Can I open my eyes yet?

Picture, if you can, the world on 4 January 2020, when I sat down and began to write this post. I was three weeks into a news black-out that lasted almost three months. In this time, I avoided all news: radio, television, newspapers, internet. What news I heard was caught by accident from conversations or random online apparitions. For my mental well-being, it was bliss. Then there was this virus that I couldn’t ignore.

But in early January, I was in a reflective mood…

Close-up of a moss-covered tree branch

New Year’s Eve, and we spurned any year-in-review nonsense in favour of the oblivion of nostalgia on DVD. But we’re not immune to tradition, and as midnight approached, the FM radio went on for the chimes of Big Ben (the FM signal has less delay than the digital), and we had a look at the fireworks on the telly.

It was the usual expensive bombast, soundtracked by brief snippets of energetic music. I don’t think anyone was in the pods of the London Eye, but it would have been a terrifying view, surrounded by the explosions as the Mayor of London blasted the wretched old year into smithereens.

I’d like to know who chose (or ‘curated’) the music selection, because it really wasn’t necessary to play the riff from The White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army”, or, to give it its official title “The Theme From ‘O Jeremy Corbyn'”. In more optimistic days, Richard Seymour described it as ‘a sort of joyous battle cry’ (preface to the second edition of Corbyn, 2017, p. xiii). It was a complex sign, to be sure, and I’m not going to unpack here what it meant in 2017. At the end of 2019, though, it had certainly been loaded with many more emotions. Maybe it was endorsed by Sadiq Khan as an attempt to reappropriate the tune. Maybe it was played to laugh in the face of anyone who had the foolishness to hope that we could have a government that would take seriously the global challenge of the climate crisis, and the local one of health care (to name but two). Perhaps whoever selected it expected the audience to start singing along, unbidden, as they surprised themselves to recall how a political movement that proposed some mildly redistributive policies, led by a deeply principled man who is, at worst, arguably ill-suited to commanding a major political coalition, failed to stand up under the barrage of shit that materialised directly from the capitalist death-drive unconscious.

Yes. I like to think that’s what everyone thought, as they stood on the freezing banks of the Thames, about to step into the great chasm of 2020.

A sparrow hawk, I think, standing on the carcass of a pigeon, surrounded by feathers, on a quiet road.
Review of the year so far.

2008 05 25 at St Paul'sHello friends. In the last ten years I’ve seen the streets of the places I know best, in London and Colchester, transformed by the unrelenting grip of power that has forced people to beg on these streets in previously unimaginable numbers. I’ve seen the consequences of state decisions that have pushed people I care about into Kafkaesque nightmares of sanctions, uncertainty, and precarious living. But in recent years I’ve also seen the strengthening of a force that offers realistic prospects to reverse this decline, and to take seriously the global environmental catastrophe (which we’ve all known about for decades). So I’ll be delighted to join you all on Thursday as we come together to transcend this sham of reality enforced by our favourite media outlets, and make a solemn pledge in support of a new possibility. And whatever happens on Friday morning, may our actions be guided by love and compassion.

Trying to take a mythical, long view

Titian Europa
Titian, The Rape of Europa (1562)

Like the rape of Helen by Paris, this is an act of sexual coercion with historically portentous consequences: Europa’s rape will literally give rise to Europe. From her union with Jupiter, Minos will be born, and the most ancient of European civilizations on the island of Crete. Her brother Cadmus, the inventor of writing, will search for her, and found the great ancient city of Thebes. The painting records no less than the birth of civilization.
(Stephen J. Campbell)

I am reflecting on the result of the EU referendum. Whatever the motives of the individuals who voted to leave the EU (and I don’t share the view of some on the left that the “leave” vote will deliver opportunities to chip away at the global neoliberal hegemony), the rhetoric of the official campaign unapologetically exploited a spectrum from xenophobia to racism. This leaves a bad taste in the mouth. I want to start washing that out with some thoughts about myth and the British mind.

The “natural” [English-language] national myth ought to have been Arthurian – as Malory, Milton, Tennyson or T. H. White variously supposed. Did, for Britain, the major Christian legends and typologies not lie to hand as they did on the Continent of Europe? What Faustus after Marlowe in English literature is there to be set beside Valéry’s or Bulgakov’s or Thomas Mann’s? What Don Juan except Byron’s? No, it is to Achilles and Odysseus, to the “topless towers of Ilium” and the shores of Ithaka, it is to “deep-browed Homer” that English-language sensibility turns and returns, incessantly, as if striving to appropriate to itself, to the native genius, material already, by some destined or elective affinity, its own.
(George Steiner, ‘Homer in English’)

Steiner notes the same lack of a native mythology that Tolkien wanted to address, but if we have appropriated the Greek, do we need another? (England, of course, never embraced the Celts.) Our mythology is Greek, our early literature is Scandinavian, and our longest-established religion is from the Eastern Mediterranean. But it seems this cultural openness has always been accompanied by suspicion, see Horace, who, in the first century BC, described Britons as hostile to strangers (Ode 3.4, a trait recently discussed by Edith Hall). This mind-body dualism finds its political analogue in the forty-eight/fifty-two per cent split of the referendum vote.

One of the uses of myth is to shore up social or national identity, and the global mythology of our literature is countered by the folk figures of John Bull, Britannia, and a recently deified Churchill. But these figures seem fixed in the public imagination: unlike mythical beings, their stories do not admit change and metamorphosis. Marina Warner surveyed the development of Britannia as a national figure and finds a peculiar, and still recognizable paradox in James Thomson’s ‘Rule Britannia!’: ‘The rhetoric exposes the tension between the Britannia who upholds the freedom of democracy […] and the Britannia who herself brings nations under subjection’ (Monuments and Maidens, 46).

But a living mythology should not be stuck and backward-looking, it should ease transition. In fifth-century Athens, Aeschylus had Orestes speak a charter for a new political arrangement: pledging the military assistance of Argos alongside Athens (Eumenides, 762-77). It’s a pledge of union, of unity after monstrous bloodshed. Alas, like the EU, the union is destructively imperfect: if the ideal of the EU is, in part at least, to keep peace within the union, the Oresteian parallel of plenty of war beyond the borders (Eumenides 858-66) is also revoltingly apposite.

In seeking the strength to combat fascist propaganda, why not look to the apocalypse? (apokaluptein is, literally, ‘to uncover’.) Myths of the apocalypse invariably culminate in a rebirth, reminding us of the circularity of existence. What seems dismal now is not eternal. This is the aftermath of Ragnarök (in a rather selective translation from Snorri Sturluson’s Edda, by C. Fee and D. A. Leeming):

The earth will rise from the deeps again one day, green and blossoming, and crops will flourish where none were planted. A new sun will take the place of her mother, and a number of gods will return to the ancient ruins of Asgard, led now by Baldr. Lif and Lifthrasir will survive to renew the race of men: they will have hidden themselves securely in Yggdrasill’s embrace, and the fire of Surt will not scorch them: they will survive on the morning dew, and keep watch through the branches above them for the new sun rising. And thus, through its death, the world will be born again.