bad reasons. The existing order may shriek that if I tell the truth about it, some foolish person may drive it to become still worse by trying to assassinate it but I cannot help that…

Schoolboy rubbish. Do our ‘liberties destroy all freedom’? No, rubbish. Is property organised robbery? No. Is our morality an impudent hypocrisy? Well, take the general moral agreement that murder is bad, is that some kind of hypocrisy?

It feels intolerably weak, lame and inadequate that all the preceding bombast of this 40-page effusion ends up with this combination of crass exaggeration and egotistical self obsession.

Shaw’s solutions

And his two solutions for all this? Are close to incomprehensible.

First, the daily ceremony of dividing the wealth of the country among its inhabitants shall be so conducted that no crumb shall go to any able-bodied adults who are not producing by their personal exertions not only a full equivalent for what they take, but a surplus sufficient to provide for their superannuation and pay back the debt due for their nurture.

This is nonsense. Nearly half the adult population of Britain is incapable of productive work due to long-term sickness, mental illness, addiction or caring responsibilities for children or others. Next?

The second is that the deliberate infliction of malicious injuries which now goes on under the name of punishment be abandoned; so that the thief, the ruffian, the gambler, and the beggar, may without inhumanity be handed over to the law, and made to understand that a State which is too humane to punish will also be too thrifty to waste the life of honest men in watching or restraining dishonest ones. That is why we do not imprison dogs. We even take our chance of their first bite. But if a dog delights to bark and bite, it goes to the lethal chamber. That seems to me sensible.

To be absolutely clear:

It would be far more sensible to put up with their vices, as we put up with their illnesses, until they give more trouble than they are worth, at which point we should, with many apologies and expressions of sympathy, and some generosity in complying with their last wishes, then, place them in the lethal chamber and get rid of them.

So there are Shaw’s solutions to Britain’s social problems: everyone must be forced to work; any criminal will be tolerated until their behaviour becomes completely unacceptable at which point they will be liquidated. Any goodwill Shaw generated earlier in this grotesque essay surely evaporates at this point. On the last page he explains at length that the churches and Christianity, by offering unlimited redemption, only encourage lowlife criminals or criminal capitalists like Bodger to carry on with their crime indefinitely. The only way to stop it is not endless fol-de-rol of atonement and forgiveness but the iron law of annihilation. To ensure there’s no doubt he repeats his two key points:

We shall never have real moral responsibility until everyone knows 1) that his deeds are irrevocable, and 2) that his life depends on his usefulness.

Is this Swiftian satire or does he mean it? In which case, surely he was a proto-Nazi?


Related links

Bernard Shaw reviews

Conclusion by Walter Pater

Walter Pater

Walter Pater was born in 1839 in the East End of London where his father was a doctor. At the age of 14 he was sent to private school in Canterbury where he was influenced by the soaring beauty of the cathedral and the stylish art criticism of John Ruskin. Aged 19 he went up to Oxford where he took a degree in Literae Humaniores in 1862. Within a few years he began writing essays about poets and artists, including ground-breaking essays about Leonardo da Vinci (1869), Sandro Botticelli (1870) and Michelangelo (1871). He gathered these in his 1873 volume, Studies in the History of the Renaissance.

The Renaissance had a big impact on the literary world because of 1) the length and thoroughness of the essays and 2) the exquisitely sensitive prose they were written in, prose which delicately describes the psychological impact of interacting with great works of art.

It is also a goldmine of literary quotes, for example the Leonardo essay contains the famous line that the Mona Lisa is ‘older than the rocks among which she sits’. The essay on ‘The School of Giorgione’, originally published in 1877 and added to the third edition of The Renaissance (in 1888), features Pater’s much-quoted saying that: ‘All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music.’

The Conclusion

Studies in the History of the Renaissance ended with a so-called Conclusion. As Pater’s biographer Michael Levey points out in his edition of Pater’s novel, ‘Marius the Epicurean’, the Conclusion is not really a conclusion at all, certainly not to a book of essays about the Renaissance. It is a free-standing essay in its own right.

The Conclusion is a miniature work of philosophy which takes as its starting point the swirl of impressions which make up the conscious mind: a drift of perceptions, feelings, thoughts and memories, reduced to impressions ‘unstable, flickering, inconstant’, ‘ringed round for each one of us by that thick wall of personality’ and ‘with the passage and dissolution of impressions…a continual vanishing away, that strange, perpetual weaving and unweaving of ourselves’.

Having described the weaving and unweaving of sensory information for a couple of paragraphs, Peter goes on to propose an ideal for living. Given the never-ending flux of sense data and the perceptions which they prompt in us and the impossibility of bursting through this flux to find any permanent structures or resting places, then it makes sense to live this life of sensations to the max: to seek to live where ‘the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy’.

He uses half a dozen phrases to describe the same basic idea – the quest to live and experience the most vivid sensations possible, but the one that is most quoted is To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.

We should seek to have a ‘quickened, multiplied consciousness’ and the best way to achieve this is through a life of artistic appreciation, ‘the desire of beauty, the love of art for its own sake‘.

Quite obviously this is a deeply amoral and asocial idea. For most of recorded history, art and literature have been created with deeply moral messages in mind, reinforcing the values and norms of the society which produced it. The literature of ancient Greece and ancient Rome was fiercely judged by critics in terms of its social and moral impact and so was every literature up to and including the Victorians.

Pater’s very short essay is proposing a radical alternative, that art has no moral or social message whatsoever, and that the best way to live is simply to enjoy art for its own sake, enjoy beauty for beauty’s sake alone.

Here’s the full text of the Conclusion. I have added to it my own numbered headings and the bold (neither are in Pater’s original text) mainly to help me remember the structure and key points of the argument.

The Conclusion by Walter Pater (1868)

1. The external life

To regard all things and principles of things as inconstant modes or fashions has more and more become the tendency of modern thought. Let us begin with that which is without – our physical life. Fix upon it in one of its more exquisite intervals, the moment, for instance, of delicious recoil from the flood of water in summer heat. What is the whole physical life in that moment but a combination of natural elements to which science gives their names? But those elements, phosphorus and lime and delicate fibres, are present not in the human body alone: we detect them in places most remote from it. Our physical life is a perpetual motion of them – the passage of the blood, the waste and repairing of the lenses of the eye, the modification of the tissues of the brain under every ray of light and sound – processes which science reduces to simpler and more elementary forces. Like the elements of which we are composed, the action of these forces extends beyond us: it rusts iron and ripens corn. Far out on every side of us those elements are broadcast, driven in many currents; and birth and gesture and death and the springing of violets from the grave are but a few out of ten thousand resultant combinations. That clear, perpetual outline of face and limb is but an image of ours, under which we group them – a design in a web, the actual threads of which pass out beyond it. This at least of flamelike our life has, that it is but the concurrence, renewed from moment to moment, of forces parting sooner or later on their ways.

2. The internal world

Or if we begin with the inward world of thought and feeling, the whirlpool is still more rapid, the flame more eager and devouring. There it is no longer the gradual darkening of the eye, the gradual fading of colour from the wall – movements of the shore-side, where the water flows down indeed, though in apparent rest – but the race of the mid-stream, a drift of momentary acts of sight and passion and thought. At first sight experience seems to bury us under a flood of external objects, pressing upon us with a sharp and importunate reality, calling us out of ourselves in a thousand forms of action. But when reflexion begins to play upon these objects they are dissipated under its influence; the cohesive force seems suspended like some trick of magic; each object is loosed into a group of impressions – colour, odour, texture – in the mind of the observer. And if we continue to dwell in thought on this world, not of objects in the solidity with which language invests them, but of impressions, unstable, flickering, inconsistent, which burn and are extinguished with our consciousness of them, it contracts still further: the whole scope of observation is dwarfed into the narrow chamber of the individual mind. Experience, already reduced to a group of impressions, is ringed round for each one of us by that thick wall of personality through which no real voice has ever pierced on its way to us, or from us to that which we can only conjecture to be without. Every one of those impressions is the impression of the individual in his isolation, each mind keeping as a solitary prisoner its own dream of a world. Analysis goes a step farther still, and assures us that those impressions of the individual mind to which, for each one of us, experience dwindles down, are in perpetual flight; that each of them is limited by time, and that as time is infinitely divisible, each of them is infinitely divisible also; all that is actual in it being a single moment, gone while we try to apprehend it, of which it may ever be more truly said that it has ceased to be than that it is. To such a tremulous wisp constantly re-forming itself on the stream, to a single sharp impression, with a sense in it, a relic more or less fleeting, of such moments gone by, what is real in our life fines itself down. It is with this movement, with the passage and dissolution of impressions, images, sensations, that analysis leaves off – that continual vanishing away, that strange, perpetual weaving and unweaving of ourselves.

3. Philosophy as observation

‘Philosophiren,’ says Novalis, ‘ist dephlegmatisiren, vivificiren.’ The service of philosophy, of speculative culture, towards the human spirit, is to rouse, to startle it to a life of constant and eager observation. Every moment some form grows perfect in hand or face; some tone on the hills or the sea is choicer than the rest; some mood of passion or insight or intellectual excitement is irresistibly real and attractive to us – for that moment only. Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end. A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated, dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy?

4. Therefore, we must burn with ecstatic perceptions

To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life. In a sense it might even be said that our failure is to form habits: for, after all, habit is relative to a stereotyped world, and meantime it is only the roughness of the eye that makes any two persons, things, situations, seem alike. While all melts under our feet, we may well grasp at any exquisite passion, or any contribution to knowledge that seems by a lifted horizon to set the spirit free for a moment, or any stirring of the senses, strange dyes, strange colours, and curious odours, or work of the artist’s hands, or the face of one’s friend. Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us, and in the very brilliancy of their gifts some tragic dividing of forces on their ways, is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before evening. With this sense of the splendour of our experience and of its awful brevity, gathering all we are into one desperate effort to see and touch, we shall hardly have time to make theories about the things we see and touch. What we have to do is to be for ever curiously testing new opinions and courting new impressions, never acquiescing in a facile orthodoxy of Comte, or of Hegel, or of our own. Philosophical theories or ideas, as points of view, instruments of criticism, may help us to gather up what might otherwise pass unregarded by us. ‘Philosophy is the microscope of thought.’ The theory or idea or system which requires of us the sacrifice of any part of this experience, in consideration of some interest into which we cannot enter, or some abstract theory we have not identified with ourselves, or of what is only conventional, has no real claim upon us.

5. The aim of life is not to ‘learn’ or ‘mature’ or find The Truth, but to cram as many sensations as possible into our short span, purely for their own sake

One of the most beautiful passages of Rousseau is that in the sixth book of the Confessions, where he describes the awakening in him of the literary sense. An undefinable taint of death had clung always about him, and now in early manhood he believed himself smitten by mortal disease. He asked himself how he might make as much as possible of the interval that remained; and he was not biased by anything in his previous life when he decided that it must be by intellectual excitement, which he found just then in the clear, fresh writings of Voltaire. Well! we are all condamnés, as Victor Hugo says: we are all under sentence of death but with a sort of indefinite reprieve – ‘les hommes sont tous condamnés a mort avec des sursis indefinis‘ – we have an interval, and then our place knows us no more. Some spend this interval in listlessness, some in high passions, the wisest, at least among ‘the children of this world’, in art and song. For our one chance lies in expanding that interval, in getting as many pulsations as possible into the given time. Great passions may give us this quickened sense of life, ecstasy and sorrow of love, the various forms of enthusiastic activity, disinterested or otherwise, which come naturally to many of us. Only be sure it is passion – that it does yield you this fruit of a quickened, multiplied consciousness. Of such wisdom, the poetic passion, the desire of beauty, the love of art for its own sake, has most. For art comes to you proposing frankly to give nothing but the highest quality to your moments as they pass, and simply for those moments’ sake.

******************

Upon the essay’s publication, four things happened:

1) Pater was a tutor at Oxford and this slender essay was adopted as a manifesto and a creed by some of his students and their friends and quickly ramified out into the doctrine and critical theory known as Art for Art’s Sake which was then also christened ‘Aestheticism’.

2) This produced a backlash in Oxford’s authorities and Pater was deprived of a promised position as proctor of Balliol (although more recent scholarship suggests this was as a result of a scandal caused when a student handed over to the authorities homosexual love letters between Pater and a student).

3) Pater himself was dismayed by the impact his essay had on the rising generation (and on his career) and adopted radio silence. For the next 12 years he published nothing except a few discreet essays. And in the second edition of Studies in the History of the Renaissance he quietly omitted the Conclusion altogether, hoping nobody would notice.

4) But, also, Pater grew up. He came to think of the fervid promotion of a life of sensations as immature. He calmed down. He came to see life more as a question of carefully perceiving and distinguishing between perceptions rather then feverishly cramming in as many sensations as you can manage. When you think about it this is rather a schoolboy-let-loose-in-a-sweetshop philosophy of life. This maturity and sobriety may have mirrored a movement in his personal beliefs from an apparent amoral epicureanism back towards the Christian faith of his pious boyhood.

Whatever precisely it was that prompted the long silence, Pater finally broke it when, in 1885 he published a long novel, ‘Marius the Epicurean’. In the same year he published a new, third edition of The Renaissance, as he now called his collection of essays, and this time he allowed the Conclusion to be reincluded, but with a note:

This brief ‘Conclusion’ was omitted in the second edition of this book, as I conceived it might possibly mislead some of those young men into whose hands it might fall. On the whole, I have thought it best to reprint it here, with some slight changes which bring it closer to my original meaning. I have dealt more fully in Marius the Epicurean with the thoughts suggested by it.

