I enjoyed this article in the Baffler on labour, hoaxes, and the neoliberal academy. But one paragraph in particular chimed with something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.
I’ve noticed a strong resistance to the notion that tackling a grueling workload in the face of constant precarity has even a minor impact on how academics actually think, as if the form that contemporary academic discourse is compelled to take somehow leaves its content immaculately unaffected. This guileless posture is especially striking as it overtakes a class of people who make their livings by critiquing the ways other institutions shape other forms of knowledge.
It’s not exactly the workload and precarity that worried me in this context, but, specifically, the kinds of writing that support the environment. Chief among these being the constant applications for grants and the concomitant demands to think and write in a compartmentalised, managerialied way. Only today I used the word “ambassador” to refer to (and big-up) myself, and not to describe a diplomatic representative of a foreign political power.
2018 marks the tenth anniversary of the Centre for Myth Studies. On Friday 11 May, we shall celebrate the occasion with a day of talks, readings, and discussions which reflect the past and the future of the Centre.
All are warmly invited to attend “The Old and the New” at the University of Essex in Colchester. For full details about the programme and how to register for this free event, please see our event page.
Since 2008, the Centre has been devoted to exploring the significance of myth in ancient and modern times. Most of these activities are documented on this site (see links above for our books, conferences, seminars, and the weekly Myth Reading Group). It was founded by Leon Burnett in the department of Literature, Film, and Theatre Studies, and now sits within the department of Psychosocial and Psychoanalytic Studies, under the directorship of Roderick Main. This…
To the cinema, in August, to see Shin Godzilla (2016) on its brief and belated UK release. The film is produced by Toho studios, which made the original Godzilla film (Gojira) in 1954, and made many more over the next fifty years. I loved these films when they were broadcast on British television in the 1990s. This was a time, as countless people have lamented, before the compartmentalisation of television channels, when viewers could be introduced to all manner of films: an education for my young self in McCarthyite B-movies, Nordic existentialism, the politics of the Parisian banlignes, kitchen sink, and Gothic horror.
These memories had me well-disposed to Shin Godzilla before I entered the cinema. The film delighted me despite its flaws (particularly the heavy-handed signposting of stock characters and character traits). A decision was made (whether by writer-director Hideaki Anno, composer Shirō Sagisu, or some level of the company) to include soundtrack elements from the original films: both sound effects and the original score by Akira Ifukube. The old music was neither re-recorded nor remastered, which resulted in a peculiar retro effect in modern cinema speakers: comfortingly familiar, but at odds with the modern pacing of the film, as if challenging us to compare it with the originals.
The heavily-signposted subtext of the film showed it to be psychologically freighted with memories and premonitions of catastrophes natural (tsunami) and anthropic (nuclear bombs, radioactive waste), and the exacerbation of these by bureaucratic ossification. In the week of its British release, fears of nuclear attack in East Asia were all too raw in the shadow of US and North Korean willy-waving. The film offers moments of satire of interminable governmental and academic meetings, which give way to a (rather too) simple message of interdepartmental, interdisciplinary, and international collaboration.
What interested me most, of course, was its exploration of the position of myth in a resolutely Anthropocene setting. The dialogue contains snatches of human self-doubt. The scientists studying this ‘Gojira’ creature consider that it may be a biologically perfect organism – ‘better than man’ in its ability to adapt to, and to reform, its environment. Characters compare the damage wrought by Gojira to the towns around Tokyo Bay to the violence of human history, prompting the disaster-movie-truism that ‘man is more destructive than Godzilla’. The Gojira creature itself represents an allegory of technology as mass destruction, evolutionary power (hyper-accelerated in this film), and diminishing geographical distance (in the potential to disperse itself internationally).
In short, Gojira is an incarnate god of the Anthropocene epoch. Shin Godzilla (‘new‘, ‘true‘, or ‘god Gojira‘) is a telling title. The naming of the creature – first named in the film as ‘Great Unidentified Creature’ – is important, as it playfully endorses the Anglophone name Godzilla, emphasising the feeling of encountering an inscrutable, ungovernable divinity. But this god is partly of the natural world, and partly a consequence of nuclear-age humanity. Surely a case of each epoch getting the god it deserves.
I’ve often wondered about divine succession. To take the Greek pantheon: Ouranos was succeeded by his son, Kronos, who in turn was succeeded by his son Zeus. Violently so, in each case. But then Olympian historical time seems to cease while human historical time begins. Would it take an epoch-shattering event among humans to dislodge the secure Olympian order? Here is Gojira, come to shake Zeus down from his mountain. Gojira is the divine representative of the Anthropocene – the epoch of irreversible human impact on the Earth – emerging on the face of Zeus’s grandmother Gaia.
