Imagination and Evaluation in History: Spengler and Adorno

Oswald Spengler: “Once again, therefore, there was an act like the act of Copernicus to be accomplished, an act of emancipation from the evident present in the name of infinity. This the Western soul achieved in the domain of Nature long ago, when it passed from the Ptolemaic world-system to that which is alone valid for it today, and treats the position of the observer on one particular planet as accidental instead of normative.”

The first step is to recognise that you have a standpoint, and then you can see that there are different standpoints you might have taken up. And that these different possible standpoints go all the way to infinity, making yours quite accidental. With this knowledge, you can state your “prepossessions” consciously and methodically, without labouring under the illusion that you’re being objective.

“Contemplation or vision, on the other hand –– I may recall Goethe’s words: ‘vision is to be carefully distinguished from seeing’ ––, is that act of experience which is itself history because it is itself a fulfilling. That which has been lived is that which has happened, and is history.”

The task then isn’t to acquire a god’s eye view of all the objects of history, since this is impossible. Instead, notice how the objects of history affect you. Objects become symbols for you, as you assimilate them according to your own cultural needs. Notice the process of assimilation –– the presuppositions that shape the material –– and state it. It’s difficult, and you can only go so deep: there are always deeper presuppositions. But in your attempt you will be expressing a life: your life, and the life of the culture you belong to. (For example, what looms over everything in Western culture today? Perhaps the most terrible is the symbol of the Holocaust, a symbol so horrifying that it seems impossible to assimilate, and it lives for us as a reminder of the inhuman depths that mankind can sink to . . . An object: the gates of Auschwitz, and the words: “Arbeit macht frei”, which stand in mockery of our own glorification of work, praise for the “hardworking”, the fascism in our own culture . . .)

“In the presence of the same object or corpus of facts, every observer according to his own disposition has a different impression of the whole, and this impression, intangible and incommunicable, underlies his judgement and gives it its personal colour.”

What seems evident to you is in fact only accidentally so. Whatever is most obvious to you is never a necessary standard by which you can judge the whole of history. Your undeniable truths are in fact merely the colour you give to things. They are secondary qualities, and inessential. But they are real and irrefutable: you’ll always see historical objects through such qualities.

“We have before us a symbol of becoming in every bar of our music from Palestrina to Wagner, and the Greeks a symbol of the pure present in every one of their statues. The rhythm of a body is based upon a simultaneous relation of the parts, that of a fugue in the succession of elements in time.”

A culture announces itself in its “vision”. Vision is not the sum total of facts that the culture has gathered about the world, but what it has made out of those facts. Don’t look just at historical textbooks: look also at poetry, architecture, music, political discourse . . . in order to see what a culture has made out of what it has inherited, what presuppositions it has created for itself.

“The darkness encompassing the simple soul of primitive mankinds, which we can realise even today from their religious customs and myths –– that entirely organic world of pure wilfulness, of hostile demons and kindly powers –– was through-and-through a living and swaying whole, ununderstandable, indefinable, incalculable.”

There are two aspects to historical work: fact-gathering, then interpretation. The truth of the cultures you study will not be found in the facts alone. A culture is something organic and must be lived. This requires an imaginative leap, into the once living culture so distant and dark, “going on” from the facts. (Not ignoring the facts, but going further, in a direction not wholly determined by the facts. See what Theodor Adorno does in his Minima Moralia: he looks at the “mental structures” created by a culture. For example the mental structures created by the Third Reich are “stupid”, a mockery of existing practices, and nothing of lasting value. Adorno is making a value judgement, and this kind of judgement is really the essence of historical work, it lets us get our teeth into history –– and as disciplines, history and philosophy aren’t so far apart. In the same chapter, Adorno goes on to mention Spengler: he says we need to re-evaluate what the decline of the West means, now that we have the fact of fascism to consider. We’re given new facts, and we adjust our evaluations in response to them.)

“Tendencies towards a mechanistic idea of the world proceeding wholly from mathematical delimitation and logical differentiation, from law and causality, appear quite early.”

