“Can we make a refrigerator? Can we even explain how it works? What is electricity? What is light? We experience these things every day of our lives but what good does it do if we find ourselves hurled back in time and we can’t even tell people the basic principles much less actually make something that could improve conditions. Name one thing you could make. Could you make a simple wooden match that you could strike on a rock to make a flame? We think we’re so great and modern. Moon landings, and artificial hearts.”—Don DeLillo, White Noise (via evanmsaregood)
“To take the allegory for the truth is the error which supranaturalists and Rationalists agree in making. The former will assert that the allegory is in itself true; the latter will twist and bend its meaning until they have, according to their own lights, made it true in itself. Each party is accordingly able to make pertinent and valid points against the other. The Rationalists say to the supranaturalists: ‘Your doctrine isn’t true.’ The latter retort: ‘Your doctrine isn’t Christianity.’ Both are right. The Rationalists believe they are taking reason as their standard: in fact, however, their standard is only reason caught up in the presuppositions of theism and optimism, rather like Rousseau’s Profession de foi du vicaire savoyard, that prototype of all Rationalism. Of Christian dogma they will grant validity to nothing but what they hold true sensu proprio: namely, theism and the immortality of the soul. While supranaturalism possesses at any rate allegorical truth, Rationalism cannot be accorded any truth at all.”—Arthur Schopenhauer, “On Religion,” Essays and Aphorisms (trans. R. J. Hollingdale)
Posts about Darren Aronofsky written by lisathatcher
Anybody who enjoyed my Darren Aronofsky essay should check out the much more thorough tour of his career being conducted brilliantly by Lisa Thatcher over at Wordpress. Here’s a sample, from her enumeration of the philosophical topoi addressed by Black Swan:
Despite the inevitable guffaws from a typical audience, the Nietzschean Apollonian / Dionysian split, Schopenhauer’s principle of individuation, Dostoyevsky’s double, Freud’s ego triumvirate split, Carl Jung’s shadow, Lacan’s object petit a, and Cixous’ transition from jouissance to ecriture feminine is all here, laid out feast like, in a perfectly edited, superbly performed visual orgy that sees the culmination of what Aronofsky can do brought to a bubbling and chaotic surface.
P.S. I will say something about Noah eventually—I just haven’t been able to see it yet. It’s too middlebrow for the theater in the hipster neighborhood and the theater in my part of the city is occupied for two weeks with a film festival. I could bus it out to a suburban mall…but I won’t. (I did do so for Paranormal Activity 5: Solidarity Is for White WomenThe Marked Ones, so I guess that shows where my priorities are.)
Fiction can’t be subversive. If the reader feels threatened, then he’ll stopped reading. The reader will only continue reading if he is being entertained. Subversion in any art form is impossible. Even nonfiction can’t be subversive. It may be used to serve some person or group’s preconceived purposes, usually to gain power, but its ideas will be recast and deliberately skewed. Freud, Marx, and all religious doctrines are obvious examples of this.
Alifano: One of the most beautiful definitions of the aesthetic act comes from you, Borges. In one of your essays you state: ‘The aesthetic act is the imminence of a revelation which is never fulfilled.’
Borges: Ah, yes. I did say that. It’s true. Certain sundowns, certain dawns, some weathered faces are at the point of revealing something to us, and this imminence of a revelation which is not fulfilled is, for me, the aesthetic act. Now, language itself is also an aesthetic creation. I believe this is indisputable; a proof is that when we study a foreign language, when we are compelled to look at words closely, as though with a magnifying glass, we see them either as beautiful or not. This doesn’t happen with one’s own language, since we see and feel our words as integral to our expression.
Alifano: You have said that metaphors exist from out very beginnings. Could you expound on that concept, Borges?
Borges: Yes, certainly. I believe that metaphors, if they are truly metaphors, exist from the beginning of time. I don’t believe it is easy to invent them or to discover affinities that have not already been perceived. But we express them differently. I have occasionally thought of reducing all metaphors to five or six which seem to me to be the essential metaphors.
Alifano: What are those metaphors?