Does ‘Marius the Epicurean’ deal more fully with the issues raised in the Conclusion? Sounds like an A-level English question. Read my review of ‘Marius the Epicurean’ (which I’m publishing on Wednesday) to find out.


Related links

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

The Lesser Evil: Political Ethics in an Age of Terror by Michael Ignatieff (2004)

How should democracies respond to terrorist attacks? In particular, How much violence, secrecy and violations of human rights should a Western government deploy in order to safeguard a democratic state which, ironically, claims to deplore violence, secrecy and loudly promotes human rights?

How far can a democracy resort to these means without undermining and to some extent damaging the very values it claims to be defending?

How far can it go to deploy the lesser evil of abrogating some people’s human rights in order to ensure the greater good of ensuring the security and safety of the majority? These are the questions Ignatieff sets out to address in this book.

The book is based on a series of six lectures Ignatieff gave at the University of Edinburgh in 2003. Obviously the context for the lectures and their starting point was the aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on America.

Historical context – the War on Terror

It’s difficult now to recreate the mood of hysteria which gripped so much public discourse in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. US President George W. Bush declared a War on Terror (18 September 2001) which justified major military attacks on Afghanistan (Operation Enduring Freedom starting 7 October 2001), then Iraq (Operation Iraqi Freedom starting 20 March 2003), alongside combat operations in a number of other Muslim countries (the Philippines, Sudan et al). The US Congress passed a law allowing the President to declare war on anyone he thought was a threat. In his State of the Union speech, 29 January 2002, Bush singled out three likely contenders as the so-called ‘Axis of Evil’, being Iran, Iraq and North Korea.

Apart from the mismanagement of the two major wars, in Afghanistan and Iraq, the most contentious aspect of the so-called War on Terror became what many perceived to be the egregious breaches of human rights which a newly bullish America began to practice. Critics claimed the so-called war was in reality an excuse for creating a hi-tech surveillance state, for reducing civil liberties and infringing human rights.

Within a month of the 9/11 attacks the US government passed the Patriot Act which included three main provisions:

  • expanded surveillance abilities of law enforcement, including by tapping domestic and international phones
  • easier inter-agency communication to allow federal agencies to more effectively use all available resources in counter-terrorism efforts
  • increased penalties for terrorism crimes and an expanded list of activities which would qualify for terrorism charges

The law upset human rights groups on various grounds, for example, the powers given law enforcement agencies to search property and records without a warrant, consent, or even knowledge of the targets. But the single most contentious provision was its authorisation of indefinite detention without trial, which became associated with the notorious detention centre at the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base in Cuba,

Ignatieff’s approach

The lectures were given at the heart of this period (2003), 18 months into the War on Terror, as the Patriot Act was still being rolled out, just after the US government launched its invasion of Iraq (March 2003).

In his introduction Ignatieff makes the point that already, by 2003, there was a well-developed legalistic literature on all these issues. He is not going to add to that (he isn’t a lawyer). He wants to take a broader moral point of view, bringing in philosophical and even literary writers from the whole Western tradition, to try and set the present moment in a much broader cultural context.

My purpose is…to articulate what values we are trying to save from attack. (p.xvii)

It’s worth noting that at the time he wrote and delivered these lectures, Ignatieff was the director of the Carr Center for Human Rights at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government. I.e. he didn’t have an amateur, journalistic interest in these issues, but was a senior academic expert in them.

Contents

The text is full of Ignatieff’s trademark complex, subtle and often agonised moral reflections, mixing reportage on contemporary politics with references to writers of the past, continually teasing out subtle and often very illuminating insights. At the same time, as I worked my way through the rather laborious networks of arguments, I began to have less and less confidence in his arguments. Fine words butter no parsnips and seminars on moral philosophy can go on forever. What were his practical conclusions and recommendations?

Chapter 1. Democracy and the Lesser Evil

Democracies have often deployed coercive measures, seeing them as the lesser evil deployed to avert the greater evil of terrorism, civil conflict and so on. But it requires that the measures can be justified publicly, subject to judicial review, and have sunset clauses i.e. fixed lengths so they don’t become permanent features of the society.

Government infringement of its citizens’ rights must be tested under adversarial review. This idea recurs again and again in the text. The defining feature of democracies is intricate sets of checks and balances. If some rights have to be abrogated during emergencies, these suspensions can still be independently tested, by judges, by independent advisers, and they will eventually have to be revealed to the citizens for ultimate approval.

There is a spectrum of opinions on suspending civil liberties. At one end, pure civil libertarians maintain that no violations of rights can ever be justified. At the other end, pragmatists eschew moral principles and judge restrictive legislation purely on practical outcomes. Ignatieff is somewhere in the middle, confident that actions which breach ‘foundational commitments to justice and dignity – torture, illegal detention, unlawful assassination’ – should be beyond the pale. But defining precisely what constitutes torture, which detentions are or are not legal, where killing is or is not justified, that’s the problem area.

If lawyers and politicians and intellectuals are going to bicker about these issues forever i.e. there will never be fixed and agreed definitions, the one thing all good democrats can rally round is ‘to strengthen the process of adversarial review‘ i.e. to put in place independent review of government measures.

Chapter 2. The Ethics of Emergency

If laws can be abridged and liberties suspended during an ’emergency’, what remains of their legitimacy in times of peace? If laws are rules, and emergencies make exceptions to theses rules, how can their authority survive once exceptions are made? (p.25)

Chapter 2 examines the impact the emergency suspensions of civil liberties has on the rule of law and civil rights. Does the emergency derogation of normal rights strengthen or weaken the rule of law which we pride ourselves on in the Western democracies?

Ignatieff takes the middle ground that suspension of rights does not destroy them or undermine the normal practice of them, indeed helps to preserve them – provided they are ‘temporary, publicly justified, and deployed only as a last resort.’

Chapter 3. The Weakness of the Strong

Why do liberal democracies to habitually over-react to terrorist threats? Why do we seem so quick to barter away our liberties? One way to explain it is that majorities (i.e. most of us) are happy to deprive small and relatively powerless minorities (in the War against Terror, Muslims and immigrants) of their rights in order to achieve ‘security’.

But our opponents have rights, too. Just as in the debate over freedom of speech, any fool can approve free speech which they agree with, it’s harder to fight for the right of people to say things you dislike or actively think are wrong. But that is the essence of free speech, that is its crucial test – allowing the expression of opinions and views you violently disagree with, believe are wrong and immoral. It is precisely these kinds of views we should make every effort to allow free expression. ‘I may not agree with what you have to say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,’ as Voltaire famously put it.

It’s easy and uncontroversial to defend the human rights of poets and activists who protested against apartheid or communist oppression. Much harder to insist that detainees being grabbed in Iraq or Syria or anywhere else in the Arab world and flown half way round the world and who might well be members of al Qaeda or ISIL, are provided just the same level of legal representation and rights as you and me. But that is exactly the test of our commitment to human rights: whether we extend them to our bitterest enemies.

Same goes for the other elements in the system of checks and balances, namely the other wings of government, the courts and the media. The temptation and the tendency is for everybody to ‘rally round the flag’ but this is exactly the opposite of what ought to happen. The American constitution vests power in the Presidency to take extraordinary steps in times of crisis or war but that is precisely the moment when the other elements in the division of power should increase their oversight of executive actions.

In his searing indictment of America’s mismanagement of the war in Iraq, Thomas E Ricks makes just this point. The build-up to the war involved questionable evidence (about weapons of mass destruction), wrong assumptions (about the response of the Iraqi population to foreign invasion), criminal mismanagement and the complete absence of a plan for the aftermath. While describing all this in forensic detail, Ricks points out that this is precisely the point when the administration’s plans should have been subjected to intense and critical scrutiny, something which might have saved tens of thousands of lives, billions of money, untold materiel. Instead, in the atmosphere of hysterical patriotism which gripped America, Congress rolled over and approved the plans with little serious examination and the press turned into bombastic cheerleaders. Both miserably failed to live up to the roles assigned to them in a free democratic society.

In fact most of this chapter is taken up with a useful and informative history of terrorism as a political tactic, starting with the Nihilists in nineteenth century Russia, then onto the two great loci of political violence, in revolutionary Russia and Weimar Germany, before turning to post-war terrorism in Latin America (Chile, Colombia, Peru), in Sri Lanka, in Israel, before cycling back to Europe and the 1970s terrorism of the Baader-Meinhof Gang and the Red Brigades, before a brief consideration of the separatist/nationalist terrorism faced by Britain in Northern Ireland and Spain in the Basque Country.

Ignatieff’s summary from this brief conspectus is that terrorism never works, it never achieves its political aims. The Russian and Weimar regimes weren’t undone by political violence but by the cataclysm of World War One and the Great Depression, respectively. Marxist terrorism in 1970s Germany and Italy aimed to create media spectaculars and psychological tipping points whereby the population would be woken from their slumber, rise up and overthrow the repressive bourgeois state etc. Complete failure with the terrorists either committing suicide or publicly recanting.

In Latin America political terrorism either produced the exact opposite of what was intended, for example in Argentina, where it helped a repressive military junta into power. Or, as in Sri Lanka and some extent Israel, it became a stalemate that extended over such a long period of time that it became the social reality of the country, giving rise to a society characterised by random atrocities, intimidation of local populations by the terrorists, and repressive state apparatuses. The host society wasn’t liberated and transformed but permanently degraded.

Ignatieff then considers how the British, on the whole, managed the Northern Ireland situation successfully by abrogating various civil rights but under the aegis of government and judicial review.

But part of the reason his review of traditional terrorism is so enjoyable is because it’s so familiar from decades of print and TV journalism – but this itself highlights, I think, a weakness of the whole book: which is that the campaign of al Qaeda and related groups was not to achieve political change (like the Marxist terrorist groups of the 1970s) or to achieve constitutional change / nationalist independence (as with the Basques or, at the other end of the Europe, the Kurdish terrorist groups in Turkey). Those aims could both be handled in Ignatieff’s model i.e. carefully incorporated into the existing political structures.

By contrast Al Qaeda wanted to destroy the West not only as a goal in itself but as part of an even grander aim which was to undermine the contemporary world order of nation-states and re-create the historical umma, the worldwide community of Muslims that was once held together under the caliphate of the prophet Mohammed. Osama bin Laden identified America as the chief bulwark of the existing world order, especially in the Arab world, where it subsidised and underpinned repressive states. So as a first step to remodelling the world, bin Laden ordered his followers to attack Western targets anywhere, at any time.

Ignatieff was writing in 2003. We had yet to have the 2004 Madrid train bombings (193 dead), the 7/7 2005 attacks in London (56 dead), the Boston Marathon bombing on 15 April 2013 (3 dead), the 18 March 2015 attack on a beach in Tunisia (21 dead), the 13 November 2015 attack at the Bataclan theatre in Paris (90 dead), the Manchester Arena bombing on 22 May 2017 (23 dead), plus numerous other Islamist atrocities in countries further afield.

If the central aim of al Qaeda and its affiliates is to kill and maim as many Westerners as possible, it’s difficult to see how this can be incorporated into any kind of political process. And in the next chapter Ignatieff indeed concludes that the organisation itself can only be defeated militarily.

Chapter 4. The Strength of the Weak

An examination of terrorism itself.

In this chapter I want to distinguish among forms of terrorism, identify the political claims terrorists use to justify violence against civilians, and propose political strategies to defeat them (p.82)

Ignatieff considers terrorism the resort of groups who are suppressed and oppressed, who have no voice and no say in the power structures which rule over them. He gives a handy categorisation of six types of terrorism:

  1. insurrectionary terrorism aimed at the revolutionary overthrow of a state
  2. loner or issue terrorism, aimed at promoting a single cause
  3. liberation terrorism, aimed at the overthrow of a colonial regime
  4. separatist terrorism, aiming at independence for a subordinate ethnic or religious group within a state
  5. occupation terrorism, aimed at driving an occupying force from territory acquired through war or conquest
  6. global terrorism, aimed not at the liberation of a particular group, but at inflicting damage and humiliation on a global power

With the last one sounding like it’s been made up to describe al Qaeda-style hatred of America.

Terrorism presents a classic challenge for liberals, who have traditionally been on the side of the underdog and oppressed minorities, from the early trade unions to blacks under apartheid, and so often have an instinctive sympathy for the social or political or economic causes of terrorism but who, obviously, want to stop short of supporting actual acts of violence. Where do you draw the line?

Ignatieff says the only practical solution is to ensure that the oppressed always have peaceful political means to address their grievances. Purely military means cannot solve terrorism. It requires political solutions, above all bringing the voiceless into peaceful political processes. He doesn’t mention it but I think of how the warring factions in Northern Ireland were cajoled into joining a political ‘peace process’ which promised to take seriously the concerns of all sides and parties, to listen to all grievances and try to resolve them in a peaceful, political way.

Mrs Thatcher said ‘we do not talk to terrorists’ but, rather as with free speech, it is precisely the terrorists that you should be talking to, to figure out how their grievances can be addressed and the violence be brought to an end.

