Fascism Has Two Wings (There, I Fixed It)

I’m not leaving a link for my original article, Fascism Has Two Wings, because frankly, I’d rather you didn’t read it. I wrote it during my early anarchist phase, lo those many years ago, and it’s really naïve politically. The only reason I won’t delete it, like all my early political posts (most if not all of which are badly written, except for the Shakespeare analyses and synopses), is because occasionally I like to look back at them and see how my thinking has changed and grown over the years. But my looking at them still makes me blush that other readers are ever looking at them.

Anyway, my idea for that article was to argue that, essentially, fascism has both a right wing and a left wing, though I presented the idea most clumsily, saying that some on the left may start there, then when in power, shift over to the right. This idea may be vaguely true of some liberals in, say, the Democratic Party (but were they ever truly left?), or of Nazbols and Strasserists, as well as some in the SA, who were later purged from the NSDAP when Hitler, having come to power, moved the party unequivocally to the far right, to please his new big business backers (and even the idea of ‘left-wing Nazis’ stinks of the libertarian agenda).

Well, now that I’ve transitioned fully from anarchism to Marxism-Leninism, I can see not only the wobbly aspects of those early arguments, but also the worst idea that I put forth in the article: namely, that the Bolshevik shift to authoritarian thinking was a move to the right. I now cringe whenever I read that misinterpretation of what happened back in the early 1920s. There, now you know all that you need to know of what I wrote in the original article, and you can spare yourself the pain of reading those oh, so poorly-conceived ideas!

Let us now move on to my more refined way of thinking about both left-wing and right-wing fascism. Now that I have a dialectical grasp on things, I can explain what I mean by ‘left-wing fascism.’ I speak in contrast to Marxist-Leninists when I call out the anarchists, Trotskyists, and other ultra-leftists.

Now, it’s not necessarily that they are fascistic in nature. They are generally sincere in their wish to make progressive change in the world, to establish socialism. The problem is their naïve utopianism, their wish to have pretty much everything all at once or as soon as they imagine is possible; and the danger of pushing for too much, too soon is that–taking dialectics into account–it can backfire and result in a swing to the far-right.

I’ve discussed in other posts my conception of the ouroboros as a symbol for the dialectical relationship between opposites. The serpent’s biting head and its bitten tail represent the meeting of extreme opposites on a circular continuum, which is symbolized by the serpent’s coiled body, along which every intermediary point of the continuum has its corresponding spot on the snake’s body. I feel that the image of the ouroboros makes it easier to conceive how the excessive, impatient demands of the anarchists, Trotskyists, and other ultras–their far-too-left leanings–slip over to the serpent’s bitten tail, then slide over to the biting teeth of fascism, even though this may not be the ultras’ conscious intention.

Lenin had to deal with the impracticality of the ultras, and he wrote of the problem in his “Left-wing” Communism: an Infantile Disorder. They were unwilling to make necessary compromises, such as cooperating with parliamentary or reformist socialists. They were overly preoccupied with doctrinal ‘purity.’ These people were stirring up needless trouble at a time when the new socialist state was in dire need of stability, in the middle of the Russian Civil War. This kind of petty squabbling was the last thing Lenin needed as the invaders were trying to re-establish capitalism.

While Trotsky was useful at the time leading the Red Army against the invading White Army, after Lenin’s death, the power struggle between him and Stalin over who would succeed Lenin was, for Trotsky, less about what was right for the USSR than about his wish to lead the country and have power. In his book, The Revolution Betrayed, he went on and on about the perceived faults of the Soviet Union under Stalin, with the sole solution offered of overthrowing his rival for power, rather than simply suggesting ways to remedy those faults. After his exile, he was even willing to cut a deal with the Nazis and Imperial Japan if they’d help him oust Stalin! This sort of thing is what I mean when I talk about a fascist ‘left wing.’

To paraphrase something Michael Parenti once said, these anti-communist leftists love any kind of revolution except a successful one. After that, they only want to find fault with the new socialist system. Now, constructive criticism of the new system is a perfectly worthy thing to engage in, since it aims to make the system better; but the ultras’ fault-finding is generally meant to tear down the system for not being perfect enough.

These people will carp at you for ‘not being left-wing enough,’ for not being ‘politically correct’ enough. This sort of bickering only causes resentment and increases alienation; it can even make some want to give up on the left and switch to the right. The CIA appreciates this kind of bickering–it’s a kind of left-wing fascism.

We can often tell the difference between, on the one side, Marxist-Leninists, and on the other, the ultras, with the issue of the war between Russia and Ukraine. This is a very sensitive issue, since I don’t like war at all, yet the Russian people must be defended against an enemy that isn’t made up solely of Ukrainians, but also their US/NATO backers.