Borges: Well, time and a river; life and dreams; death and sleep; stars and eyes; flowers and women. These would be, I believe, the essential metaphors that are found in all literatures; and then there are others that are whimsical. I believe that the poet’s task is to discover metaphors, even though they may already exist. I think that a metaphor doesn’t come to a poet as a revelation of a similarity between disparate things: a metaphor is revealed to the poet in its wholeness, in its form, in its intonation. I don’t think that Emily Dickinson thought: ‘This quiet dust was men and women,’ and that afterward she changed the latter phrase to ‘gentlemen and ladies’; that seems unlikely to me. It is more likely that all this was given to her by someone–whom we could call the spirit, the muse–as a single even, at a single time. I don’t believe that one arrives at poetry by means of progressions, by searching all possible variations of words. I believe that one comes upon the proper adjective or adjectives. I remember a verse by Rafael Obligado which reads, ‘Estalla el cóncavo trueno’ (the concave thunder bursts). And I am sure that he didn’t arrive at such an expression by trying several adjectives accented on the antepenultimate syllable; I think he came directly upon the word cóncavo, which is the precise word, the word we feel as proper, and it is the one that gives the verse its beauty.
“You will live longer and better by consuming deliciously chewy fats and reading Proust than by tread-milling to a Walkman tune and claiming to be educated because you peruse the Wall Street Journal and have recently skimmed something by Tom Wolfe.”—William H. Gass (via gwyon)
“I think it is usually wise to approach a contemporary work with skepticism; it is the new work’s task to establish its authority, to persuade you to believe in its essential worth whatever strange or commonplace thing it may say or do. With a classic, the situation is otherwise. Arnold Bennett once wrote a little book he called Literary Taste, a work of such immense good sense, it surprised me, for I did not expect it from a devoted follower of Zola’s naturalism, an Edwardian down to his stem yacht. It is a book of admirably blunt assurance. He informs his readers, and there were many, that “your taste has to pass before the bar of the classics. That is the point. If you differ with a classic, it is you who are wrong, and not the book.” Bennet is talking about taste — the perception of excellence — not about truth. Regarding truth, you are earnestly entreated to differ. Appreciation is Bennet’s subject and reading’s desired result. If you do not admire the writings of Thomas Hobbes, it is not Hobbes whose ghost now has to feel uneasy.”—William H. Gass (via gwyon)
It’s time to choose March’s Project of the Month. The project that receives the most votes for Project of the Month will receive a consultation from our Project of the Month partner, Tribeca Film Institute!
My friends’ documentary, The Legend of Swee’Pea, is now up for Indiewire’s Project of the Month. Please vote if you’d like to support what some are calling the best sports documentary since Hoop Dreams.
“People brutalise everything. They get up noisily, go about noisily all day, and go to bed noisily. And they constantly talk far too noisily. They are so taken up with themselves that they don’t notice the distress they constantly cause to others, to those who are sick. Everything they do, everything they say causes distress to people like us. And in this way they force anyone who is sick more and more into the background until he’s no longer noticed. And the sick person withdraws into his background. But every life, every existence, belongs to one person and one person only, and no one else has the right to force this life and this existence to one side, to force it out of the way, to force it out of existence. We’ll go by ourselves, as we have the right to do. That’s part of the natural course.”—Thomas Bernhard, Concrete (via slothnorentropy)