And, says Spengler, the “systematic” way of thinking hardens, becomes the default method, so that it seems impossible to think in any other way. Only in the minds of children and artists does the organic, imaginative method remain. But imagination is essential for discovering what is at work in the symbols that exist in our culture, since it shows how the past has been assimilated into our culture, how it affects our thinking: for example, not just what caused the rise of fascism in the early part of the 20th century, but how these symbols continue to live, so that we can be alert to the ways that fascism continues to threaten us today, existing in the very machinery of our own culture.

(I’ve been reading The Decline of the West by Oswald Spengler, translated by Charles Francis Atkinson, and Minima Moralia by Theodor Adorno, translated by E. F. N. Jephcott.)

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A Note on Spengler and Historical Perspective

The Western historian writes from her own “standpoint.” But she knows she must be objective, which means opening her eyes to the infinite differences and infinite distances of history, freeing herself as far as she can from the limitations of her own perspective. One thing to bear in mind is how much of what is past she must inevitably be blind to, when she creates her own image of History:

“Plainly, we have almost no notion of the multitude of great ideas belonging to other Cultures that we have suffered to lapse because our thought with its limitations has not permitted us to assimilate them, or (which comes to the same thing) has led us to reject them as false, superfluous, and nonsensical.”

The challenge for the historian is to imagine her “present” –– her world, her perspective, the system of rules that govern her thinking, the everyday things, ideas and objects, she takes for granted –– as merely existing in a moment, one step in the endless journey that humanity has been making and must continue. Just as countless alien ideas have been forgotten to us in the West, so our present full of truths that seems to us so real and eternal might be lost forever. Perspective is everything.

(I’ve been reading The Decline of the West by Oswald Spengler, translated by Charles Francis Atkinson.)

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Beat Attitude

In Go, John Clellon Holmes sketches some of the leading figures of the Beat Generation. We get a picture of their different attitudes, in every sense of the word: the way they talk, the way they carry themselves, the way they refuse to fit in and be normal. And we see how different each Beat was: there’s no single way to be Beat, each one following his own path to “Beatitude.”

Allen Ginsberg is “on the bottom, looking up.” This is the only way to notice the sky, he says. He looks around with “benevolent satisfaction in everything”. See as he climbs out of the car onto the crowded streets. He sympathises with “the rush and hurry” around him but he doesn’t approve of its seriousness. What has got into these souls that stream past him to make them so frantic? They’re at war with time and space, never satisfied with the spot they find themselves in. And yet Allen looks up even to these hurried souls, observing them as a child observes adult behaviour, looking up from his solitary play to notice the unexplained practices of those beings from a different world.

While Allen looks up, Jack Kerouac looks down. He sits in the bar, looking at the cigarette in his hand, talking softly to the friend beside him. He’s wrestling with life, and he’s trying to communicate his struggle. He’s depressed, pondering “enigmas.” He hopes he’ll win love by writing –– it’s the only reason he does it, and the only hope he feels he has. He knows the answer to his problems: to accept that “life is holy in itself.” All he has to do is accept his life as it is and everything will be right with the world. And yet he can’t stop this slow, low pondering. He can’t stop struggling.

Sometimes Jack will look up from his reverie and he’ll see his friend Neal Cassady, King of the Beats, a man who never looks up or down but always side to side, nervous, taking in every scene and looking for every opportunity, “digging everything,” and if he’s not digging he’s “waiting” for something to dig, rat-like, King Rat, his edgy movements an endless dance, and if he hears music he’s locked onto that, cheering the musicians on, joining in, “rapping” and tapping bars, dashboards, tables, and shouting “Go! That’s right!” His smile is intense, we’re told, he’s focused on whoever is talking, or singing, or playing, and he can see right away what’s good and right and true in whatever he sees. He’s communicating, always communicating, secretly, using rhythm, and everyone tuned in can understand and they know who Neal is –– what he is –– the moment they see him. “He has his miseries,” Jack reminds us. But when you’re tapping into the deepest mysteries how could you not have miseries? Neal is not oblivious to the sadness of the world –– he’s felt it and sunk down into it and risen from it, and he knows the great secret, that rhythm is the key to everything, unlocking every door, opening onto every avenue, every possibility . . .