Thus even if al Qaeda’s values come from completely outside the modern framework of human rights, even if they base themselves on Islamic traditions of jihad and unrelenting war against the infidel, even if they cannot be reasoned with but only crushed militarily, this doesn’t prevent Ignatieff making the obvious point that we in the West can still bring pressure to bear on many authoritarian Arab regimes to try and remove the causes of grievance which drive young men into these causes. These would include overt American imperialism; repressive police policies which enact brutal violence and deny human rights; lack of pluralistic political systems i.e. which allow subaltern voices a say and some influence. And so on (pages 99 to 101).

The weak and oppressed must be given a peaceful political alternative that enables them to rise up against the violence exercised in their name. (p.106)

The Arab future

Trouble is, a lot of this kind of hopeful rhetoric was claimed for the movements of the so-called Arab Spring of 2011, when authoritarian regimes were overthrown in Libya, Egypt and nearly in Syria. Just a few years later it was clear that the ‘spring’ comprehensively failed: an even more authoritarian regime was in place in Egypt, Libya had split into warlord-run areas and a ruinous civil war had bedded down in Syria which would pave the way for the rise of ISIS.

Personally, I think the countries in that part of the world which aren’t lucky enough to be sitting on vast reserves of oil will be condemned to perpetual poverty and conflict, because of:

  • the lack of traditions of individual civic responsibility and the complex matrix of civil society organisations which make the Western countries stable as politically stable as they are;
  • as the main offshoot of the above – universal corruption
  • the entrenched political tradition of strong rulers invoking ethnic nationalism or Islamic models of rule or both (Nasser, Gaddafi, Saddam)
  • what Ignatieff calls ‘the corruption and decay of the Arab and Islamic political order’ (p.152)
  • the economic backwardness of most Arab countries i.e. preponderance of subsistence agriculture
  • widespread lack of education
  • marginalisation / lack of education or political rights for women
  • the extraordinary population explosion (when I first visited Egypt in 1981 it had a population of 45 million; now it’s 110 million) which ensures widespread poverty
  • and now, the speedy degradation of the environment by climate change (loss of water and agricultural land)

One or two of these would be tricky challenges enough. All of them together will ensure that most countries in the Arab world will remain breeding grounds for angry, aggrieved and unemployed young men who can be persuaded to carry out atrocities and terrorist acts against domestic or Western targets, for the foreseeable future.

Chapter 5. The Temptations of Nihilism

This chapter addresses the way that, in the absence of peaceful talks, terrorist campaigns tend to degenerate into destruction and killing for their own sake, as does the behaviour of the authorities and security services set to combat them. Tit-for-tat killing becomes an end in itself. Violence begets violence in a downward spiral.

This is the most serious ethical trap lying in wait in the long war on terror that stretches before us. (p.115)

Ignatieff realises that this well-observed tendency can be used by opponents of his notion of ‘the lesser evil’ i.e. the moderate and constantly scrutinised, temporary abrogation of human rights. Their argument goes that what begins as a high-minded, carefully defined and temporary ‘abrogation’ of human rights law has so often in the past degenerated into abuse, which then becomes standard practice, becomes institutionalised, and then causes permanent damage to the democracies which implemented it.

As you’d expect, Ignatieff meets this claim by breaking the threat down into categories, and then analysing them and the moral problems and issues they throw up.

First, though, he starts the chapter with some low-pressure, enjoyably colourful discussion of Dostoyevsky’s novel, The Possessed – which describes a terrorist group which takes over a remote Russian town – and then of Joseph Conrad’s novel, The Secret Agent, which features a nihilistic character named the Professor, who walks round London with an early version of a suicide vest.

Part of the chapter addresses the practical, administrative problem of preventing anti-terrorist campaigns from descending into violence. But, as mention of the novels suggest, he also explores (as far as anyone can) the psychology of the nihilistic terrorist i.e. people who just want to destroy, for no purpose, with no political aim, for destruction’s sake.

It can be an individual who wants to make a name for themselves through a spectacular, for example Timothy McVeigh who carried out the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing that killed 168 people and injured 680. Lone actors like this are always going to be very difficult to detect or deter.

Then he discusses the Japanese doomsday cult known as Aum Shinrikyo which carried out the deadly Tokyo subway sarin attack in 1995, killing 13 commuters, seriously injuring 54 and affecting 980 more. Terrorists who (claim to) represent an ethnic or nationalist cause can, in principle, be negotiated with for at least two reasons: one is that negotiations may hold out the hope that some at least of their goals may be achieved; the other, is that, insofar as they represent an ethnic group, a population, this population can be worked on to reject the group or moderate its behaviour.

With single actors or death cults, levers of negotiation and bargaining are obviously absent. Having established the key characteristics of these kinds of actors, Ignatieff moves on to a detailed consideration of al Qaeda. In his view it has twisted Islamic teachings so completely as to become a death cult. The 9/11 bombers didn’t leave demands or any way to negotiate – they just wanted to strike a blow at the West, specifically America, and that meant killing as many Americans as possible.

His analysis is on the brief side (there are, obviously, hundreds of books about bin Laden and al Qaeda) but, as usual, throws up fascinating insights and ideas. a) It is impossible to negotiate with a suicide bomber because being negotiated out of detonating is, by definition, a failure of the mission they’ve taken on.

b) More subtly, an organisation that sets out to use suicide bombing as a strategy cannot fail because it has no defined, workable political goals or aims. Bin Laden’s aim of clearing Westerners out of Arab lands, overthrowing the existing Arab states, recreating the 7th century caliphate and implementing Sharia law in full, is not a practical programme, it is a utopian millennarian vision. It is so impractical, it is such a long-term and enormous goal, that true believers can’t, in a sense, be demoralised.

c) And this is where the promise of immortality comes in. Once true believers are promised direct entry into heaven, they have ceased to be political actors and, in this narrow sense, Ignatieff defines them as fanatics.

He adds a distinct and fascinating idea which is that all death cults, and most terrorist groups, have to have a theory which discredits the idea of civilian innocence. Obviously blowing up a load of people going to work in their offices is murder. So, just as obviously, terrorists who do it have been re-educated or indoctrinated not to see it that way. The most basic route is for their ideological leaders to persuade them that nobody is innocent; that so-called ‘civilians’ are as guilty as the acts of repression or infidelity or murder as the armies or forces of their countries.

The Algerian National Liberation Front used this defence to justify blowing up cafes full of civilians as part of their ‘war’. Scores of other terrorist groups use the same justification, erasing the difference between the soldier (a figure defined and attributed specific rights and responsibilities under international convention going back at least as far as the Geneva Conventions) and the civilian (who, under human rights law, is not responsible in warfare and should not be a target).

But this works both ways. For when terrorists are embedded in local populations, emerging to ambush soldiers then disappearing back into the crowd, a tendency develops for those soldiers to come to hate the civilian population and take out their anger and frustration on them. Happened in Vietnam (My Lai etc), happened in Iraq (Haditha etc). And of course all such breakdowns of military discipline it play into the terrorists’ hands by getting the population to move over to support them. That’s why terrorists work hard to trigger them.

So, blurring the difference between soldier and civilian can be practiced by both terrorist and security forces and always heads in the same direction, towards ever-growing atrocity and massacre. Eventually both sides are murdering unarmed civilians, as happened in Bosnia and Kosovo.

Something which distinguishes us from the terrorists is that liberal democracies put huge value on human life, and this particularly applies to civilian human life. Therefore the kinds of massacres which US troops carried out in Vietnam and Iraq sully the reputation and undermine the meaning of liberal democracy itself. I.e. they drag us closer to the indiscriminate violence of our enemies.

These pictures of fanatical death cults are by way of preparing the way for the second half of the chapter which moves on to try and define precisely when two anti-human rights tactics may be used, namely selective assassination and torture. Ignatieff is not an absolutist or civil libertarian i.e. he reluctantly admits that, in addressing the kind of nihilistic fanatics he has described, assassination may be the only way to eliminate people you can’t bargain with, and that extremely ‘coercive’ interrogation may be necessary to extract information from fanatics which may save lives.

This is a detailed discussion of contentious issues, but the bottom line is Ignatieff things they may be permitted, but so long as his basic criteria are fulfilled, namely that they are a) approaches of last resort, after all else has been tried b) and that some kind of independent judicial review or oversight is in place. It is when these kind of policies turn into secret death squads that a rules-based liberal democracy starts to be in trouble.

Ignatieff repeats some familiar objections to torture, namely that it simply doesn’t work, that it produces intense hatred which can motivate those who survive and are released into going on to carry out atrocities, and it degrades those tasked with carrying it out. There’s evidence of post-traumatic stress disorder suffered by American operatives tasked with torturing during the War on Terror.

Typically, Ignatieff adds another point I’d never considered which is that there is a slippery slope from torture to plain murder. This may be for two reasons: the tortured may be converted by the process into such inveterate enemies of the state that their interrogators realise they will never be rehabilitated; and, more sinisterly, the torturers realise they can never release their victims because they themselves, will eventually be implicated i.e. the truth will out. Therefore it’s easier all round just to bump them off. Hence the ‘disappeared’ in South American dictatorships, all those detainees who, after extensive torture, were taken out in helicopters and thrown into the sea. Torture doesn’t just not work, create new enemies and degrade the torturers – it creates a problem of what to do with the tortured? A downward spiral all the way.

Chapter 6. Liberty and Armageddon

The book ends with a bleak discussion of what may happen as and when terrorists acquire weapons of mass destruction i.e. terror attacks on a devastating scale. Are our democracies strong enough to withstand such attacks? How can we strengthen our institutions to ensure that they are?

Ignatieff has a number of suggestions about how to prevent the proliferation of terrifying WMDs. But he comes back to his fundamental position which is that the way to defend and strengthen liberal democracies in the face of increased terrorist threats is to make them more liberal and democratic, not less.

Other thoughts

1. Internecine killing

The text is continually spinning off insights and ideas which I found distracted me from the main flow. For example, the notion that every terror campaign, sooner or later, with complete inevitability, ends up terrorising and killing people on their own side – moderates and ‘sell-outs’ and anybody in their ethnic group or repressed minority who threatens to engage in political discussion with the oppressors. In a sense, moderates are more threatening to a terrorist group than their overt enemy, the repressive state, which is why so many terrorist groups end up killing so many people on their own side (p.104).

2. The threshold of repugnance

The savagery of the Algerian fighters for independence in the 1950s left a permanent scar on the national psyche of all concerned so that when, 30 years after independence (1962) in 1992, the ruling elite disallowed an election which would have given power to the new radical Islamist party, the country very quickly descended into a savage civil war, with Islamic terrorists and government security forces both murdering unarmed civilians they considered guilty of aiding their opponents.

Both sides, with generational memories of the super-violence of the struggle for independence, invoked it and copied it in the new struggle. There was little or no threshold of repugnance to deter them (p.105). Violent civil wars set new lows of behaviour with after-comers can then invoke. The whole process ratchets ever downwards.

3. The world is watching

There’s plenty of evidence that if a movement judges that it needs the help of the outside world (of the ‘international community’ which Ignatieff is so sceptical about in his previous books) then it will tailor its behaviour accordingly. It will, in other words, try to restrain violence.

The African National Congress knew it had strong support across the Western world and put its faith in international pressure eventually bringing a settlement, so that its political leaders (and its defenders in the West) chose to play down the violence of the movement’s activist wings (which, as per rule 1, above, were mostly directed against their own i.e. the black community, witness the invention and widespread use of ‘necklacing).

In other words, the international community counts. It can exert pressure. It can use its leverage to turn liberation movements away from terrorist methods. Up to a point. As long as the movement is well organised, as the ANC was and is. At the other extreme is the Revolutionary United Front (RUF), little more than a rag-tag band of psychopaths, who led an 11-year ‘civil war’, little more than a campaign of terror against their own populations (as described in stomach-churning detail in Anthony Loyd’s book, ‘Another Bloody Love Letter’). They had nothing whatsoever to gain from outside influence except being shut down. So with nothing to lose, they continued their killing sprees for 11 long years (1991 to 2002).

At the other end of the organisational scale, Russia was able to carry out atrocities and conduct a war of total destruction in Chechnya because they know no-one was looking (it was almost impossible for foreign journalists to get in) and nobody cared (it wasn’t a location of strategic significance, no oil, none of the racial discrimination the West gets so worked up about) so mass murder proceeded with barely a ripple in the Western press.

These examples prove a general rule which is that the ‘international community’ can have some moderating influence on some insurgences, terrorist campaigns and wars (p.98).

Notes and thoughts

This is a complex and sophisticated book. The language of human rights often segues into discussion of particular conventions and international declarations in such a way that to really follow the discussion you have to be pretty familiar with these documents and laws and rules.

I also found some of the political concepts which Ignatieff routinely throws around quite obscure and unfamiliar – communitarianism, the conservative principle, adversarial justification, the decision cycle and so on.

I got along with his first political book, ‘Blood and Belonging’, very well. Ignatieff began his discussions with detailed descriptions of the political situations in half a dozen countries, giving plenty of colour and a good feel for the place, its history and issues and people, before getting on to the philosophical discussion, and only applied a handful of relatively simple ideas in order to shed light on the nationalist conflict he was covering.