The emergence of a god onto contemporary Japanese reality requires a mythic response, of sorts. ‘Operation Yashiori’ is the name given to the internationally-collaborative reaction to Gojira’s threat: the alternative to obliterating it – and much of the country around Tokyo – with a nuclear bomb. The bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki is explicitly referenced, and Operation Yashiori is a mytho-scientific counter both to Gojira and the human violence epitomised by the bomb.
Operation Yashiori derives its name from the sake drunk by the monster Orochi. In Shinto myth, Orochi is a huge, eight-headed serpent (termed a hydra in Shin Godzilla’s subtitles) which has been devouring the daughters of an old couple (or earth-spirit). Seven of their eight daughters have been eaten when the storm god Susanoo encounters them. Susanoo’s solution is to stupefy Orochi by making it drunk on yashiori-no-sake, the inebriated beast is then sliced up by the storm god, who marries the surviving daughter, Kushi-nada-hime. Shin Godzilla constructs a technological equivalent for this myth, advancing the hope that human creativity and collaboration can release us from a global catastrophe of our own making.
As June turned to July, I took the slow train to Bath for the annual conference of the Sophia Centre for the Study of Cosmology in Culture. This year’s conference theme was ‘The Talking Sky: Myths and Meaning in the Celestial Spheres’. Judging by some of the conversations I’ve had, many people’s shutters come down at the mention of cosmology or the idea of meaning being derived from the stars – in short, astrology. And indeed the Sophia Centre is dedicated to the serious study of astrology. In the popular imagination, astrology is the dubious or fraudulent nonsense of newspaper columns (‘sun sign’ astrology, as it is distinguished). Such is the power of this belief, that even those who would seriously study ancient philosophy and mythology flinch from contemplating ancient astrology. And yet, as the speakers at this conference proved, with great erudition, charm and good humour, the movements of the heavenly bodies were of monumental importance to ancient people, and still hold meaning for many today.
A central idea for the conference was ‘naked eye astronomy’, as advocated by Bernadette Brady. Dr Brady provided a series of revelatory images of the annual interaction of the sun and moon as their relative position in the sky changes throughout the year. The high moon compensating for the low sun in winter, or the sun and moon rising and setting in the same positions at equinox, for example. The loss of naked eye astronomy – of the widespread knowledge of the patterns of sun, moon, and stars as they appear to us on earth – causes a ‘cultural divide’ between modern and ancient humans: we do not know the human view of the sky. Consequently, we lose access to the meaning contained in old myths because we do not recognise our sky.
This concept resonated most clearly in the papers which surveyed the astonishing constructions people built around the movements of the sun – standing stones, cairns, and the like. We all know about those. But what impressed itself upon me, as a novice in this area, was how much sheer trial and error the construction must have involved: generations of living with the knowledge of astronomical movements, and creating monumental structures which interact perfectly with the sun. Attendant to this is the realisation that the will to create these structures must derive from the sky’s significance to daily life in a way that is impossible to overstate.
Other papers addressed decidedly more modern materials. Claudia Rousseau drew connections between images of the coronation of the Virgin (such as that by Velázquez) and Ariadne’s catasterism in the Corona Borealis. Both of these have been addressed on this blog, but I never made the link between them (Ariadne here, Mary here).
Signe Cohen gave a delightful paper on the twelfth-century Norse poem ‘Alvíssmál’ (‘The Speech of the All-Wise’). In this poem, Thor challenges the dwarf Alvís to list the names of sky, sun, and moon, etc., as they are known to mortals, elves, gods, and the like. Alvís is turned to stone by the rising sun while he recites all the sun’s different names. As Dr Cohen drily put it, Alvís’s knowledge is ‘more theoretical than applied’. Once again, of course, the central idea is that, in the diverse names for the same cosmological phenomena, interpretations of the cosmos reflect the stance of the observer.
Sunday morning at the conference began with Jenn Zahrt announcing she would start with some theory. This was music to my ears on this bright summer morning, and all the more involving for discussing the philosopher Jean Gebser, previously unknown to me. Gebser’s work is relevant to a strand of myth theory I have been researching which concerns myth as a system of thought (following Lévy-Bruhl, Cassirer, and so on). This is usually articulated as a split between the archaic or mythical mind and the modern, rational one. For Gebser the distinction is gradated rather than binary: he outlines five structures of consciousness: archaic, magical, mythical, mental/rational, and integral. Moreover, rather than the barriers between structures of consciousness being impermeable and culturally prescribed, it is possible to access all points on this scale. Is the comparative critical neglect of Gebser a result of his being perceived as a ‘new age’ figure? I’ll be looking into him.