Compare Neal’s “restless energy” to the frantic hurrying of those serious souls on the night-time city streets. And the morbid struggling of Jack sat contemplating into his beer. Neal can seem reckless, hopping from here to there, in the bar or behind the wheel, taking his eyes off the road as he drives . . . and yet he has a “reckless precision” –– he’s carefree but not careless, he’s not lost, he’s not at war with the forces of time and space, he works his magic on them, dancing to the rhythm he finds, dancing the way he must dance, and he’s aware, deeply aware of the bodies and souls he sees and hears around him.

(I’ve been reading The Portable Beat Reader, edited by Ann Charters and published in 1992 by Penguin Classics. It’s a collection of some of the best writing from the Beat Generation, with interesting little introductions to each writer.)

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Angels Can Make Change Happen

“I just started hustling, just knocking around, you know, scrounging, learning I guess.”

This is Herbert Huncke: drug addict, criminal and writer. He moves in his own little group of junkies and criminals, otherwise he is cut off from people –– “people” meaning those who truly belong to society, who are connected and in control and help in some small way to shape the direction of the world. And yet, though isolated, he must continue to live, binding his own life into order. No matter to what depths you sink you must still go on living, which for a human being means making choices, taking responsibility.

He peers into the cracks looking for clues, keys and maps that might guide him, aid him in survival. Those who are cut off like him can find no ready-made order in their lives. He must find his own way, intuitive, delving into winding depths, never across or upward, never in a straight line.

And his displacement means he occupies a unique space, discovering truths that exist only in the gaps. Truths you notice only when you are forced to take strange paths. Truths you can sometimes articulate if you are a writer. Allen Ginsberg said:

“In his anonymity & holy Creephood in New York he was the sensitive vehicle for a veritable new consciousness which spread to others sensitised by their dislocation from History and then to entire generations.”

Huncke’s prose jumps around in time and space. He’s telling us about a time that Johnie was with him, then he jumps ahead to Johnie’s death much later, shot to death by police in a drugs raid. This is what Henry Miller called “spiral form”, prose circling away from past to future to present and back so that past present future become entwined.

The spiral form echoes the helplessness of Huncke and his friends. Before we’re even done with the story, their fate has been decided. Johnie will die, there’s no way to change that. History, even the personal histories of those in this small group, has been written independently of them. Dislocated and isolated, these people are of the kind Henry Miller described when he wrote “We are all alone here and we are dead.”

But Joey Martinez has a guardian angel. “Nothing bad will ever happen to me because someone looks over me and takes care of me.” Humanity has forgotten Joey, so it’s left to the angels to look out for him. When you’re dislocated from history, you need to believe that someone is there, making changes for you, helping you out. Guardian angels exist for those who live in isolation and are unable to make change happen on their own. Joey didn’t ask for help. What human being would help him? But he knows an angel is there, watching over him.

Elsie John is a giant of six and a half feet, with long bright red hair. He wears lipstick and paints his nails. He is intersex, or “hermaphrodite” as he calls himself, as society calls him if it doesn’t call him “queer” or “degenerate”. Huncke’s story of Elsie is a sad and terrible one: his last memory of him, Elsie is in a prison yard surrounded by men who are screaming obscenities and exposing themselves. Where was Huncke when he saw this? Didn’t he step in to help? More evidence of helplessness, dislocation.

Guardian angels are beings that feel pity, and feel it enough to act upon it –– something human beings rarely do. Faced with another’s suffering, human beings often become like Huncke in the prison yard, frozen in his pity. To become an angel, just for a moment, make pity your driving force and motivation. Accept that some cannot do for themselves, that society offers some among us no way to help themselves. They need help, they need angels. Forget fear. And forget the ideology of self-belief that serves only the rich, the ideology that says Anyone Can Be Anything, and if you fail it is Your Fault.