“The book is one damn thing after another. It’s hardly fiction; not because it’s autobiographical, not because it’s “essayistic,” but because it’s journalistic. The first person is a peg to hang sentences on, a bit of binding agent to stick the facts together. Its discussions of Deleuze on interstices, or Native Americans in New York, or Euro-Arab opinions on Palestine, or bedbugs, or what have you, are all pithy and informative, just like a New Yorker article. And as in a New Yorker article, there is always a reliable twinge of pathos which never distracts from the next slideshow. I won’t say that an intelligent person’s brain dump is valueless, but by God, isn’t the Internet now full of intelligent people’s brain dumps? I have to think that the author’s talent as a journalist, his fluency on Twitter—for that matter, his comfort with academic shoptalk—all collude.”—
I was very impressed with Open City when I first read it, and even the second time, when I taught it. It is very well put together, an expert piece of work. And it teaches quite easily, sliding right into the debates about privilege et al. with very little coaxing or explication. A friend to whom I recommended the novel read it. She told me that she thought it was an essentially immoral book. “Teju Cole is an intelligent man of perfect taste,” she explained, “but that’s all.” He doesn’t have genius, she went on, the rigor and extremity of, say, Beckett. Therefore Cole (like herself, she was careful to add) had no right to put out a novel, his talent being essentially a curatorial one. His novel accordingly wasted time and materials. (I had the forbearance not to ask where I fit into the cheerless typology of the genius and the connoisseur!) The ease with which Cole’s novel went over in the classroom seemed to offer evidence for this view; it certainly met little of the resistance that Beckett gets, or the confusion or outrage sometimes directed at such confirmed classics as (the actually rather disturbing) Wuthering Heights or such works that come advertised as reflecting the left-liberal consensus as (the actually rather disturbing) Sula. Cole’s novel now appears of a piece with the teeth-grinding humanitarianism of his Twitter feed, all its exquisite ironies against powerful malefactors. It reminds me of writers I once admired and can no longer stand—John Berger, Adrienne Rich—whose combination of taste with conscience adds up to that preening-narcissim-dressed-as-political-awarness pioneered, I suspect, by the early poetry of Wordsworth, whose unbearably turgid and self-valorizing “sensitivity” reminds me so much of Rich’s. I’ve been reading Schopenhauer, you know, and it makes more sense to me now than any of the leftist aestheticism or aestheticized leftism. Art is will suspended so as to be perceived as idea, if I read the philosopher rightly—and let’s admit that this may have a contingent relationship to something like sympathy as we recognize our common plight as ephemeral individual phenomena of the noumenal will. But this aesthetic state, because it requires a suspension of the will, mostly tends to induce passivity, not activity, and certainly not activism; it’s indecent to pretend otherwise. And it’s likewise indecent to pretend that doing away with this aesthetic drive, which admittedly probably doesn’t help anyone even though it is universal in the species, will do anything at all to save the world. (I wish I didn’t have to add this parenthesis, but, okay, we are in the age of television, so please, for God’s sake, do not take those last few sentences as an endorsement of that amusing [but no more than amusing] pastiche [not least of Schopenhauer], True Detective!) I think of the Marxist theorist quoting the gnostic sociologist: the choice is simple—Nietzsche or communism. (For the purposes of a blog post, we can commit the intellectual violence of reading “Schopenhauer” for “Nietzsche.” The unifying thread is some notion of aestheticism, though I grasp the way Nietzsche’s advocacy for the will differs from the earlier philosopher’s recommendation to transcend it, which difference ironically brings Nietzsche much closer to communism—itself an apotheosis of will—than is Schopenhauer, whose compassion is nearer to—if more honest because less internally contradictory than—the Wordsworth-to-Cole left-liberalism.) (Schop rails against the use of parentheses and other asides, by the way, and also against the cultivation of a deliberately difficult style like the one I so annoyingly employ here.) Our Marxist theorist is an Althusserean, so he knows all about ideology sedimented as practice: thus the choice will be reflected not in what you say but what you do. I maintain an aesthete’s Tumblr.