Dr Zahrt’s talk also addressed astrologer Alfred Witte’s hypothetical planets. Witte struggled to name one of these planets, seeking an appropriate goddess. Eventually he settled on the name Hades. A strange decision, no? The perfect name was hidden in plain sight, next to Hades: why not Persephone? She is goddess of underworld, who often must not be named, referred to instead as the Korē, the ‘girl’. The unnameable goddess for the unnameable planet, still concealed behind Witte’s Hades.
The topic of my paper was the sun as mythic force in modern fiction. It forms part of my ongoing project to locate and study the sincere engagement with myth in recent literature. I focused on two sun-stricken novels of the 1960s: Palace of the Peacock by Wilson Harris, and The Drowned World by J. G. Ballard. Despite the apparent differences between the authors in question, both novels are united in their use of myth, of psychological ideas, and of the sun as an active presence. The novels demonstrate how our star – alongside its material presence – retains a spiritual power in human life, well into our apparently disenchanted, rational age. The two authors offer different perspectives of the same condition: a human in modernity captivated by the power of the sun. In each case, the sun proves itself as our primal deity, its seemingly ceaseless power of light and heat matched by an eternal psychological power over our moods, sanity, sense of self. I was deeply gratified by the warm and attentive reception the paper received, and I came away having been given many promising suggestions for other contemporaneous novels on similar themes.
The conference was held at the Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution, which occupies a tremendous building on Queen Square, which – I have only just discovered – was once the home of Dr William Oliver, inventor of the Bath Oliver, which is a cracker I could eat all day. Papers were delivered in a room with four oval ceiling recesses. Pan (or perhaps a satyr) is in one, Demeter in a second, the third is blank, and the fourth has ‘do not paint’, as if awaiting Michelangelo’s return. As the conference drew to a close, I was privileged to hold the eye of Marduk (a votive amulet), dedicated by Nebuchadnezzar II around the sixth century BC, now in a private collection (another is in New York). Marduk, the great Babylonian creator deity, clearly bestowed his blessing on the whole proceedings.
Some months ago (in autumn) I alluded to the book launch for Translating Myth which was held at the British Centre for Literary Translation at UEA. I’ve written a belated report on the event for the Essex Centre for Myth Studies blog.
‘Happy Bloomsday’, began Tom McCarthy at the British Library this evening (16 June). He was here to launch his collection of essays, Typewriters, Bombs, Jellyfish. His talk was typically broad in reference, including some of his acknowledged favourites – Mallarmé, of course – among Edward Ruscha (whose ‘Orphic’ dismembered typewriter of Royal Road Test provided the opening image), Don DeLillo, cricket commentator Henry Blofeld, Georges Perec, Zinedine Zidane (as in the 2006 film, Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait), plus Hamlet, Don Quixote, Bartleby, Yeats, Freud, Auden, and Beckett. Written down like that, it looks awfully male, but I guess that’s several centuries of patriarchy for you.
As elaborated in the post-talk discussion, McCarthy’s concern centred on the idea of writing after Mallarmé (and indeed since at least the sixteenth century) as rewriting, as inauthentic, as mediated. Even the best writing is still inauthentic, but radically so. The ironic self-consciousness of this stance is evident in McCarthy’s fiction, which is written dispassionately, like a Freud case study, all emotion circumscribed or in suspension. Equally, politics is experienced on an alienated globalised or geopolitical level. Questions of visceral emotion, or political action, or spiritual transcendence are not relevant. It validates Ballard’s assessment of modernity as the time of ‘the death of affect’. It’s a style of writing that I enjoy tremendously, and it touches on many of my own interests, even though, at the same time, I am aware of something that I feel should be cracking through the surface of the prose. What is this lack – a cry of lamentation? the nauseous sense of urgency? (Perhaps my sense of this was highlighted on this occasion – still in the week of Grenfell.)
I read McCarthy’s last novel, Satin Island, in a state of tickled jealousy: the opening pages in particular present a hilariously vertiginous forging of links, associations, patterns, and structures in the modern technological environment, linking oil, tragedy, myth, and structural anthropology – a combination of topics that I addressed in my PhD thesis. But then, as if to make it more personal for me, there is a meditation on a ventilation system, the like of which is only equalled by my favourite song by The Beale (a group I later joined), ‘97 Circular’, in which the criminally underrated singer and artist, Adrian R. Shaw, proclaimed ‘I’m in love / With a ventilation shaft’, his voice cracking as he recalls ‘all its elaborate brickwork’.