This will set you at odds with the world, just in that moment. You’ll see the cracks and secret pathways and you will sense others like you, the angels in others, hidden in the hearts of the most lost and most helpless, the most cold, the most hardened . . .

(I’ve been reading The Portable Beat Reader, edited by Ann Charters and published in 1992 by Penguin Classics. It’s a collection of some of the best writing from the Beat Generation, with interesting little introductions to each writer.)

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Stone and Space

Being

“The worked stone . . . has considered limits and measured form; what it is is what it has become under the sculptor’s chisel.”

The statue wants nothing, it rests upon the ground, complete and beautiful. It is what it has become.

Nothing

“The symbolising of extension, of space . . . and we find it alike in the conceptions of absolute space that pervade Newtonian physics, Gothic cathedral interiors . . .”

Unlike the statue, the cathedral yearns, it rises up into space, a place of longing, we notice less the worked stone and more the sheer vastness of it, how high that vaulted roof above us. Vast emptiness. It tells us of the infinite spirit of God, of infinite possibility for humankind, and of our own yearning.

Becoming

“It was principally in Germany that the organ was developed into the space-commanding giant that we know, an instrument the like of which does not exist in all musical history. The free organ-playing of Bach and his time was nothing if it was not analysis – analysis of a strange and vast time-world.”

Analysis, untangling the emptiness to find a world within it. Commanding the void to bring forth the world that it contains. But the emptiness stretches on and on, rises up and up. Can it ever be filled? The analysis continues. The music continues to bring its light and order and energy to the endless space. Sometimes as we listen to the organ play it seems for a moment that the world is indeed full of light. God breathes among the arched and tangled stonework, and we feel the vibration of the cosmos.

(I’ve been reading The Decline of the West by Oswald Spengler, the abridged edition published in 1991, translated by Charles Francis Atkinson.)

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Salut Au Monde!

Walt Whitman was a writer of light and vision. He invites us to see: cloud-topped mountains, great lakes and rivers, the oceans and those who sail on the ocean, the many different countries of the earth and the people that dwell in them.

In “Salut au Monde!” he shows us the many different homes of the people of the world: “I see distant lands, as real and near to the inhabitants of them as my land is to me.” Real and near, this is what a person’s home is. Real because it is near and familiar. My home is the reality in which I dwell.

Sometimes I feel discomfort when I stray far from home. Things start to seem unreal. Foreign customs, expressions, points of view: all contribute to create a sense that the earth has slipped from under my feet. This is because what I call “real” is just what is familiar to me: I call things “known” and “true” because I am accustomed to them being this way.

But Whitman, as he soars and glides around the world, looking in on the various forms of human life, becomes “at random a part of” these homes. Whitman, poet, is able to make his home anywhere, just for a time. And it is because he is a poet that he can make his home anywhere. The magic that allows him to fit into these homes, to live anywhere however alien the life might be to him, is the magic of respect and love, his respect and love for all human life. He is at home wherever he can find “equals and lovers”, and he can find these in any part of the world. The humanity of the earth is one. As a poet he knows that you don’t simply have a home: you make one. A poet, a maker, is able to do this wherever he or she goes. And conversely: when a poet meets another soul, the poet is able to make a home for this other person, to express the love and understanding that men and women all over the world have in common, so that, looking into the eyes of the poet, you are reminded again, whoever and wherever you are, that you belong in friendship together on the earth.

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Notes on Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”

Allen Ginsberg gives us picture after picture of the lost minds, “the best minds of my generation”, images of entire lives lived and lived out and used up, flashes of light and life like the images in Whitman, who also gave a great catalogue of the souls that make up the soul of America. But Ginsberg’s is a vision of doom, of lives driven to madness and slavery.

“Moloch”, the god of America now, bashes in their brains and robs them of imagination, so that for all the opulent variety of these many souls so many will be crushed or drained that there will be nothing but a drab windowless uniformity, grey walls grey opinions, passive acceptance of war and child-murder and police control and gratitude even for their own slavery, even as they weep for their lost innocence and youth, even as they hardly realise what they weep for.