This book is the opposite. It is sustained at a high academic level, continually introducing new concepts and making fine distinctions and drawing subtle conclusions, with only passing reference to real world examples. It sustains a level of abstraction which I eventually found exhausting. I wasn’t clever enough, or educated enough in the concepts which Ignatieff routinely throws around, to really make the most of it. Probably the best way to read it is one chapter at a time, going back and working through the logic of his argument, chewing over the tumble of clever conclusions. It’s certainly the most demanding of Ignatieff’s half dozen politics books.

Seven days later

Having pondered and revisited the book for a week, maybe I can offer a better description of how the text works. The best bits of ‘Blood and Belonging’ were where Ignatieff shed light on the psychology of different types of nationalism (especially the crude sort of ethnic nationalism which so quickly degenerates into violence).

The same is true here, as well. The best bit about, say, the chapter on nihilism, is Ignatieff’s categorisation of different types of terrorist psychology, and then his exploration of what each psychology is, how it comes about and works in practice. This is fascinating and hugely increases the reader’s understanding, especially when he applies the categories to real historical examples.

What I found harder going, where I think the book comes adrift, is when he moves on to discuss how ‘we’ in liberal democracies ought to deal with the new post-9/11 terrorism threat. It’s at this point, throughout the book, that he keeps using his concept of ‘the lesser evil’ i.e. we should, temporarily, and with supervision by some kind of objective person like a judge, abrogate some of our treasured human rights in some circumstances, where it’s absolutely necessary – it’s these passages, and the entire concept of ‘the lesser evil’, which I sometimes struggled to understand and never found completely clear or convincing.

Ignatieff’s categorisations and definitions of types of society or politics or terrorism, and his descriptions of the psychologies behind them, I found thrilling because they’re so incisive and instantly clarified my own thinking; whereas his discussions of the ‘morality’ of the political response to terrorism, I found confusing and unsatisfactory.


Credit

The Lesser Evil: Political Ethics in an Age of Terror by Michael Ignatieff was published by Vintage in 2004. All references are to the 2005 Edinburgh University Press paperback edition.

New world disorder reviews

Volpone or The Fox by Ben Jonson (1606)

Michael Jamieson edited the old Penguin paperback edition of Ben Jonson’s three greatest hits which are Volpone (1606), The Alchemist (1610) and Bartholomew Fair (1614). Jonson is often depicted as Shakespeare’s greatest rival in the second half of his career, as Christopher Marlowe (d.1593) was the leading figure right at the start. Maybe – but there were other notable playwrights around during this period, such as Beaumont and Fletcher.

The real point of linking their names is that Jonson was working in a completely different comic tradition from Shakespeare and so his comedies present the sharpest possible contrast with Shakespearian comedy.

Shakespeare’s comedies are light and graceful, generally set in a fantasy world (Midsummer Night’s Dream) or a faraway land (the fictional Illyria of Twelfth Night) and, although they do include lower-class characters who are clumsy, stupid and bawdy, for the most part the plot is about fine lords and ladies (the Duke of Athens, the Queen of the Amazons and the like), who speak in elegant poetry, and the plays’ comic complications are rounded off by wonderful marriages.

The humour is light throughout. They are Romantic comedies. They aim to delight by transporting you into an often magical otherworld.

By contrast, Jonson’s humour is harsh and satirical. His plays aim to instruct the audience by exposing the errors of city dwellers. They are set very much in the contemporary world – two of his three greatest hits are set in contemporary London. The characters are low lives, thieves and deceivers, frauds and imposters, their gulls and victims, and although they do speak in blank verse, it is a less elegant verse, stuffed with the street argot and slang of the time. And none of his plays end in happy marriage celebrations – the reverse, they end in the exposure and humiliation of the central crooks.

Shakespeare’s comedies have to do with festivals and magic. Jonson’s aim is completely different, he comes from a tradition which, as the poet and courtier Sir Philip Sidney (d.1586) put it, believes that:

Comedy is an imitation of the common errors of our life, which the poet presents in the most ridiculous and scornful sort that may be.

In the prologue to his earlier play, Every Man In His Humour, Jonson very clearly distinguishes between the two traditions, one of wonder and fancy, one of realistic satire. He dismisses the first type as dominated by special effects and impossibilities, where babies are born, grow to manhood and old age all in one play, where huge wars are represented by a couple of actors with rusty swords who nip backstage to get fake blood put on fake wounds, the kind of plays which:

… make a child now swaddled, to proceed
Man, and then shoot up, in one beard and weed,
Past threescore years; or, with three rusty swords,
And help of some few foot and half-foot words,
Fight over York and Lancaster’s king jars,
And in the tyring-house bring wounds to scars.

He [the current author] rather prays you will be pleas’d to see
One such to-day, as other plays should be;
Where neither chorus wafts you o’er the seas,
Nor creaking throne comes down the boys to please;
Nor nimble squib is seen to make afeard
The gentlewomen; nor roll’d bullet heard
To say, it thunders; nor tempestuous drum
Rumbles, to tell you when the storm doth come;

Instead Jonson vows to  portray the everyday world as it actually is, as his audience actually experiences it:

… deeds, and language, such as men do use,
And persons, such as comedy would choose,
When she would shew an image of the times,
And sport with human follies, not with crimes.

To ‘show an image of the times/and sport with human follies, not with crimes’ – this is a handy distinction: comedy deals with folly and stupidity, tragedy deals with crimes. That’s the dividing line. And he repeats the idea in the prose preface to Volpone itself, emphasising:

the doctrine, which is the principal end of poesie, to inform men in the best reason of living.

And he invokes the example of ‘the ancients’,

the goings out of whose comedies are not always joyful, but oft times the bawds, the servants, the rivals, yea, and the masters are mulcted; and fitly, it being the office of a comic poet to imitate justice and instruct to life.

So:Shakespearian comedy exists to enchant and delight; Jonsonian comedy is designed to teach and instruct, that was his often-expressed intention. How well does he achieve it in Volpone?

Volpone

Volpone is set in Venice, a city associated at the time with mercantile greatness, huge wealth and great corruption. (According to Martin Seymour-Smith’s edition of Every Man In His Humour, Venice was described in another contemporary play as ‘the best flesh-shambles in Italy’ and ‘Venetian whores the best in Europe’).

The central character Volpone, is a monster of greed and duplicity. In fact Jonson provides a verse summary of the plot in the form of a seven-line acrostic poem spelling out his name:

Volpone, childless, rich, feigns sick, despairs,
Offers his state to hopes of several heirs,
Lies languishing: his parasite receives
Presents of all, assures, deludes; then weaves
Other cross plots, which ope themselves, are told.
New tricks for safety are sought; they thrive: when bold,
Each tempts the other again, and all are sold.

I.e. Volpone persuades a series of dupes to make him gifts of gold, jewels etc, leading all of them on to believe they will be made heirs to his fortune when he dies. In other words, they are as greedy and selfish as he is.

Cast

VOLPONE, a Magnifico.
MOSCA, his Parasite.
VOLTORE, an Advocate.
CORBACCIO, an old Gentleman.
CORVINO, a Merchant.
BONARIO, son to Corbaccio.
SIR POLITICK WOULD-BE, a Knight.
PEREGRINE, a Gentleman Traveller.
NANO, a Dwarf.
CASTRONE, an Eunuch.
ANDROGYNO, an Hermaphrodite.
GREGE (or Mob).
COMMANDADORI, Officers of Justice.
MERCATORI, three Merchants.
AVOCATORI, four Magistrates.
NOTARIO, the Register.

LADY WOULD-BE, Sir Politick’s Wife.
CELIA, Corvino’s Wife.
SERVITORI, Servants, two Waiting-women, etc.

Animal imagery in Volpone

Anyone with a smattering of Italian would have realised the main characters have names which are simply Italian words for animals, and in any case each animals name is translated and explained on the character’s first appearance: Volpone = fox, Mosca = fly, Voltore = vulture, Corbaccio = raven, Corvino = crow. Mosca refers at one point to a physician named Signior Lupo = Mr Wolf, Lady Would-Be is at one point referred to as a kite, at another to a she-wolf.

But these are not just any kind of animals, these are all animals which feed on carrion, i.e. other dead animals and rotting meat. Volpone knows this – at one point he consciously plays the part of an almost dead, already rotting corpse, in order to attract society’s scavengers:

Now, now, my clients
Begin their visitation! Vulture, kite,
Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey,
That think me turning carcase, now they come;

Mention of wolves echoes or maybe deliberately invokes the Latin proverb which dates back at least as far as Plautus in the 2nd century BC, namely: ‘ Homo homini lupus est’ meaning ‘A man is a wolf to another man’, or people are wolves to each other, or simply – humans are like wolves. That is very much the worldview of the play.

Act 1

It opens with Volpone waking up in the big bed which dominates the stage and asking his servant Mosca to throw open the cabinet full of his wealth, a scene in which Volpone explains his situation (parentless, wifeless, childless) and how he has been duping his greedy clients out of precious gifts for three years, by pretending to be at death’s door and implying he will leave them each, everything.

This draws new clients daily, to my house,
Women and men of every sex and age,
That bring me presents, send me plate, coin, jewels,
With hope that when I die (which they expect
Each greedy minute) it shall then return
Ten-fold upon them;

Volpone and Mosca mock people who work for a living, poor fools. Volpone’s way is far better, better even than robbing churches!

Almost immediately Mosca brings on Volpone’s servants consisting of a dwarf, a eunuch and a hermaphrodite, vivid symbols of the unnatural infertility of Volpone’s household, and they perform a ridiculous little masque mocking, of all things, Pythagoras’s theory of the transmigration of souls.

Then visits are paid by some of the greedy scavengers, namely Voltore the lawyer who has brought Volpone a golden plate, and Corbaccio who brings him a bag of bright chequins i.e. Venetian gold coins. The comedy – and it is very funny – derives from the way Mosca plays on the hopes of these deluded fools, and the extent to which he can push them e.g. he persuades doddery old Corbaccio to draw up a will disinheriting his own son, and naming Volpone his heir. Mosca assures him that Volpone will do the same and he is bound to predecease him, at which point Corbaccio will inherit all.

There is plenty of theatrical business such as Volpone hurrying to get dressed in old man’s clothes before he sees Voltore, and psyching himself into the role of an ailing old man at death’s door; or simple gags such as Corbaccio is hard of hearing and keeps comically misinterpreting Mosca who is forced to shout, but which allows him to mutter insults which the audience can hear:

MOSCA [quietly]: Your worship is a precious ass!
CORBACCIO: What say’st thou?
MOSCA [loudly]: I do desire your worship to make haste

This could be a line from panto or Allo Allo, from broad farce four hundred years later.

Next to pay a visit is Corvino, who has brought a precious pearl. To all of them Volpone acts as at death’s door while they chat to Mosca who leads them on and strings them out with a world of false promises. Directly contrary to Jonson’s comedic theory, a lot of the pleasure derives from watching two expert con-men at work.

After Corvino pushes off, Mosca and Volpone rejoice at their morning’s work. Lady Politic Would-be the English nobleman’s wife arrives at the door but Volpone doesn’t want to see her. He wants to drink and revel like the Turk. The conversation turns to Corvino’s wife, a legendary beauty named Celia. Immediately Volpone says he must have her. Mosca warns that she’s protected by a guard of ten spies each. Hmmm. They’ll concoct a plan.

Act 2

Scene 1

Peregrine, an English gentleman abroad and one of the few honest and sensible characters in the play, has bumped into Sir Politic Would-be and quickly realises the latter is a gullible fool, prepared to believe every conspiracy theory, and regales him with ‘wonders’ from back home in England e.g. a whale swimming up the Thames, which Sir Politic knowingly explains to Peregrine is probably a Spanish spy. The man’s an idiot.

Which is confirmed when Volpone turns up with Mosca, dressed up as a famous mountebank or snake-oil salesman, Scoto of Mantua. They set up a bank or bench, raise a crowd, and Volpone proceeds to give an extended and long-winded sales pitch.

Why he’s bothering to do it in this out-of-the-way corner of Venice becomes clear when he calls for money for his wonder, cure-all elixir and the window above him, in the wall against which he’s set up his stall, and the beautiful Celia throws down her handkerchief with money in it. Volpone sings her praises, just as her jealous husband, Corvino, arrives home and tells Volpone to buzz off, beating him as Volpone flees.

Scene 2

Back at his house, Volpone tells Mosca he’s in love. He tells his loyal servant that all his plate and treasure is at his disposal if he can find some way to get him to Celia, and ‘horn’ her husband i.e. make Corvino a cuckold i.e. have sex with Celia.

Scene 3

Enter a furious Corvino dragging Celia behind her and accusing her of being a whore for opening the window and revealing herself to the mob below. Corvino is mad with jealous rage:

First, I will have this bawdy light damm’d up;
And till’t be done, some two or three yards off,
I’ll chalk a line: o’er which if thou but chance
To set thy desperate foot; more hell, more horror
More wild remorseless rage shall seize on thee,
Than on a conjurer, that had heedless left
His circle’s safety ere his devil was laid.

Scene 4

Mosca arrives. Corvino is initially hopeful that Volpone has died and left him his fortune, but Mosca dashes him by telling him it’s the reverse: Volpone has made a recovery after taking Scoto of Mantua’s elixir. This makes Corvino even more furious, seeing as it as Scoto he caught chatting up his wife in front of a vulgar crowd.

Mosca then changes the tune somewhat, explaining that four doctors from the College of Physicians are even now at Volpone’s and, having discussed a range of colourful Renaissance cures, have agreed one common cure – Volpone needs sex with a ravishing young woman! Now, the thing is, whoever provides that young woman and cures Volpone will almost certainly be made his new heir – one of the doctors has already offered his daughter!