“A novel will be the higher and nobler the more inner and less outer life it depicts; and this relation will accompany every grade of novel as its characteristic sign, from Tristram Shandy down to the crudest and most action-packed romance. Tristram Shandy, to be sure, has as good as no action whatever; but how very little action there is in La Nouvelle Héloïse and Wilhelm Meister! Even Don Quixote has relatively little, and what there is is very trivial, amounting to no more than a series of jokes. And these four novels are the crown of the genre. Consider, further, the marvelous novels of Jean Paul and see how much inner life is set in motion on the narrowest of external foundations. Even the novels of Walter Scott have a significant preponderance of inner over outer life, and the latter appears only with a view to setting the former in motion; while in bad novels the outer action is there for its own sake. The art lies in setting the inner life into the most violent motion with the smallest possible expenditure of outer life: for it is the inner life which is the real subject of our interest.—The task of the novelist is not to narrate great events but to make small ones interesting.”—
Arthur Schopenhauer, Essays and Aphorisms (trans. R. J. Hollingdale)
“The appeal of all Art is simply to the artistic temperament. Art does not address herself to the specialist. Her claim is that she is universal, and that in all her manifestations she is one. Indeed, so far from its being true that the artist is the best judge of art, a really great artist can never judge of other people’s work at all, and can hardly, in fact, judge of his own. That very concentration of vision that makes a man an artist, limits by its sheer intensity his faculty of fine appreciation. The energy of creation hurries him blindly on to his own goal. The wheels of his chariot raise the dust as a cloud around him. The gods are hidden from each other. They can recognise their worshippers. That is all … Wordsworth saw in Endymion merely a pretty piece of Paganism, and Shelley, with his dislike of actuality, was deaf to Wordsworth’s message, being repelled by its form, and Byron, that great passionate human incomplete creature, could appreciate neither the poet of the cloud nor the poet of the lake, and the wonder of Keats was hidden from him. The realism of Euripides was hateful to Sophokles. Those droppings of warm tears had no music for him. Milton, with his sense of the grand style, could not understand the method of Shakespeare, any more than could Sir Joshua the method of Gainsborough. Bad artists always admire each other’s work. They call it being large-minded and free from prejudice. But a truly great artist cannot conceive of life being shown, or beauty fashioned, under any conditions other than those that he has selected. Creation employs all its critical faculty within its own sphere. It may not use it in the sphere that belongs to others. It is exactly because a man cannot do a thing that he is the proper judge of it.”—Oscar Wilde, The Critic as Artist (via biblioklept)
[I wrote this in early 2011. I had just gone to see Black Swan, a film that impressed me very much. I hadn’t watched an Aronofsky production since Pi, however, so I quickly viewed the middle films of his oeuvre in quick succession and then produced this essay in two parts. I published it to the now-deleted anonymous blog I was then maintaining, where it received a fair bit of attention, and I repost an edited version here, under my own name, in honor of the controversy swirling around Aronofsky’s Noah—which I have not yet seen as of this writing.]
“Because Emily Brontë was looking oppositely not only for heaven (and hell) but for her own female origins, Wuthering Heights is one of the few authentic instances of novelistic myth-making, myth-making in the functional sense of problem-solving. Where writers from Charlotte Brontë and Henry James to James Joyce and Virginia Woolf have used mythic material to give point and structure to their novels, Emily Brontë uses the novel form to give substance—plausibility, really—to her myth. It is urgent that she do so because, as we shall see, the feminist cogency of this myth derives not only from its daring corrections of Milton but also from the fact that it is a distinctively nineteenth-century answer to the question of origin: it is the myth of how culture came about, and specifically of how nineteenth-century society occurred, the tale of where tea-tables, sofas, crinolines, and parsonages like the one at Haworth come from.
Because it is so ambitious a myth, Wuthering Heights has the puzzling self-containment of a mystery in the old sense of that word—the sense of mystery plays and Eleusianian mysteries. Locked in by Lockwood’s uncomprehending narrative, Nelly Dean’s story, with its baffling duplications of names, places, events, seems endlessly to reenact itself, like some ritual that must be cyclically repeated in order to sustain (as well as explain) both nature and culture. At the same time, because it is so prosaic a myth—a myth about crinolines!—Wuthering Heights is not in the least portentous or self-consciously “mythic.” On the contrary, like all true rituals and myths, Brontë’s “cuckoo’s tale” turns a practical, casual, humorous face to its audience. For as Lévi-Straus’s observations suggest, true believers gossip by the prayer wheel, since that modern reverence which enjoins solemnity is simply the foster child of modern skepticism.
Having arrived at the novel’s conclusion, we can now go back to its beginning, and try to summarize the basic story Wuthering Heights tells.
There was an Original Mother (Catherine), a daughter of nature whose motto might be “Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law / My services are bound.” But this girl fell into a decline, at least in part through eating the poisonous cooked food of culture. She fragmented herself into mad or dead selves on the one hand (Catherine, Heathcliff) and into lesser, gentler/genteeler selves on the other (Catherine II, Hareton). The fierce primordial selves disappeared into nature, the perversely hellish heaven which was there home. The more teachable and docile selves learned to read and write, and moved into the fallen cultured worlds of parlors and parsonages, the Miltonic heaven which, from the Original Mother’s point of view, is really hell. Their passage from nature to culture was facilitated by a series of teachers, preachers, nurses, cooks, and model ladies and patriarchs (Nelly, Joseph, Frances, the Lintons), most of whom gradually disappear by the end of the story, since these lesser creations have been so well instructed that they are themselves able to become teachers or models for other generations. Indeed, so model are they that they can be identified with the founders of ancestral houses (Hareton Earnshaw, 1500) and with the original mother redefined as the patriarch’s wife (Catherine Linton Heathcliff Earnshaw).