Reading the opening pages of Satin Island was simply one of those sequences of chances which we all experience from time-to-time with an artwork which shares our outlook. In the case of Satin Island, anyone who casually observes the effluvia of globalisation and has an interest in structural readings of myth and tragedy (Lévi-Strauss is a prominent presence) will recognise themselves to some degree on the page.
McCarthy’s protagonist, named U, sees networks, randomness, designs, patterns, primal scenes, abstractions, complicity, and traumas, all resonating and repeating in his experience of the world. The novel chooses not to push the political or ethical demand that some will find inextricable from this network. It remains the novel of the protestant individual and not of the collective spirit: Dionysian ekstasis as synthesized MDMA that we come down from all too soon and re-atomised. So too in McCarthy’s talk at the BL, the constellation-patterns of Mallarmé’s ‘Un coup de dés’ constitute a semiotic mark not an affective symbol, and Zidane’s famous headbutt of Materazzi is replicated in a playful GIF of colliding ‘Z’s. McCarthy’s stance definitively avoids kitsch and the emotiveness that occludes insight and reflection. And yet I am nagged by the cyclopean strength of this ironic posture of studiousness and play. In Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait (the film which follows Zidane throughout the ninety minutes of a 2005 football game), at half-time, the film presents a montage of the day’s global news. McCarthy shows as a still from the aftermath of a car bomb in Iraq, in which a boy wears a football shirt with Zidane’s name. But this queasy conjunction cannot disturb the reflective repose of the British Library ‘Knowledge Centre’. How could it? Too remote in time, place and context.
Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote ‘The Mask of Anarchy’ in response to the Peterloo Massacre, allegorising contemporary politicians as personifications of Murder, Fraud, Hypocrisy, and Anarchy. Contrasted to these is Hope, ‘But she looked more like Despair’. Hope delivers an anatomy of Freedom (incorporating Justice, Wisdom, Peace, and Love) and calls on the English to rise up against Oppression’s slavery. Jeremy Corbyn quoted from this poem during his final speech of the June 2017 election campaign. His quotation is loaded with ironies and symbols.
One irony has become horribly apparent in the last two days since the avoidable fire at Grenfell Tower in west London. Governments tend not to commit massacres against their people these days, but the process of oppression and killing is more subtle: through cutting services, cutting regulations, incentivising landlord profits. These policies led directly (according to all informed reports) to the rapid spread of the Grenfell Tower fire. The political ideology of division and social cleansing is the hidden successor to overt state violence.
The Peterloo Massacre (in which yeomanry charged at a crowd of peaceful advocates for parliamentary reform) inspired the foundation of the Manchester Guardian, a newspaper which in its current form actively opposed Corbyn’s leadership until a few days before the June 2017 election. (For an informed comment on this particular irony, see this blog)
Shelley’s poem had been circling Corbyn’s campaign for a while, activating the mutual resonance between the campaign slogan “For the many, not the few” and the lines which close the poem (repeated from stanza 38) “Rise like Lions after slumber / In unvanquishable number— / Shake your chains to earth like dew / Which in sleep had fallen on you— / Ye are many—they are few.”
The reading by Corbyn, addressing a large crowd of supporters at the Union Chapel in Islington on the eve of the election, amplified through a booming PA system, is not intrinsically beautiful, but in the context, as his audience joins in the final line, and following an impassioned speech of stridently optimistic rhetoric, Corbyn’s performance is deeply moving. (At 29’46” here.)
Corbyn introduces the poem with reference to Mary Wollstonecraft, resident of Newington Green, her Vindication of the Rights of Women, and her daughter, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. The connection Corbyn draws is political, befitting the occasion, but prefaced with the simple remark ‘you should never be afraid to say you love poetry’. This is perhaps in response to accusations from the philistine press of the sort that he would be better singing the national anthem or demonising immigrants than accepting a booking for an evening’s discussion with Ben Okri at the Royal Festival Hall.
There is also something implicit in this invocation of the traditions of English Romanticism. Beyond the immediate political exhortation and the Romantic contemporary context of Peterloo, the French Revolution, the counter-Enlightenment, and so on, there exists idealism, transcendence and living mythology. Symbolist critic G. Wilson Knight, commenting on Shelley’s Queen Mab, wrote, ‘The agonies of history with their paradisal goal ahead are seen in panorama, time being laid out flat beneath the Fairy’s dome’ (The Starlit Dome, 185). The temporal and the eternal meet in a panoptic symbol of communal responsibility. Corbyn’s Shelley is a vision of transcendent possibility in the political present.