So Mosca now explains to Corvino it’s a race against time to remain Volpone’s heir. Corvino makes the obvious suggestion, let’s hire a whore, but Mosca was ready for that. No, he explains, it must be someone without tricks and guile: does he not know a pure simple virginal woman who he can control and guide?

Corvino steps aside to soliloquise: is it a sin? sex is a mere bagatelle, in the end. No-one will know and he stands to inherit a fortune. Mosca watches him agonise and we the audience watch the con-man work his magic.

Corvino returns to Mosca and agrees: hurry back to Volpone and tell him he will send his wife immediately. Mosca tells him to wait till he calls. Yes, dear Mosca, says Corvino, loyal Mosca, good Mosca. And Mosca hurtles off chortling.

Scene 4

Corvino calls Celia back to him. She enters weeping after the terrifying dressing-down she received earlier. Now Corvino amazes her by telling her he was just fooling! He’s not a jealous man at all! And to prove it, he tells her to dress up in all her finest outfit and jewellery and make-up, they’re invited to a feast at Volpone’s that evening.

Act 3

Scene 1

Enter Mosca with a wickedly gleeful soliloquy about how great it is to be a parasite:

I fear, I shall begin to grow in love
With my dear self, and my most prosperous parts,
They do so spring and burgeon; I can feel
A whimsy in my blood: I know not how,
Success hath made me wanton. I could skip
Out of my skin, now, like a subtle snake,
I am so limber. O! your parasite
Is a most precious thing, dropt from above,
Not bred ‘mongst clods, and clodpoles, here on earth.

Who should come along but Bonario, son of old Corbaccio who we saw Mosca persuading to disinherit in Act 1. He tells Mosca he despises him. Mosca bursts into tears and assures him he has his best interests at heart, why, even at this moment, Mosca knows that Bonario’s father is writing him out of his will. Bonario says: ‘show me’.

Scene 2

Volpone is bored. He gets his three zanies, the dwarf, the eunuch and the hermaphrodite to begin a competition to explain which of them is best and why but hasn’t got very far before a servant announces the arrival of Lady Would-Be.

Lady Would-Be is immensely vain, bullying her two serving women when she discovers even a hair out of place. Volpone is appalled at her arrival and oppressed at her domineering conversation. When he says he feels ill she assails him with a flood of medicines and remedies, then moves on to art and poetry, naming a long list of favourite poets, while Volpone gives us raging asides. Basically she is the stereotype of the unbearably garrulous pseudo-intellectual woman, the bluestocking, letting loose ‘a hail of words’. Her unstoppable verbiage and Volpone’s comic agony at her presence reminds me a bit of Captain Haddock and Madam Castafiore.

Mosca arrives in the nick of time, and relieves Volpone by telling Lady Would-be he has just seen her husband being rowed in a gondola with the most notorious courtesan in Venice towards the Rialto. She hurries out to catch him. Volpone is overcome with gratitude.

Now Mosca leads Bonario in and hides him with a view to letting him see or overhear his father disinheriting him.

Unfortunately, Corvino chooses this moment to arrive with Celia who, as we have seen, he intends to prostitute to Volpone. Mosca is appalled. He told him to wait till called. Now there’s going to be a train crash of clients. Mosca parks them on another part of the stage, then tells Bonario to walk apart in a gallery, the other end of the gallery, to wait there till called. Bonario does so but, unsurprisingly, is suspicious.

Back to Corvino. He is shown at length persuading Celia that having sex with Volpone is nothing, is good for his health, the man can barely walk, it will be nothing, if he was giving her to a lusty Italian or Frenchman, why, yes, that would be remiss – on he drones making up excuses, while Celia grows more and more horrified and begs for mercy, as he drags her towards Volpone’s bed, says she’d rather drink poison, eat burning coals.

Mosca advises Corvino to leave them, so they both exeunt and it is a tremendous moment when Volpone, who had up till then been lying feebly on a couch coughing, suddenly bounds to his feet, full of energy and life, terrifying poor Celia even more. He proceeds to give a dazzling speech about how they will be true lovers, he will give her all his treasure, they shall eat off gold and dissolve pearls in their wine, and then envisions them recreating all the Greek myths of sex before playing the parts of all the modern nations i.e. acting out a million sexual fantasies.

Celia persists in her honour and begs to be defaced or given leprosy so her beauty ceases to provoke and she can live in virtue. At which point Volpone loses patience and goes to simply rape her. At this critical moment Bonario springs out of his hiding place, throws Volpone to the floor and like a Romantic hero, takes her away from this den of infamy, vowing vengeance on the foul fiend.

On the floor Volpone, bemoans this sudden reversal and possible crushing of all his plans. Enter Mosca who has been beaten up by Bonario on the way out and is bleeding. What shall they do? There is a knocking on the doors and Volpone panics, thinking it is the police sent by Bonario, and says he can already feel a red hot brand as punishment being seared into his forehead.

Enter old Corbaccio who is surprised to see Mosca bruised and bleeding. Quick-witted, Mosca explains to Corbaccio that his son, Bonario, has heard about the plot to disinherit him and came to murder Volpone and him, Corbaccio, but Mosca fought him off. Corbaccio is taken in and vows even more to disinherit his son.

However, during this explanation, Voltore the lawyer has also entered and overheard part of this, and sneaks up on Mosca and calls him a parasite and liar, leading him on just like he’s leading Corbaccio on. So now Mosca has to think on this feet again and comes up with the story that he is egging on Corbaccio in the hope that his son murders them both i.e. his father Corbaccio and Volpone – at which point Voltore will inherit! He’s doing it for him, honest. In fact he goes on to tell about Bonario being in hiding and grabbing Corvino’s wife – who he had brought on an innocent social visit – and fighting his way out of the house with and cock and bull story about Volpone being about to rape her. If he succeeds, Volpone will be imprisoned and Voltore will never inherit!

Now Voltore is a lawyer, so he immediately starts thinking how to defeat Bonario. He and Corbaccio exit. Mosca collapses exhausted. Volpone congratulates him on spinning such a dazzling tissue of lies!

Act 4

Scene 1. A street in Venice

Peregrine, ‘a gentleman traveller’, appears to be a decent honest chap, and we find him being lectured by Sir Politic Would-be who has a whole string of projects afoot, each more preposterous than the next, from a monopoly of herring to a scheme to identify whether the plague is aboard quarantined ships, a wise piece of advice to the Venetian state to ban the use of match boxes, and so on.

Enter the equally verbose Lady Would-be with a servant, escorted by Nano. If you recall, she was told by Mosca that her husband was dallying with a notorious courtesan. Now she storms up to him and accuses him of infidelity, then turns on Peregrine and accuses him of being a woman in disguise! Sir Politic is so outraged he storms off and Peregrine stands his ground in astonishment.

Enter Mosca. When Lady Would-be says she is assailing the courtesan he (Mosca) told her about, Mosca says no no no no it is not this gentleman, he is a man and he saw him land this morning. No, the courtesan in question has been arrested and taken before the Senate. Lady Would-be humbly apologies to Peregrine, in fact overdoes it so much it seems almost like a sexual offer, before Mosca takes her off towards the Senate to see the true culprit. The viewer has a shrewd suspicion this will turn out to be Celia. Peregrine stands there astonished at the bizarre couple he has just met.

Scene 2. The Scrutineo or Senate House

Mosca has assembled the three gulls, Corvino, Corbaccio and Voltore, and keeps all the plates spinning by telling them all he’s working just for them. He has briefed them to lie.

Enter judges, Bonario and Celia. The four magistrates discuss what they’ve heard from Bonario and Celia i.e. the plot to prostitute her and how Bonario saved her, and all agree that the youth has a good reputation and she is of spotless virtue.

But then Voltore starts speaking and turns the story upside down, making Bonario a wicked murderer who has been having a licentious affair with the girl and stormed into Volpone’s house expressly to murder his father and claim the inheritance. He lines up his witnesses, namely Corbaccio he swears his son is an unnatural parricide, and Corvino who swears his wife is a hot whore.

It is notable that they both use animal imagery, reinforcing the sense that we are dealing with humans who have sunk to bestial level.

CORBACCIO: I will not hear thee,
Monster of men, swine, goat, wolf, parricide!
Speak not, thou viper.

And:

CORVINO: This woman, please your fatherhoods, is a whore,
Of most hot exercise, more than a partridge,
Upon record… Neighs like a jennet.

Corbaccio, Corvino and Voltore pile calumny on calumny until Celia faints in horror. Mosca is next to give testimony and says his wounds (obviously clearly visible) are proof of the young man’s violent attack. He then says there is yet another witness, this time of Celia’s debauchery, and they call Lady Would-be who enthusiastically points out Celia as a harlot, joining in the animal theme by calling her a chameleon and hyena. (She is not in on the scam; surely this is because she is just stupid and gullible. NB No. In act 5 it is made clear she, too, was briefed and lied against Celia consciously.)

Finally, Volpone is brought in on a stretcher. Voltore makes much of his feeble condition and mockingly asks if this wreck of a man could be a lecher and rapist when he can’t stand and is barely breathing. The magistrates are convinced by Voltore and when they ask Celia and Bonario for their defence the latter say they trust to their innocence and heaven, to which the magistrates, with unconscious satire, reply that that is no proof in this court.

Volpone is carried out and the two young people are sent to the cells while the magistrates tut about young people these days.

Finally, Mosca deals with each of the gulls in turn – Corvino, Corbaccio, Voltore and finally Lady Would-be herself, assuring them, one by one, that they are the sole heirs of Volpone’s riches. And so they all depart.

Act 5

Scene 1. Volpone’s house

Enter Volpone and Mosca who can’t believe they got away with it. Volpone has palpitations, they’ve never done ‘the act’ before in public, and in a court of law, God, the stress! Mosca emphasises that it is their masterstroke, they daren’t go any further.

That said, Volpone immediately conceives a new height of knavery. They will pretend he’s died. He’ll get the servants to put it around town that he passed away as a result of the stress of the trial… and that Mosca has inherited it all. Quickly he asks Mosca to hand him one of the standard will templates which are in the closet and scribbles Mosca’s name into it. They cackle over how the three men and woman lied their heads off in the court.

Barely have the servants gone to raise a hue and cry about Volpone’s death than they hear the first knock on the door. Mosca arranges the desk with notes and papers as if he’s reviewing the estate and Volpone hides so he can watch the Humiliation of the Dupes.

This proceeds in a highly structured way with Voltore, Corbaccio, Corvino and Lady Would-be arriving quickly to find Mosca concentrating on going through a long list of possessions. He hands them the will and one by one they pass it round, each in turn asking Mosca, ‘Surely this is a joke?’ and Mosca giving each one quite a lengthy speech describing their greed and vanity and how stupid they’ve been and telling them to go home and repent.

With each humiliation we cut away to Volpone behind the arras clapping  his hands with glee. When they’ve finally all gone, Volpone comes out and congratulates Mosca for a rare entertainment. To cap it, he suggests that Mosca dresses as a commendatoro or court official and walks the streets to find the four victims and twist the knife.

Actually, Mosca says, he knows a commendatoro personally. He’ll get him drunk, pinch his costume and bring it back to Volpone. (This reminds me of Brainworm getting Formal drunk and stealing his clothes in Every Man In His Humour).

Scene 2. At Sir Politic Would-be’s lodgings

Suddenly an entirely new sub-plot. Peregrine, irked by his encounter with the Would-bes earlier, has conceived a practical joke. He has dressed up as a merchant and paid three other merchants to join in. Now he pleads hasty admittance to Sir Would-be’s presence and hastily tells him that evidence has been sworn against him that’s he’s been overheard scheming to betray Venice to the Turk. They are coming for him! They will torture him!

At that moment the three merchants Peregrine has recruited start banging on the door and shouting. In a mad panic, Sir Politic begs Peregrine to help him clamber into a giant tortoise shell he keeps in his rooms. He will pretend to be a tortoise! He quickly tells his servant to burn all his notes lest they incriminate him.

The three merchants burst in and ransack the place then come over to the giant tortoise. They play their role of state officials and Peregrine pretends to be an innocent bystander. They start kicking and goading the tortoise. Slowly it moves and in doing so reveals garters and gloves i.e it is a man. They lift the shell off him and fall about with laughter.

Peregrine takes off his disguise, introduces himself as the man he and his wife plagued this morning, says now they are quits, and departs. Sir Politic, by himself, laments that the story will be told in pubs and piazzas and he will become the laughing stock of the town. He will leave Venice.

Scene 3. Volpone’s house

I suppose that little sketch gave Volpone and Mosca the stage time they needed to have got hold of their costumes. Now we see Volpone masquerading as a Commendatore and Mosca as a Clarissimo. They congratulate each other on their disguises and Volpone exits. At which Mosca soliloquises that he plans to scam his boss and become owner of all. This final scam is called The Fox Trap.

Scene 4. A street

Volpone in disguise encounters and badgers Corvino, Corbaccio and Voltore, guying them by congratulating each in turn on coming into their fortunes now the old fox is dead. Of course this drives them to distraction with chagrin and humiliation. Corvino, for one, threatens to turn violent but, at key moments, Mosca walks across the stage, now wearing the fine clothes of a Clarissimo. The point is that these fine clothes denote his new rank as a member of the aristocracy, putting him on the same rank with the three dupes, he – a former servant – to their vast chagrin.