Many on the left, addled by the dubious reporting of the liberal mainstream media, think that the Russian invasion of late February 2022 was “unprovoked,” and that Putin is the bad guy behind the war. Now, to be sure, Putin is far from being my political ideal: he’s a bourgeois, reactionary politician; his stance on LGBT issues is far too conservative for my tastes. Still, we have to play the hand we’ve been dealt, and he’s the one who, with Xi Jinping, is leading the resistance to US/NATO world hegemony.

This left opposition to Putin is another example of the impracticality of the ultras. They want to oppose all bourgeois states at the same time, treating them all as equally oppressive, rather than considering the reality of primary vs secondary contradictions. No, the Russian Federation isn’t the Soviet Union, regrettably; but Russian communists have pushed Putin to do something about the ethnic cleansing of Russians in Ukraine for the eight years between the CIA-backed coup d’état in 2014 and the Russian intervention in 2022.

The ultras tend to want everything all at once, instead of being pragmatic and realizing that achieving our goals must be done in stages. The first priority is to deal with the primary contradiction I mentioned above, to wipe out US/NATO hegemony, which has had its boot on the head of the rest of the world especially for the past thirty years. Once that wiping out has been achieved, then we can think about such problems as reinstating a socialist government in Russia, dealing with income inequality in China, etc.

Rainer Shea recently wrote an article in support of the Russian operation in Ukraine; I shared it on Facebook, and I got a snarky comment from a “leftist” who’s all preoccupied with Russian “imperialism,” yet apparently oblivious to US/NATO imperialism. Here’s a quote of her comment:

‘Ukraine has a Nazi problem like the United States has a Nazi problem like Russia has a Nazi problem. 
‘I don’t wish death on all of them because a small percentage of them are Nazis. 
‘Putin is a fascist imperialist. I hope both the Russian and Ukrainian working classes come together and overthrow BOTH of their corrupt countries. 
‘It isn’t very “Leftist” to support imperialism either.’

Note how the first two lines of her comment trivialize the Nazi problem in Ukraine by implying it is a mundane problem of fringe minorities in countries around the world. While it is, of course, true that militaries in all countries attract at least a few fascist sympathizers (I saw a few when I was a reservist in the Canadian army in the early 1990s), such a smug generalization blinds one to the well-documented history of Ukrainian Nazi sympathizers that goes back even before WWII and Stepan Bandera. (The mainstream media even used to acknowledge the truth of this sort of thing.)

These people, though a minority of Ukrainians, nonetheless have great influence over the Ukrainian government and military. The Banderites back in WWII helped Nazi Germany kill thousands of Jews and Poles, and today’s Ukrainian Nazi sympathizers, euphemistically called ‘nationalists,’ revere Bandera; they also like to tie Russian collaborators to lampposts. In their eight-year ethnic cleansing of Russians, about fourteen thousand people have died. No, Ukraine’s Nazi problem is far worse than that of most other countries; similarly, the American Nazi problem that my commenter mentions so briefly in passing has also been far worse, as seen in such issues as its helping of Ukrainian Nazis (link above), Operation Paperclip. and the employment of ex-Nazis in West Germany, NASA, and NATO after WWII.

To get to the second line of her comment, I see the most heinous straw man. I have never expressed a wish of death on all Ukrainians, nor did Shea in his article, regardless of whether the Nazi sympathizers in that country make up a small percentage or a somewhat larger percentage (something I highly suspect). Actually, whenever we hear the Western slogan “…to the last Ukrainian,” we can get a good idea as to who would actually like to see all the Ukrainians die. Since she has more sympathy for the West’s side in this conflict than for the Russian side, I suspect a little projection in her attitude about how wrong it is to want all Ukrainians killed.

Next, we have the ridiculous “Putler” argument in the third line. As I said above, Putin is not my political hero. I won’t put up Russian flags or pictures of him on my social media profiles, as a number of my Facebook friends have done. Still, while as I said, I don’t approve of his conservative stance on LGBT issues, calling him a ‘fascist’ on the basis of that is a bit much (fascists have treated LGBT people far worse than his laws have, and there’s much more to being a fascist than discriminating against that community), and to call him an imperialist, while making no mention at all of the Anglo-American/NATO globe-spanning empire, with US military bases all over the world, is an obscene misuse of the word.

While the Russian oligarchs probably do have some ulterior motives for waging this war (ulterior motives whose significance must be qualified with an understanding that Putin tried everything to secure peace, through the Minsk Accords with people who were hardly cooperative in the negotiations), any ‘Russian imperialism’ is minuscule compared to that of the US and NATO, who have had threatening troops along the Russian border for years, and while the US military has been occupying a third of Syria (stealing their oil and wheat), and surrounding China with military bases and navy in the South China Sea..

