Preface. Various factors this year have necessitated a leaner Annual Review. There follows excerpts from books I have read this year that have influenced my philosophical enquiry, a digest of my favourite songs that have come out in twenty seventeen, and the sections in italics are musings cribbed directly from my notebook for the year, here and there slightly edited, elsewhere slightly embellished. Caveat: Do not be drawn in by the dozen sections. I employed neither linear chronology nor hierarchy in the construction of this review. Rather, I attempted a spontaneous and holistic approach to writing and compiling.
Adam John Miller, 20th December 2017.
Like all genuine questions, the question about identity will never die. Such questions do not have answers, in the sense of a single definitive statement that eliminates the need to ask the question again. Yet that does not mean that talking about such questions is an endless and meaningless game, merely going back and forth over the same positions, more cleverly expressed. Instead, at crucial moments in this long conversation, something emerges that reveals a new truth, perhaps implicit in what has gone before but only now expressed. Because of that insight, everything appears in a new light. Such questions and conversations are living things; they are fascinating because, at any moment, something so compelling may emerge that nothing will be the same again.
Peter Pesic, Seeing Double: Shared Identities in Physics, Philosophy, and Literature
Vagabon, The Embers
I saw it happen as it was happening to me. Non-participation an idle fantasy, ultimately impossible. The bottomless depths and unfathomable heights are signposts, as natural as night and day. Content provision. Flicking through the dream diary I catch myself and wince at the opulent naivety: Please wake up now, it says, stopping short. Perplexed, unsubstantiated. An elaboration of protocol and rule. Olive branches, javelins. The metaphors of mind are the world it perceives. Downsize your expectations. An open invitation to the vinegar tasting goes unanswered. This nearly didn’t happen at all, but the field is more inviting than the stands whilst we wait for the whistle. Keep it succinct.
I think this is the right place to say something more about ‘it’. Though of course there is no ‘right’ place or time, since there was no particular moment marking – then or now – ‘its’ beginning. And yet there did come a period when everyone was talking about ‘it’; and we knew we had not been doing this until recently: there was a different ingredient in our lives.
Perhaps I would have done better to have begun this chronicle with an attempt at a full description of ‘it’. But is it possible to write an account of anything at all without ‘it’ – in some shape or another – being the main theme? Perhaps, indeed, ‘it’ is the secret theme of all literature and history, like writing in invisible ink between the lines, which springs up, sharply black, dimming the old print we knew so well, as life, personal or public, unfolds unexpectedly and we see something where we never thought we could – we see ‘it’ as the ground-swell of events, experience . . . Very well then, but what was ‘it’? . . . I am sure that ever since there were men on earth ‘it’ has been talked of precisely in this way in times of crisis, since it is in crisis ‘it’ becomes visible, and our conceit sinks before its force. For ‘it’ is a force, a power, taking the form of earthquake, a visiting comet whose balefulness hangs closer night by night distorting all thought by fear – ‘it’ can be, has been, pestilence, a war, the alteration of climate, a tyranny that twists men’s minds, the savagery of a religion.
‘It’, in short, is the word for helpless ignorance, or of helpless awareness. It is a word for man’s inadequacy?
‘Have you heard anything new about it?’
‘So and so said last night that it . . .’
Worse still when the stage is reached of ‘Have you heard anything new’, when ‘it’ has absorbed everything into itself, and nothing else can be meant when people ask what is moving in our world, what moves our world. It. Only it, a much worse word than ‘they’; for ‘they’ at least are humanity too, can be moved, are helpless, like ourselves.
‘It’, perhaps – on this occasion in history – was above all a consciousness of something ending.
Doris Lessing, The Memoirs of a Survivor.
There is no nature, only Nature – an imaginary state of man’s own invention, a realm of concept and language. That is man’s place and it is nowhere except inside his head; a mirror image of a distorted fantasy he calls Mankind. A distortion of a distortion, exponentially phantasmagorical. Nature is a conceit: a man-made garden in which we wander to relax and preen, as we nod to one another in passing, and congratulate ourselves on being us. We created Nature so that we might take pride in how far we have ventured beyond it.
Man has no place in nature because there is no nature: only what he makes. He is therefore beyond nothing. He is merely self-deceived. Forever trapped inside his self-inflated dream of what he is. A pathetic child imagining himself in the world, when, in reality, he is confined by the four walls of his playroom. His ‘world’ being nothing more than the arrangement of his diminutive models and playthings.
Man is exiled from the real world, from nature, by language. He is the willing prisoner of words. All his high-mindedness, his ideals, morality, stemming merely from the necessity of language. True nature cares for nothing, neither life nor death. It is simply in a perpetual motion of growth and decay, beyond value or morality. Lacking the curse of consciousness and the petty ethics that entails, the natural world lives and dies blindly, without intention, regenerates or doesn’t. There is no system, only a multiplicity of life cycles; parts that remain seperate, that never add up to a whole. Nature does not do arithmetic. Man is one of a myriad of dissociated parts, not outside observer of an illusory unity.
If he tears down the forests or fights for their preservation, he does it for himself. It is of no consequence to nature, whose disparate parts survive or don’t, without sensibility. The ‘ecosystem’ is man’s vision of where he is and, in reality, no system at all. The environment is his own orderly invention, his realm, but the environment cares neither for its own death nor man’s. Nor does it care for man’s care for it. Man makes a lapdog of a planet in which he is merely a passing formulation of life: the current arrangement of molecules. His continued existence, and that of the planet itself, is of no importance to anything other than a few temporary particles that are our species.
Jenny Diski, Rainforest.
“It isn’t important what you do, it is the attitude with which you proceed through the world that matters.”
Jenny Diski, Stranger on a Train.