Scene 5. The Scrutineo

The magistrates and most of the cast, being Bonario and Celia, Corvino, Corbaccio and Voltore. His final galling encounter with Volpone-in-disguise seems to have turned Voltore’s brain. It appears to be at that moment that he realises what a fool he’s been.

VOLPONE: When I provoked him, then I lost myself.

Now, in front of the whole court, he recants all his former testimony, says it was a lie and he was put up to it by Mosca. Celia thanks heaven. The other two gulls, Corvino and Corbaccio, swear Voltore’s gone mad, cleaving to their story even when the magistrates question them.

Scene 6. A street

Volpone. alone. curses his stupidity in always wanting to take the joke further.

VOLPONE: To make a snare for mine own neck! and run
My head into it, wilfully! with laughter!
When I had newly ‘scaped, was free, and clear,
Out of mere wantonness! O, the dull devil
Was in this brain of mine, when I devised it…
… These are my fine conceits!…
What a vile wretch was I, that could not bear
My fortune soberly? I must have my crotchets,
And my conundrums!

Indeed. Now he bumps into the dwarf and eunuch and hermaphrodite who tell him that Mosca told them to go and holiday,m and give him the keys. In a flash Volpone realises that Mosca means to seize his house and fortune. And remembers that he gave him a version of the will with his name written into it!

Scene 7. Back at the Scrutineo

The magistrates are now inclined to believe Voltore and that Bonario and Celia are innocent, but call for Mosca to be brought. Volpone is still in disguise and makes a few answers about Mosca, but then reveals himself to Voltore – says he is still alive and that Voltore is still his heir.

One of the magistrates had earlier referred to Voltore acting like a man obsessed. Volpone now suggests that he really do act like a man possessed, fall to the floor, froth at the mouth, then return to the original story (Bonario is a would-be parricide, Celia is a whore), save Volpone and be made heir to his fortune.

Quite unbelievably Voltore agrees, promptly falls to the floor, froths, raves etc. The other two desperate liars, Corvino and Carbaccio, egged on by Volpone (in disguise) swear they see a devil fly out of his mouth in the shape of a bat. Then he slowly recovers his wits and, when the magistrates ask if he recognises the paper in which he has written down the (true) series of events says that, Yes, he recognises the hand (Volpone watching all this trembles) but everything written in it is false (Volpone silently cheers) throwing the magistrates into even deeper amazement, and Celia back into despair.

At this point Mosca arrives, dressed very grandly, in fact so grandly that one of the four magistrates makes an aside that he’d make a good husband for his daughter. Volpone has room to elbow his way over to him and whisper in his ear that things are desperately hanging in the balance (‘All’s o’ the hinge’), Voltore spilled the beans once, but now he’s got him safely back onside. Mosca must reveal that Volpone is still alive.

But he doesn’t. Despite Volpone hissing in his ear, Mosca answers the magistrates with the candour of a sad and honest man that, alas, poor Volpone is dead. There follows a furiously frenzied interplay as Mosca dolefully tells the magistrates his master is dead, while Volpone hisses in his ear that he’ll give him half his estate. Not enough, Mosca whispers back.

At that point there’s a further complication because when the magistrates ask who told them that Volpone was still alive, some of them turn to Volpone-in-disguise-as-an-officer and say it was this officer. Well, declare the magistrates, have him taken away and whipped for a liar.

Thus it is, that facing the prospect of an immediate whipping, facing the prospect of Mosca inheriting his entire estate, and overhearing the fourth magistrate musing out loud about marrying his daughter to Mosca, blow it! Volpone decides he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and strips off his disguise, revealing to an astonished cast that he is still alive!

Swiftly he accuses Mosca and the three men as being conspirators and gulls. To be honest I don’t think he gives nearly enough of an explanation to clarify the full sequence of events but, be that as it may. the judges proceed to pass swift and exacting justice.

Mosca, as a servant masquerading as a citizen, is ordered to be whipped and condemned to the galleys for life.

Volpone is told that, as a gentleman, he cannot be whipped, but his entire treasure will be confiscated and given to a hospital. And since he has acquired his fortune by faking the symptoms of gout, palsy etc he will be thrown into prison and set in chains until he does actually develop those symptoms.

Voltore will be struck off as a lawyer and exiled.

Corbaccio is deprived of all his estate, which is given to his son, and sent to a monastery to study how to die well.

Corvino will be rowed around the canals wearing a hat with long asses ears before being put in the stocks, and is ordered to send his much-wronged wife back to her father with her dowry trebled.

Let all that see these vices thus rewarded,
Take heart and love to study ’em! Mischiefs feed
Like beasts, till they be fat, and then they bleed.


Thoughts

Volpone is obviously a big leap forward on Every Man In His Humour in terms of dramatic coherence and power. The central figure of Volpone and the trope of his gulling all the ‘clods and clodpoles’ unifies the play, and the double act of Volpone and Mosca has tremendous verve and power.

So much so that the critique I developed for Every Man seems even more true here, namely the fundamental contradiction which I’ve tried to summarise as Jonson’s Divided Morality.

What I mean is that, on the surface – in his prologues and introductions and dedicatory epistles and other critical writing – Jonson insisted that comedy plays a didactic role and should aim to mock and ridicule foolish, crooked behaviour onstage in order to leave the audience feeling chastened by seeing their own foibles and pettinesses taken to extremes and made absurd onstage.

However, what you see onstage tends to have the opposite effect. Everything in the poetry and action and dialogue and gags and scams that you actually see onstage attracts you to the baddies, makes you laugh or gasp at their outrageous scams, and you find yourself cheering whenever they reappear after an absence. Imaginatively you are on the side of the huge outrageous liars.

That said, this neat dichotomy is complicated by the fact that, maybe it’s the dupes who are meant to play the role of instructing the audience.

I can see how, for example, the audience watching Corvino hot to prostitute his wife for a fortune, or Corbaccio who is constantly on the verge of suggesting to Mosca that they actively murder Volpone – watching either of these grotesques, members of the audience might detect in themselves thoughts which have, in some times and places, tended along the same lines and so be horrified to see them taken to such outrageous extremes. Maybe that is what Jonson intended.

Everyone who sees or reads the plays agrees that the punishments seem very harsh. There’s a surface-level way of assessing them for their time and place, comparing them to actual punishments in Italy or England for the kinds of ‘crimes’ the malefactors have committed.

But there’s also a more psychological interpretation. I’m tempted to think that Jonson-the-moralist, in dishing out such aggressive humiliation and punishment to his creations, is overcompensating for the moral laxity and imaginative indulgence which Jonson-the-playwright has given his characters all along.

At some level, Jonson the strict moralist is administering a beating to his own wayward, anarchist imaginative impulses. He is punishing himself.


Related links

More Elizabethan and Jacobean reviews

1759: The Year Britain Became Master of the World by Frank McLynn (2004)

The war in the wilderness of North America was a nasty, brutal, vicious war, fought without quarter on both sides.
(‘1759: The Year Britain Became Master of the World’, page 352)

The basic idea is simple. The Seven Years War (1756 to 1763) was a major European conflict which was of critical importance in world history. It had two components:

The European War

Six years of fighting on the continent of Europe which involved the armies of France, Prussia, Austria, Sweden, Poland and Russia responding to the tortuous diplomatic manoeuvres of those nations’ rulers – Louis XIV (France), Czarina Elizabeth (Russia), Frederick the Great (Prussia), the Empress Maria Theresa (Austria) and so on. In many ways the conflict was a continuation of the War of Austrian Succession (1740-48) and to really understand what was at stake you would have to read hundreds of pages about each of the different combatant countries and the complexity of their territorial ambitions.

The World War

By contrast the global dimension was much simpler: during these years France and Britain battled for world domination in two major cockpits, East India and North America – with additional conflict in the Caribbean and the Philippines when, towards the end (in 1762), Spain got dragged into the fighting.

Although British armies fought on the continent – not least because King George II of England was also king of Hanover, one of the many minor states in Germany – British historians have been less interested in the bewilderingly complex diplomatic manoeuvring of the Europeans than in the life-or-death struggles for control of India and North America which we fought with the French. The European situation established by the Peace of Paris in 1863 was to go on changing through another 150 years of warfare i.e. is only part of a continuous and complicated narrative – whereas it was this war which saw the decisive emergence of Britain as the dominant global power.

Louis XV, by Maurice Quentin de La Tour (1748)

King Louis XV of France painted by Maurice Quentin de La Tour (1748) ‘neurotic, weak and indecisive… vindictive and vengeful’ (p.71)

Pocock and McLynn

This explains why Tom Pocock’s popular account, Battle for Empire, which I read recently, barely even mentions Europe or its numerous bloody battles, instead giving vivid accounts of the campaigns in Bengal, Canada, the Caribbean (the British siege of Havana) and the Philippines (the British siege of Manila).

This book, by popular historian and biographer Frank McLynn, focuses on just one year of the war, arguably the key year, of 1759 – the year the British won decisive victories in India and Canada, expelling the French from both and opening the way to the dominance of the British Empire. Hence the blurb on the back which claims that 1759 ought to be as well-known a date in British history as 1066 or 1588 or 1815.

Between this and the Pocock, I prefer Pocock. McLynn is a lot longer – some 400 pages of small print versus Pocock’s 300 of larger print. But the Pocock is very tightly focused. At first I was put off by the way he opens each section with thumbnail sketches of leading personalities, generally admirals and key naval officers. But as the book progressed, this approach helped me to grasp the connections between the relatively small number of senior military and naval personnel involved and who pop up i different theatres of the war. Pocock’s method allows the reader to follow careers, promotions, demotions, deaths and injuries in battle – to get a flavour of the jostling for power, ambition and often quite crass stupidity, which determined the outcome of key battles.

Pocock also describes the fights in quite bloodthirsty detail – I am still reeling from the appalling butchery at the Battle of Ticonderoga on 8 July 1758 where, misled by faulty intelligence and his own apparent stupidity, General James Abercromby ordered British forces to charge uphill towards a powerfully built timber stockade manned by French and Indian forces who cut down the Brits like wheat, turning the hillside into an abattoir (Battle For Empire pages 100 to 112). McLynn only mentions this harrowing disaster in a passing sentence:

His [Pitt]’s 1758 strategy had worked in the Ohio Valley and on Lake Ontario but came to grief at Fort Carillon (Ticonderoga) when General Abercromby foolishly sent his much larger army on a frontal assault on Montcalm’s entrenchments, where it was shot to pieces. (p.138)

Portrait of a year

But then McLynn is aiming for something quite different. He is not aiming for a military or diplomatic history, but for a ‘portrait’ of the whole year in all its cultural, literary, artistic and philosophical aspects as well as battles – to give you a feel of everything that was going on in this fateful year.

Which explains why McLynn’s book is massively and deliberately digressive. There is more about Dr Johnson and David Hume, about Casanova’s love life, the plays of Goldoni, Madame de Pompadour’s early years, about the alcoholic Bonny Prince Charlie or the brutal Duke of Cumberland – than there is about some of the crucial military encounters earlier in the war. McLynn is setting out to give the broadest possible social, cultural and biographical context for the whole year.

Madame de Pompadour by François Boucher (1756)

Madame de Pompadour painted by François Boucher (1756) ‘a multi-talented woman with many different gifts and charms’ (p.72)

It is an immensely gossipy book, wandering off to give us a five-page description of Venice in the 1750s, complete with profiles of the city’s leading composers and painters and playwrights, or a pen portrait of the founder of Methodism, John Wesley (p.56), and his (surprisingly) unhappy marriage. 1759, we learn, was the year that Arthur Guinness bought a brewery in Dublin (p.34), James Watt opened a shop in Glasgow (p.23), the Duke of Bridgewater got the first Canal Act through Parliament (p.23), John Smeaton built the Eddystone Lighthouse (p.35), Kew Bridge – designed by John Barnard – was opened and the British Museum opened to the public. You get the picture. George Washington got married (p.27). So did Tom Paine (p.22). Thomas Arne (composer of ‘Rule Britannia’) received an honorary degree (p.49). As did Benjamin Franklin (p.53). And so on.

Even when we come to the actual history being described, it is pre-eminently history seen through the personalities and biographies of powerful people, with all their quirks and oddities, their feuds and obsessions, their endless scheming, bickering, gossiping and bitching behind each other’s backs.

Thus the ultimate failure of the French to keep New France (or Canada, as ‘we’ called it) is seen as a failure of the indecisive French King Louis XV, his former mistress and primary adviser Madame de Pompadour, and his bickering Conseil d’en Haut, to realise Canada’s importance and keep it properly supplied or armed.

This strategic failure was exacerbated by the bitter rivalry of the two men on the ground, head of the army Louis-Joseph Montcalm and the Governor General of the colony, Pierre de Rigaud, Marquis de Vaudreuil-Cavagnial. Montcalm despatched an ambassador to Versailles to plead his case. (This was the noted mathematician, Antoine Comte de Bougainville, who had joined the army and risen to be Montcalm’s aide-de-camp. In a typically diverting aside McLynn describes his later career as a noted explorer, in fact the first french officer to circumnavigate the globe, claiming Tahiti for France and getting plants and part of Papua New Guinea named after him). But Vaudreuil sent his own representative and the two gave conflicting accounts and lobbied rival camps of supporters back in France. It was a viper’s nest of intrigue.