Looking oppositely for the queendom of heaven, she insists, like Blake, that “I have also the Bible of Hell, which the world shall have whether they will or no.” And in the voice of the wind that sweeps through the newly cultivated garden at Wuthering Heights, we can hear the jaguar, like Blake’s enraged Rintrah, roaring in the distance.”—Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, “Looking Oppositely: Emily Brontë’s Bible of Hell,” The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination
“Are these, then, the true Friends of the Forms of Fiction, who just adore One Hundred Years, as it is familiarly called, but who find Hopscotch just another fancy contrivance; who are baffled and finally worn out (as who, reasonably, might not be; as who, emotionally, must not be) by the proliferating prose of Lezama Lima’s Paradiso; who are bewildered by the multiplicity of techniques employed in these novels, their metaliturgical fusing of history and fiction, fact and superstition, which produces a far sturdier alloy than the merely wet mix of journalism and melodrama we opportunely use in this country to disguise a lack of artistic intent and want of talent? Gosh! (as we used to exclaim in a less forthright age, gosh and by golly) what are we to make of those who refuse to lose themselves in Vargas Llosa’s artful mazes and many minds; who falter in front of the plasticity of place, the penetration of times by times, as they occur in these books, occluding and combining the way color enters color; who reject the interplay of tapestry and torrent, as if music were carving stone like blown sea waves, of moonshade in the daylight, reality rendered as dream, dream delivered up on the beach like a half-drowned refugee? phenomena that are fundamental (as are all these elemnts and others) to Carlos Fuentes’s Terra Nostra, a towering achievement few Americans, I fear, will ever climb to the top of.”—William H. Gass, A Fiesta for the Form (via gwyon)
“The good, the admirable reader identifies himself not with the boy or the girl in the book, but with the mind that conceived and composed that book. The admirable reader does not seek information about Russia in a Russian novel, for he knows that the Russia of Tolstoy or Chekhov is not the average Russia of history but a specific world imagined and created by individual genius. The admirable reader is not concerned with general ideas; he is interested in the particular vision. He likes the novel not because it helps him to get along with the group (to use a diabolical progressive-school cliche); he likes the novel because he imbibes and understands every detail of the text, enjoys what the author meant to be enjoyed, beams inwardly and all over, is thrilled by the magic imageries of the master-forger, the fancy-forger, the conjuror, the artist. Indeed of all the characters that a great artist creates, his readers are the best.”—Vladimir Nabokov, Lectures on Russian Literature (via thoughtsofalltrades)
“Which is what has brought us to a moment where a directive can go out — “trend this” — and ten thousand users will jump into the pool at once, causing a mighty enough splash to draw further attention from onlookers. Once something has been labeled as evil, exploitative or wrong, any attempts to provide counterpoint are defined as a symbol of “internalized racism/sexism/homophobia” or “tone policing” or “respectability politics” on the part of the critic. Voices without a multitude of retweeters behind them are often cowed or bullied into silence. Factual errors and sourcing mistakes are frequently swept under the rug. Sweeping rhetoric and grandiose statements — the better to draw attention by — become the primary stuff of dialogue. The lurking trolls of the Internet are magnetically drawn to these loud and colorful gestures and respond with disgusting, personal and often pornographic or violent rejoinders, which both further fuel the firestorm and provide a kind of validation for the campaign’s leadership: We must be hitting a nerve because the enemy is attacking us in force.