If Moloch hasn’t defeated you, if you’re still alive with imagination and hope and vision for mankind then you’re among a fortunate few. But it’s enough. Even to know one other soul to call to, across the abyss, is enough. Ginsberg calls to Carl Solomon: “I’m with you!” And together they can be great writers, even just in their own minds, since they share a vision and even work together at the same great typewriter.

And even among the worshippers of Moloch, you can if you believe in your own great and vast and singular vision see that “everything is holy!” And just to share this one truth – shout it: “Holy! Holy! Holy!” – is the entire business of art in these times.

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Decline according to Spengler

Oswald Spengler tells us that Western civilisation is in decline. This doesn’t mean the end is nigh, this doesn’t mean the end of days. We have centuries left, and when civilisation as we (in the West) know it finally comes to an end, by then there will be another living culture to replace it. But what we must not do is imagine that Western civilisation will continue forever. The very fact that Western civilisation imagines that it will continue forever is a symptom of its decline.

Spengler tells us that when a culture is in decline is becomes imperialistic. It seeks to expand. It no longer looks inward as much as it looks outward. Late Western “creative possibilities” are “extensive”, and no longer intensive. Cecil Rhodes is an early example of this late Western man, says Spengler: his ambitions were large and outward looking, he wanted to leave a legacy, he wanted to build grand projects . . . This is all a sign of the decline of a culture: imperialism is always a signal of death. Rhodes was a “brain-man”, a calculator, an opportunist: he’s finished reflecting, peering into his own soul, and found little enough to look at in that direction. Now he calculates how best to make a grand and profitable impact on the world.

“Life is the process of effecting possibilities, and for the brain-man there are only extensive possibilities.” It seems obvious to us in the West that everything must be bigger, faster, and more connected, but in fact (Spengler tells us) this is something specific to our culture in this late stage. It’s the very substance of what it means to us to be creative in our culture. Imperialism doesn’t just mean brutal and bloody wars: it means desiring to build, and to build without end, it means making bolder and faster and brighter creations – even art and philosophical thought is affected by this trend – you need to be “great,” you need to make an “impact” . . .

What is it that we believe we are achieving through this endless expansion? The short answer is: immortality. We no longer believe that our own souls are anything much to look at, we don’t need to look inward for long to take in the sum of metaphysics, and any talk of an immortal soul is nonsensical to us. We’re obsessed now by the fact, as we see it, that each life is doomed to end, and end forever. And so we’re attempting to build our own immortality – a railway to last forever, irrefutable ethical systems to guide us for all time, space colonies expanding outward toward the infinite . . .

As a culture, it’s our obsessions that define us. And our obsession, as our own culture begins to die, is with death itself.

(I’ve been reading The Decline of the West by Oswald Spengler, the abridged edition published in 1991, translated by Charles Francis Atkinson.)

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Some notes on Spengler as I read him

I’ve been slowly reading The Decline of the West by Oswald Spengler with a couple of friends. We meet online once a week to discuss the pages we’ve read. What follows is an explanation of Spengler as I understand him so far, though I expect to find I’ve missed many nuances and even got some of this completely backwards. If there are any Spengler enthusiasts out there who would like to offer corrections I’d be very grateful. Meanwhile I’ll stumble on.

In the book, Spengler is looking for the meaning of this period of history: c.1800-2000, West Europe and North America (Or the “West”). Notice this period is defined spatially as well as temporally: according to Spengler’s strange concept of historical development, we in the West don’t really belong to the same period as those in c.1800-2000 China, c.1800-2000 India, and so on. Our culture has its own life and specificity, and it is really useless to lump together all the cultures in the whole world when trying to do history, since study of history is study of the life of a culture. (This makes Spengler’s notion of what it means to do “world-history” an interesting and paradoxical one, but this is a story for another time.)