Louis Antoine de Bougainville

Louis Antoine de Bougainville, award-winning mathematician who became aide-de-camp to Montcalm and was sent by him to lobby Versailles for more resources in Canada. In the 1760s Bougainville undertook the first voyage round the world by a French officer, claiming Tahiti for France, getting an island off Papua New Guinea and the genus of plant named after him.

Why the French were doomed

Amid the lengthy descriptions of the Canadian landscape and the potted biographies of all the key players, there emerges some analysis of the challenges the French faced and which, set down in black and white, seem insuperable. They were:

  • outnumbered by British forces five to one
  • poorly supplied and paid by France, which was erratic in its support compared to Britain’s commitment of large resources, arms and men to its colonies
  • hampered by France’s chaotic and failing finances which was administered by nobles who themselves refused to pay taxes, compared with Britain’s much more effective tax system backed up by the lending capacity of the Bank of England
  • crippled by the vast ‘pyramid of corruption and defalcation’ created in New France by world-class embezzler and swindler, the Finance Minister, François Bigot – McLynn’s account of his swindles and scams is breath-taking
  • restricted by the British navy’s control of the Atlantic which amounted to a blockade of French traffic
  • daunted by the British ability to recruit American colonists from the densely populated Thirteen Colonies with their settled farming communities and towns (total population maybe 1 million), compared to the very thin, scattered nature of French settlers, often itinerant trappers (population maybe 70,000)

The more you read about the situation in Canada the more inevitable the French defeat and expulsion seems. The French commander in the field, Montcalm, knew it, writing to the Minister of War, Belle-Isle, that Canada would inevitably fall to the British in the next fighting season because:

  • The British have 60,000 men, the French have only 11,000
  • The British are well organised, the French government of Canada was ‘worthless’
  • The British had food and supplies; the French had none (p.135)

But it is characteristic of McLynn’s book that the first few pages of his Canada section are devoted not to an analysis of the economic, social or military situation – but to an exposition of Edmund Burke’s landmark treatise on ‘the Sublime’, which distinguished between Beauty (symmetrical, pleasurable) and the Sublime (huge, overpowering and containing elements of fear and/or pain). McLynn goes on to relate this idea of the Sublime to the grandeur of the North American landscape as described by 18th century travellers and tourists, quoting diaries and letters which describe the mountains, the Great Lakes and, of course, Niagara Falls, in term of their size and majesty.

This leads naturally to a consideration of the Canadian climate – especially the biting cold endured by both sides in the conflict, stories of frostbite and amputated toes among both armies – before leading on to the structure of the Indian nations, with profiles of the various Indian leaders and their complex treaties and alliances with either the French or British. All very interesting, often fascinating & thought provoking – but if you don’t already have quite a good grasp of the key political and military events, eventually quite confusing.

Étienne-François, comte de Stainville, duc de Choiseul, Foreign Minister of France 1758-1761

Étienne-François, comte de Stainville, duc de Choiseul, Foreign Minister of France 1758 to 1761,  apparently ‘a compulsive and frenzied womaniser’

In defence of McLynn’s personality-based approach, it does seem to have been an age where the quirks and characters of leading figures were hugely important. In Europe the Austrian Queen Maria Theresa pulled off a diplomatic coup by making flattering overtures to Madame de Pompadour who in turn persuaded Louis XV to completely reverse French policy – and astonish Europe – by making a pact with France’s traditional enemy, Austria. Direct personal contact between rulers could change the course of history – in this case, badly for France, since I’ve read that French soldiers were dragged into Austria’s continental campaign which would have been much more effectively deployed in either India or Canada. Another example of the importance of personality is the rivalry between Montcalm and Vaudreuil which does seem to have been particularly poisonous and helped weaken New France.

Pitt and Newcastle

Compare and contrast the disunity in the French camp with McLynn’s account of the famously close and effective partnership between Britain’s Prime Minister, the master strategist William Pitt (Pitt the Elder), and his one-time political opponent and temperamental opposite, Thomas Pelham-Holles, 1st Duke of Newcastle, ‘an amoral, cowardly, unprincipled, vacuous man’ (p.96) who ended up becoming one of the great ‘odd couples’ of political history.

So in some ways, McLynn’s chatty, gossipy approach is appropriate for a chatty, gossipy age which was dominated by powerful personalities, their alliances, feuds, friendships and enmities. But some of his digressions stray so far beyond the political and military sphere, off into remote regions of culture and art and topography that, interesting though they all are, these excursions ultimately, I think, rather muddle the central thesis. In among the welter of general knowledge and historical trivia, it’s easy to lose track of which events directly impacted the war – and therefore of the book’s central thesis i.e. just why 1759 was so important.

India

Thus (relatively brief) chapter on the Anglo-French conflict in India (the majority of the book is about Canada) is introduced by a long excursus into the work of Samuel Johnson whose popular short novel, Rasselas, was published in 1759, part of the fashion for tales and accounts of exotic far-off countries (Persia, Canada, India). This leads into the role played by exotic animals in the popular imaginary of India, specifically elephants and tigers; of the role of the elephant in classical Hinduism; the efforts of the famous horse painter, George Stubbs, to paint exotic animals; and the way later British imperialists took over the Mughal tradition of hunting tigers on elephant-back. All very interesting, but quite a while before we arrive at the political and military situation in India.

The India chapter highlights the other, fairly obvious, drawback with concentrating so much on one year, which is that, no matter how momentous it is, key geopolitical and military events happen either side of it. Thus the decisive battle which secured Bengal for the British East India Company was fought at Plassey in 1757. Pocock’s account of the build-up and the battle itself are a revelation to someone like me, who didn’t know much about it beforehand. Whereas in McLynn’s account it is briefly mentioned in order – fair enough, according to his own prospectus – to concentrate on the events of his magic year 1759. Here we are given detailed (and withering) portraits of the two key French military figures –

  • Thomas Arthur Lally, comte de Lally-Tollendal, in charge of the French army in India, failed to capture Madras, lost the Battle of Wandiwash, then surrendered the remaining French post at Pondicherry. After time as a prisoner of war in Britain, Lally voluntarily returned to France to face treason charges for which he was eventually beheaded. McLynn accuses him of ‘stupidity and incompetence’ (p.178)
  • Anne Antoine, Comte d’Aché, in charge of the French fleet, a timid and indecisive man who fought a series of inconclusive battles with his aggressive British counterpart Admiral Sir George Pocock, failed to provide adequate naval support to French troops trying to capture Madras in 1759 and failed to support the French forces defending Pondicherry, the French capital in India, which was subsequently surrendered to the British. ‘A prickly, difficult individual’ (p.179)

It was more complex than this, as McLynn explains how Lally’s high-handed approach to Indian princes lost him alliances and territory in the interior and alienated all his subordinates and colleagues, before ending in complete failure. He gives a gossipy profile of Lally the (very flawed) man – ‘imperious, short-tempered and despotic’ (p.167) – as well as a detailed account of the plans and marches and sieges and retreats and battles and skirmishes which took place throughout the year. But ultimately, this account of the Anglo-French conflict in India suffers rather than benefits for concentrating so much on one year, without placing the events of 1759 in the continuum of what came before or after, a drawback for which no amount of entertaining digressions about Johnson or Voltaire can really compensate.

Admiral Sir George Pocock (1706–1792) by Thomas Hudson

Admiral Sir George Pocock (1706 to 1792) though never winning a decisive sea battle, his aggressive tactics eventually forced his French rival, Admiral D’Aché, to abandon the East Coast of India to British control.

The Battle of the Plains of Abraham 13 September 1759

On 13 September 1759 General James Wolfe won the Battle of the Plains of Abraham. This was high ground to the west of Quebec, the capital of New France i.e. Canada. He had been sent there by Pitt with a large naval force and plenty of soldiers, irregulars and Indians. The problem he faced was breaking through the French defences to the east of the city and McLynn shows in detail how he failed to do this, with many casualties, in a frontal assault and then resorted to terrorising the neighbourhood of the city, systematically burning remote settlements to the ground in order to demoralise the French. His own officers objected to this policy and, predictably, it stiffened French resolve.

It was only after months of stalemate that he acted on what some historians take to be more or less impulse – and there is a great deal of controversy about who gave him the idea – a renegade Indian, a deserting Frenchman, a Brit who had been held prisoner in Quebec and escaped; but someone suggested landing on the narrow shingly beach upstream of Quebec and that there was a path up the 300 foot cliffs to the plain above. Wolfe had good luck all the way, with the flood tide being just right to carry his ships upstream but not too much to cover the beach; the French sentries had been told to expect a flotilla of supplies going upstream and so mistook the British for that; French sentries on the heights were palmed off by a Scot who happened to speak fluent French – until enough British forces had scrambled up the track to the top, overpowered the scanty French forces and to allow Wolfe’s army to come up, bringing artillery with them.

Thus the commander of the French forces awoke to discover to his horror that a full British Army was drawn up in battle ranks on the sloping plain above the city. He transferred his troops from the eastern approaches which they’d been defending for months and battle commenced. Even now it was a close run thing, with British forces mauled on the east and west flanks by Indian and irregular forces, until the British eventually broke the French army and forced them to retreat beyond the city to the east. At the height of the battle Wolfe was shot in the wrist and groin and bled to death. Coincidentally, the leader of the French forces, Montcalm, was also killed. Their deputies acted according to the book, Townshend lining up his guns above the town ready to blast it to pieces, the French withdrawing the remainder of their forces to a distance to regroup and await reinforcements from the north.

Battle of the Plains of Abraham based on a sketch made by Hervey Smyth, General Wolfe's aide-de-camp

Battle of the Plains of Abraham based on a sketch made by Hervey Smyth, General Wolfe’s aide-de-camp

What I didn’t know is that the actual surrender hung by a thread. A relief force under Major-General François de Gaston (aka the Chevalier de Lévis) was appalled at the cowardly Governor de Vaudreuil’s decision to withdraw. Lévis regrouped all his forces and marched back towards the city. But delay in assembling all the logistics for the march allowed the governor of Quebec, Jean-Baptiste Nicolas Roch de Ramezay, to believe the army had abandoned him. Stuck in charge of a large number of sick and wounded, his already heavily bombarded town thronged with women and children and seeing the British lining their guns up to pound the city to oblivion, Ramezay took the decision to hand over the city. Thus on 18 September British forces entered Quebec and took control. There was, as McLynn emphasises, no looting or pillage, the French were guaranteed security, freedom of religion etc; all comparatively civilised. But Lévis’ force arrived one day later. If Ramezay had held out for one more day the history of North America might have been completely different.

The Battle of Quiberon Bay 20 November 1759 part one

The seizure of Quebec wasn’t decisive in itself. A French army remained in the field and, as McLynn points out, in some ways it was a relief for the French not to be responsible for feeding the civilian population, including all the sick and wounded, during the harsh Canadian winter. In fact the British forces in Quebec suffered badly during the winter, not least from scurvy caused by their poor diet, and were considerably weakened when the French returned to give fight in the spring.

But although fighting continued up until the end of the war in 1763, the British never relinquished the city and the strategic advantage it gave them. An important reason they could hang on was the Royal Navy’s great victory at Quiberon Bay off the French coast on 20 November 1759. All through the year the French had been planning to mount an ambitious amphibious invasion of Britain, landing some 100,000 troops, defeating the Brits and marching on London.

This theme threads throughout the book and McLynn is good on the continual vacillations among the French high command for this huge project, which saw the site of the invasion being switched from the South Coast of England to Ireland or Scotland. At one point the French tried to persuade the Swedes to lend them ships to ferry troops to the east coast of England. It is against the backdrop of this ambitious if ever-changing plan that McLynn threads his descriptions of Bonny Prince Charlie.

Bonny Prince Charlie and the Jacobite rebellions

Charles Edward Stuart was the grandson of King James II of Britain. In 1688 James was expelled by a coup of leading British aristocrats, because he was a Catholic and had had his baby son christened as a Catholic. The coup leaders invited the Protestant William, Prince of Orange (part of Holland) to come and be Britain’s king, because he was married to James II’s (Protestant) daughter, Mary. Mary died comparatively young in 1694. When William died in 1702 he was succeeded by Mary’s sister i.e. another daughter of James II, Anne. She reigned until 1714 and died without children. Parliament had planned for this contingency and decreed that the crown should then go to Sophia, Electress of Hanover, the granddaughter of James VI and I through his daughter Elizabeth. As it happened, Sophia had died earlier the same year, and so the law decreed the British throne should then pass to her son, George, Elector of Hanover, who became King George I of Great Britain. His son would be George II, his grandson George III, his son George IV, collectively giving their name to the Georgian era, Georgian architecture etc.

These elaborate machinations obviously made a mockery of any notion of the ‘divine right of kings, and there were many in England who pined for the ‘true’ line of descent to be followed, and for King James (and later on his son) to be restored to their ‘rightful’ throne. This feeling was even stronger in Scotland, where many felt that the English could do what they wanted, but Scotland deserved to have her ‘rightful’ Stuart dynasty restored, instead of some preposterous German prince.