In short, we have arrived at the era of the weaponized hashtag — where loosely organized and barely controlled social mobs swarm institutions and individuals at a scale large enough so that the trending of the hashtag itself becomes news, often overwhelming discussion of the topic that originally spawned it.”—
A thoughtful and productive article. I don’t believe in the spontaneous or emergent intelligence of the collective; intelligence is a property of individuals alone or in earnest, small-scale, and law-governed collaboration. The perennial myth, essentially eschatological, that justice can triumph sans individual intelligence usually results in spiraling cycles of violence as the collective burns itself to the ground in a quest for mindless purity. Thus I make no apology for fearing the mob, physical or virtual, and for reprehending those who would actuate the mob. But there’s more to it even than this. The metaphysic of language now prevailing on the Left—that language is unmediatedly a modality of action, therefore directly injurious where offensive—is incompatible with any concept of dialogue or deliberation. If words are only weapons, then the sublimation of conflict into civil society where it may be non-violently resolved is impossible. Does the Left now simply want war? As an aesthetic Romantic I readily grant that this view of language is proper to literature, which may be reductively defined as the use of language for the maximal provocation of affect, but I’ve never seen a convincing argument that all language should be read under the sign of the literary. The world is various, and goods may be in conflict. The aestheticization of politics and the politicization of aesthetics—the project of the historical avant-gardes of Left and Right—are indistinguishable from totalitarianism and ought to be discouraged, mocked as an epiphenomenon of artistic hubris. Finally, the argument that an oppressed person is the automatic bearer of historical reason, far from being a challenge to Western norms, was secularized from its Christian origin (“the meek shall inherit the earth”) by the grand old man of European and Eurocentric philosophy, Hegel (“the truth of the independent consciousness is accordingly the consciousness of the bondsman”), and deployed as an apologia for Leninism by Lukacs (“the viewpoint of the proletariat”). Easily refuted by resort to empirical examples (plenty of individual “oppressed persons” disagree mightily with each other on the relevant questions, and this is without demarcating the boundaries of the demagogically amorphous concept “oppression”), it is nowhere near tenable for another reason: it allows one to euphemize deprivation as “culture.” My grandparents were “oppressed,” if we allow the word, in a multitude of ways—some beyond the historical imagination of a few of today’s soi-disant victims—and I am sorry to say that there was much they did not know as a result of the privations they suffered. I can think of no greater insult to them than to romanticize the violence and poverty they experienced as a short-cut to wisdom. I apologize for the jargon and the syntax of the above; I could admittedly say this more clearly, though I hesitated to say it at all. The present climate seems to demand a use of language that forces thought on its writers and readers.
“I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.”—W. B. Yeats, “The Song of Wandering Aengus” (via pagewoman)
“Christian and anarchist. — When the anarchist, as the mouthpiece of the declining strata of society, demands with a fine indignation what is “right,” “justice,” and “equal rights,” he is merely under the pressure of his own uncultured state, which cannot comprehend the real reason for his suffering — what it is that he is poor in: life. A causal instinct asserts itself in him: it must be somebody’s fault that he is in a bad way. Also, the “fine indignation” itself soothes him; it is a pleasure for all wretched devils to scold: it gives a slight but intoxicating sense of power. Even plaintiveness and complaining can give life a charm for the sake of which one endures it: there is a fine dose of revenge in every complaint; one charges one’s own bad situation, and under certain circumstances even one’s own badness, to those who are different, as if that were an injustice, a forbidden privilege. “If I am canaille, you ought to be too” — on such logic are revolutions made. Complaining is never any good: it stems from weakness. Whether one charges one’s misfortune to others or to oneself — the socialist does the former; the Christian, for example, the latter — really makes no difference. The common and, let us add, the unworthy thing is that it is supposed to be somebody’s fault that one is suffering; in short, that the sufferer prescribes the honey of revenge for himself against his suffering. The objects of this need for revenge, as a need for pleasure, are mere occasions: everywhere the sufferer finds occasions for satisfying his little revenge. If he is a Christian — to repeat it once more — he finds them in himself. The Christian and the anarchist are both decadents. When the Christian condemns, slanders, and besmirches “the world,” his instinct is the same as that which prompts the socialist worker to condemn, slander, and besmirch society. The “last judgment” is the sweet comfort of revenge — the revolution, which the socialist worker also awaits, but conceived as a little farther off. The “beyond” — why a beyond, if not as a means for besmirching this world?”—F. Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols, “Expeditions of an Untimely Man.” §34 (via merrylaughter)