So what is it that defines c.1800-2000 West? According to Spengler, it’s our view of the Classical world: Greece and Rome. We in the West have a special relationship with Greece and Rome, as no other culture has had with another culture. Spengler says we have projected our own spiritual concerns onto Greece and Rome and understand ourselves through them. So what is it about them?

Spengler tells us that, viewed correctly, Greece and Rome have a parallel development to Western culture. Greece created a culture of living forms – myths, gods, artistic techniques – and the Romans inherited these forms but added nothing to them so that the forms died, but were preserved in death. Though Rome might appear to be a continuation of Greek culture, in fact Roman civilisation merely preserved Greek culture, using Greek religious and artistic symbols as it continued its business of conquering the world. Rome was a “civilisation” and not a living “culture” of its own, in Spengler’s eyes, because it turned away from creating living forms and instead focused on the forms of living death: money and power.

We in the c.1800-2000 West are in a “Roman” phase, we might say. All the great cultural innovations have passed – political ideas of freedom as self-determination and absence of slavery (liberté), inventions such as the printing press as symbols for a levelling of society (égalité) the spiritual ideas of Christianity preserved in a humanistic form (fraternité) – and now c.1800-2000 we hold onto these ideas in their fixed forms as we worry about how to make ourselves richer and more powerful. Hence you can explain all recent wars in terms of economics, and the “freedom” that our leaders often claim they are promoting by their wars is the 200 year old notion of freedom that came out of our culture while it still lived. We no longer live within this notion of freedom, since we don’t often trouble ourselves to struggle with the difficult concepts of freedom as philosophers did while our world was still inflamed by the impact of the French Revolution: we tend to accept these philosophical ideas passively and hold them up as relics of a past that we are proud of. Now these ideas exist merely to preserve our more mundane and mercantile purposes.

So this is the import of that word in the title of Spengler’s book: “decline.” Just as the Roman Empire brought about the end of Greek culture, but then continued for centuries to spread even though it had stopped developing, so the West of c.1800-2000 has brought its own past cultural development to an end, and though Western civilisation will continue for a long time, nothing new can come of it. Strive for money and power by all means, Spengler seems to be saying, since this is what it means to live in the c.1800-2000 West, but don’t expect to produce anything new and wonderful by this. If you want to see where we’re heading, Spengler is suggesting, just take a look at the history of the later Roman Empire and you’ll get some idea.

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Cloud Mind Shadow

“I believe that only a dreamer who has fear neither of life nor death will discover this infinitesimal iota of force which will hurtle the cosmos into whack – instantaneously.”

What do you do when you have no fear of life and death? Perhaps you sit outside a quiet pub and drink a beer on a mild September afternoon. And dream. This moment belongs to you: a moment to do nothing. You live a lifetime in such a moment.

“For him who is obliged to dream with eyes wide open all movement is in reverse, all action broken into kaleidoscopic fragments.”

The ideologues have it in reverse, with their emphasis on seizing opportunity: if you keep your eyes open for every opportunity to act (to “get on”, to “add value”) then you’re living like an animal. Gilles Deleuze said that this is what it means to be an animal: always on the lookout, always on alert. If you live like this you’ll never know what it can mean to be human, a rational being whose mind encompasses the earth and sky, and the cloud rolling above and shadows that move below are this human beer-drunk mind moving away and back into itself. If you live for opportunity you will remain warily separate from the human nature-mind of cloud and shadow. Clouds mean rain, shadows mean danger. Keep your eyes open.

“I believe, as I walk through the horror of the present, that only those who have the courage to close their eyes, only those whose permanent absence from the condition known as reality can affect our fate . . .”

On every inhabited planet in every galaxy of every universe is the same “identical misery . . . identical insanity.” It will be back to the same insanity once I finish this beer. But for now everything seems in order. The cosmos? It’s all in whack as long as I can sit in this peace in the cool air. A moment alone with myself. A lifetime before the deluge.

(I’ve been reading Black Spring by Henry Miller, published by Alma Classics in 2012. Most of the quotations in this post are from the chapter entitled “Walking Up and Down in China.”)

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