Collectively the cause of restoring the Stuart king was called Jacobitism (from Jacobus, the Latin for James, the name of the deposed king, and his heirs) and its followers were Jacobites. In 1715 there was a major Jacobite rising beginning in Scotland, in which armed forces captured a lot of the country, and coinciding with a rising of English Jacobites in Northumberland and the West Country. The Hanoverian government (as it had become known) successfully quashed this, only after months of manoeuvring and several major battles, in 1716. James (the Old Pretender) returned to France a disappointed man.

In 1745 his son, Charles Edward Stuart (the Young Pretender also known as Bonny Prince Charlie) led a much more substantial rising. The collective Jacobite forces took the Hanoverian army by surprise and marched as far south as Derby, only 120 miles from London, before losing their nerve, halting and then withdrawing. This turned into an increasingly desperate retreat all the way back into Scotland and then into the Highlands where, at the notorious Battle of Culloden on 16 April 1746, the Jacobite forces were decimated, survivors being hunted down and killed. The rising led to a brutal backlash in which vast areas of the Highlands were cleared of their suspected treacherous inhabitants, the kilt and other signs of the clan system were banned, all the ringleaders were arrested and many hanged, drawn and quartered.

It was this smouldering resentful Jacobite cause which the French government hoped to revive in 1759. Hence repeated bad-tempered meetings between the Young Pretender and Louis XV’s exasperated ministers: they wanted him to land in Scotland and spark a Highland rebellion to distract Hanoverian forces from the south of England, where the invasion would then take place. Charlie knew from bitter experience where that led (Culloden), suspected most of the surviving Highland chiefs would be reluctant to support him, and realised he was, in any case, only being used as a pawn. He insisted on significant French forces to support him and that he lead an assault on England. London or nothing. Repeated suggestions that he lead an assault on Scotland, Ireland or (bizarrely) Canada, were swept aside.

In the event, Charlie played no part in the decisive events of 1759, but McLynn is fascinating about his character (he had become a grumpy alcoholic), the collapse of the Jacobite cause in England and Scotland (when Charlie took a mistress he lost many of his Puritanical followers), and the intense and frustrating negotiations, as seen from both sides.

Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Severino Maria Stuart (1720 – 1788) known as The Young Pretender and Bonnie Prince Charlie

Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Severino Maria Stuart (1720 to 1788) also known as ‘The Young Pretender’ and ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’. By 1759 an embittered alcoholic.

The Battle of Quiberon Bay 20 November 1759 part two

Preliminary to the victory at Quiberon Bay, was the Battle of Lagos Bay on 18 and 19 August 1759. McLynn devotes a chapter to this battle where the Royal Navy defeated the French Mediterranean fleet in a running fight coming out around the south coast of Spain, which ended with the French survivors limping into Lagos Bay, Portugal. This ended all hopes of a Grand Invasion plan (which required multiple French naval forces to fend off the Royal Navy in the English Channel) and forced the French to lower their ambitions. Still, they had built hundreds of flat-bottomed barges in the Channel ports and just needed the Atlantic fleet to protect them. Pitt and his cabinet knew there was a plan to invade and the location of the barges, and so he ordered the Navy to enforce a blockade on the key Atlantic port of Brest.

McLynn is full of admiration for Admiral Edward Hawke, who spent months itching for a fight, compared to his timid opposite number, the Comte de Conflans. Finally the French were sighted exiting the port, word got back to Hawke in Torbay and he gathered as many ships as possible to sail south. Both fleets struggled to manage stormy Atlantic weather, but Hawke chased the French back towards their port in the Gulf of Morbihan, attacking the stragglers first then engaging with the main fleet.

24 British ships of the line engaged a fleet of 21 French ships of the line under Marshal de Conflans. McLynn gives a vivid and terrifying account of the battle, which amounted to huge ships firing at virtually point blank range into other huge ships, destroying rigging, obliterating human bodies, turning the decks into bloody slaughterhouses. Result: the British fleet sank or ran aground six ships, captured one and scattered the rest, giving the Royal Navy one of its greatest ever victories.

The Battle of Quiberon Bay a) led the French to abandon any plans for an invasion, b) established the Royal Navy as the most powerful in the world c) meant the French were from that point onwards hampered in trying to send provisions and troops to the other theatres of war, namely Canada. Although French forces fought on in Canada for another few years, they were never able to receive the reinforcements of troops or provisions which they British did, which was weakening in itself but also demoralising. The Peace of Paris in 1763 falls outside McLynn’s remit, and was a complex deal in itself, whereby various territories seized by one side or the other were returned or exchanged. But the key element was French ceding of almost all their North American territory to the British. And in many ways the treaty merely reflected the reality on the ground: the Royal Navy ruled the seas and so made much easier, or maybe inevitable, British overlordship of America and India.

Britain won

So we won and, as the Wikipedia entry on Madame de Pompadour puts it, ‘France emerged from the war diminished and virtually bankrupt.’ Weakening the prestige of the monarchy, allowing the revival of the great and reactionary aristocrats, and crippling France’s finances, the Seven Years War in many ways sowed the seeds for the French Revolution of 1789.

But, paradoxically, it also sowed the seeds of the American War of Independence and the loss of Britain’s American colonies, as is made clear in Tom Pocock’s account. The weakening of the American armies which the British used in the Caribbean, where they were decimated by disease, was one of the reasons the Pontiac Indian rebellion of 1763 was able to take hold, causing many colonists to complain about the lack of protection from ‘their’ government. The British beat Pontiac and his forces after a long struggle and proceeded to build forts to protect the frontier with the Indians, but then made the fateful decision of taxing the colonists to pay for their own defence. The Stamp Act of 1765 was the seed around which all kinds of grievances and complaints against the mother country crystallised, leading to riots alongside the formation of corresponding societies to co-ordinate the new demands for ‘independence’.

These events occur well past McLynn’s set year of 1759, but they – as well as the decisive victory of the British on the world stage – are its important legacy.

William Pitt, 1st Earl of Chatham by William Hoare

William Pitt, 1st Earl of Chatham, the strategic genius who led Britain to victory in the Seven Years War. The American town of Pittsburgh is named after him. ‘He could not understand friendship and had no real friends’ (p.282)

Punishing profiles

McLynn has more of a writerly sensibility than a scholar’s concern for references and theories, and his prose often slips into gushing novelette style. This is particularly noticeable in his enthusiastic criticisms of almost all the main characters:

  • Choiseul was a ‘compulsive and frenzied womaniser’ (p.60)
  • Benedict XIV was ‘undoubtedly one of the great popes of the ages’ (p.61)
  • Louis XV was ‘a great ditherer and prevaricator’ (p.61) as well as being ‘neurotic, weak and indecisive… vindictive and vengeful’ (p.71)
  • King Ferdinand of Spain was ‘under the thumb of his termagant queen’ (p.65)
  • In the 1750s the high aristocracy began to reassert the powers they’d lost under Louis XIV, with the result that ‘patronage-hungry great families crowded to the trough, snouts a-quivering’ (p.70)
  • ‘The classic bull in a china shop, Lally was a hopeless politician’ (p.167)
  • D’Aché ‘was a stickler for protocol and paranoid about imaginary slights…a malcontent who groused eternally about the lack of support given him by the Ministry of Marine’ (p.173)
  • Georges Duval de Leyrit, Governor General of Pondicherry between 1754 and 1758 was’ cold, bureaucratic and venal’ (p.176)
  • ‘One of the most striking things about Wolfe was his physical ugliness.’ (p.201)
  • Townshend, one of Wolfe’s three brigadiers, was ‘aloof, quarrelsome, malicious, pompous and generally dislikeable’ (p.207)
  • The Duc de Richelieu, ‘hero of a thousand bedroom conquests’ was a ‘lazy, sybaritic commander’ (p.260)

And so on… After a while I looked forward to the introduction of new characters to the narrative purely in order to enjoy McLynn’s ‘acidulous’ (a favourite word of his) character assassinations of them. The parade of backstabbing buffoons threatens to turn into Monty Python’s Upper Class Twit of the Year, 1759 edition.

  • The 3rd Duke of Marlborough was ‘ignorant, careless and insouciant’ (p.262)
  • Lord George Sackville, commander of British forces on the Continent, was ‘sharp-tongued, arrogant, ambitious, unsure of himself, depressive and hyper-sensitive to criticism.’ (p.262) After his disgraceful behaviour at the Battle of Minden he was court-martialled and expelled from the army. ‘Probably more stupid and incompetent than cowardly in the normal sense.’ (p.283)
  • Charles de Rohan, Prince de Soubise, was ‘a nonentity, timid and indecisive as a commander, possessing no military talent’ (p.263)
  • General Freiherr von Spörcken was ‘an unspectacular plodder’ (p.274)
  • The Comte de Conflans ‘vain and self-regarding’ (p.357), ‘a true prima donna’ (p.358)

Thomas Arthur, comte de Lally at the siege of Pondicherry - guilty of 'egregious stupidity'

Thomas Arthur, comte de Lally at the siege of Pondicherry – ‘pigheaded’ (p.181), ‘a martinet and petty disciplinarian… [guilty of] egregious stupidity’ (p.176)

When he’s not being wonderfully bitchy about these long dead heroes and villains, much of McLynn’s phraseology slips into thriller-ese or cliché:

  • Native Indians ‘presented an awesome military spectacle, armed with musket or rifle, tomahawk, powder-horn, shot-pouch and scalping knife, seemingly the perfect killing machine’ (p.133)
  • The umpteen forts which are besieged by one side or the other are generally ‘tough nuts to crack’
  • Embattled forces fight ‘tigerishly’
  • ‘Morale in Lally’s forces plummeted alarmingly; confidence was at rock-bottom… [Lally is] not a white abashed…The French were now in a parlous state…’ (pp.182-183)

His long descriptions of landscape often read like adventure fiction. There are several extended descriptions of the Canadian landscape, lush and verdant in summer, turning to a white inferno of snowdrifts and frostbite in winter.

After leaving the northern end of Missisquoi Lake, the Rangers entered a spruce bog, with water at least a foot deep and sometimes deeper, where the current had carved brook-like channels. For nine days they splashed through mud and icy water, often stumbling and sometimes falling full-length into the noisome tarn. There was no firm ground anywhere, and the entire area was plashy marsh, with water everywhere between the trees, concealing irregularities in the ground. Young and choked trees of every height provided invisible tripwires; huge trunks lay rotting in the water with small spruces sprouting thickly along them; there were dead branches sharp as razors concealed in the water and if a man trod on them, he would be raked from ankle to thigh on jagged points. It seemed as if living malevolent branches clutched and tore at their clothes, gored them through the holes, plucked the caps from their heads and tried to scratch their eyes out. (p.339)

In many places this long work feels more like a novel than a work of history, and certainly has more of a writerly sensibility than a scholarly, historical one. Compared with the tremendous intelligence, the sheer force of ideas and analysis present on every page of John Darwin’s brilliant book Unfinished Empire, McLynn’s work reads like a series of entertaining magazine articles.

An enjoyable symptom of his writerly approach is McLynn’s attraction to out of-the-way vocabulary, his fondness for rarely-used words:

  • adipose – fat
  • contumacity – wilfully and obstinately disobedient
  • defalcation – misappropriation of funds by a person trusted with its charge
  • escalade – the scaling of fortified walls using ladders, as a form of military attack
  • feculent – of or containing dirt, sediment, or waste matter
  • fetch – the length of water over which a given wind has blown (part of a long explanation of the origin of monster waves in the North Atlantic)
  • gallimaufry – a confused jumble or medley of things
  • hellion – a rowdy or mischievous person, especially a child
  • lacustrine – relating to or associated with lakes
  • Manitou – the spiritual and fundamental life force understood by Algonquian groups of Native Americans
  • persiflage – light and slightly contemptuous mockery or banter
  • phratry – a descent group or kinship group in some tribal societies
  • sept – a division of a family or clan
  • tourbillion – a vortex especially of a whirlwind or whirlpool

The book is not only an interesting conspectus of the 18th century as seen through the prism of one year, but an entertaining tour of the English language as well.

The death of Wolfe by Benjamin West

The Death of Wolfe by Benjamin West. Wolfe is not such a hero to McLynn, who sees him as ‘impetuous, headstrong and brave to the point of folly’ (p.202) and, incidentally, guilty of war crimes.

Further reading

In the sections about Quebec and Wolfe, McLynn often disagrees with someone he refers to as ‘Parkman’, accusing him of naivety and propaganda. It took a bit of research to find out he’s referring to Francis Parkman, a Harvard-educated American historian, who published a seven-volume history of ‘France and England in North America’ in 1884, the sixth volume of which is titled ‘Montcalm and Wolfe’. The whole thing is available online at Project Gutenberg, and just reading through the chapter headings and summary of contents gives you a good sense of the story and issues.

Both McLynn and Pocock’s accounts, though long, are deliberately narrow in scope. For a comprehensive scholarly account I’ll need to read something like The Global Seven Years War 1754 to 1763: Britain and France in a Great Power Contest by Daniel Baugh. Even this only focuses on the global Anglo-French rivalry i.e ignores the European conflict, but still manages to be a whopping 750 pages long!

The book Amazon pairs it with, The Seven Years War in Europe: 1756 to 1763 by Franz A.J. Szabo, which does focus on the European theatre of war, is over 500 pages long. Just this one war feels like it could easily become a lifetime’s study.


Credit

1759: The Year Britain Became Master of the World by Frank McLynn was published by Jonathan Cape in 2004. All references are to the 2005 Pimlico paperback edition.

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