Indeed, with the reunification of Germany came a promise from the West that NATO, never a friend to Russia, wouldn’t move an inch to the East. Now, several former SSRs are NATO members, and they’re working on getting Sweden and Finland (the latter of which shares a long border with Russia!) to join. This Western imperialist aggression against Russia is the context needed to understand the Russian intervention in Ukraine.

Ever since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the US imperialists have worked in the hopes of never allowing any other country to grow in power and thus be a threat to American global hegemony. This is why the PNAC was founded.

The Western imperialists are fond of using the word “dictator” to describe the head of state of any country that challenges or defies the US and the “rules-based international order.” Calling Putin, who has clearly been one of these challengers and defiers, a “fascist imperialist” is just another way of saying “dictator,” which is used as a rationalization to bully a defiant country into submission to US imperialism.

Such a bullying into submission has been done to Russia before, back in the 1990s, with the forcing of “free market” capitalism on a Russian people who, contrary to popular belief, mostly wanted to keep the Soviet system. The Western imposition of capitalism on Russia all but destroyed their economy; attempts to bring back socialism were frustrated by the West’s puppet, Yeltsin. Putin’s real crime was making Russia strong again. People like the woman who commented on my Rainer Shea post clearly either haven’t studied the history, or are lying.

Let’s examine this ‘Russian fascism’ claim a bit more closely. Apart from what I said above, on the one hand, about there always being at least a small percentage of fascist sympathizers in the armies of any country in the world, including Russia, and how, on the other hand, accusing Russians of fascism is a slap in the face to the roughly 27 million Russians who died fighting Nazis (with whom Ukraine collaborated, remember) in WWII, I must react to a video an anarchist Facebook friend of mine once shared, a man who hates Putin with similar virulence; this video (one of many, I’m sure, that exist in the mainstream liberal media) dismisses, without any contrary evidence to justify the dismissal, the significance of Ukrainian Nazis while propagandizing about Russian fascist organizations, tempting me to do a similar dismissal.

How can I confidently dismiss this video’s claim of a hornet’s nest, if you will, of Russian fascist organizations as, in all likelihood, a wildly exaggerated misrepresentation of a few fringe groups, for the purpose of vilifying Putin and manufacturing consent for an increasingly dangerous confrontation? For starters, consider Russia’s 2014 Law Against Rehabilitation of Nazism, something the neoliberal, Russophobic Western media would naturally try to invalidate. If the Russian government wants to criminalize any historic denial of Nazi atrocities, they’ll probably want to criminalize Nazism in general, I imagine, thus making the fascist groups in the video far more marginal that it suggests.

Yet even if this speculation of mine proves to be untrue, something else must be considered, something that should make you take this anti-Russian video with a generous dose of salt. While we’re always hearing about how we shouldn’t let ourselves be duped by “Russian propaganda,” so many of us naïvely assume that the news we receive on CNN, the CBC, the BBC, MSNBC, Fox News, etc., is all objective reporting, ‘the straight facts.’ Funny how it’s always only other countries that propagandize, but never our own!

The fact is, a crucial part of Western empire management is control over media narratives, because the only way the masses in the West would ever go along with war after war these past twenty to thirty years is to keep us all believing that we are ‘the good guys,’ that Putin, Xi Jinping, Saddam, Gaddafi, Assad, Milosevic, etc., are and were ‘the bad guys,’ and therefore all of our wars against them were, are, and will be justified and necessary.

The fact that we realized the media lied to us about Saddam’s “WMDs,” and therefore the Iraq invasion was a cruel, unjustified act of US imperialism should have been enough to give us pause about any subsequent American accusations of ‘cruel dictators’ and insistence on the ‘need’ for regime change. We should have demanded proof instead of propaganda; skepticism about the real motives of the US government should have been our default position.

Instead, over the 2010s and 2020s, most of us have become all the more gullible, uncritically believing lie after lie about Gaddafi, Assad, and now Putin and Xi Jinping. None of this propaganda has made the world safer: in fact, we’re now in a new Cold War that has needlessly brought us to the brink of a very possibly nuclear WWIII.

It shouldn’t be surprising to find all of this media mendacity, especially over the past thirty to forty years. Beyond Operation Mockingbird (which could still be going on), first there was the abolishing of the FCC fairness doctrine in 1987, meaning the news no longer had to present all sides of a controversial issue. Then, the Clinton administration enacted the Telecommunications Act of 1996, allowing mergers and acquisitions in American media, which has led to 90% of American media being controlled by only six corporations; this means that the super-wealthy capitalist class controls most people’s access to information in the US! And in today’s late stage capitalism, this control is applied in an imperialist context–hence, the media vilification of anyone (Putin, Xi, Assad, Maduro, etc.) who dares defy the American empire.

Now, this media consolidation isn’t limited to the US. As the Swiss Policy Research website has noted, we can see a media consensus among other Western countries, including European ones. It makes sense, given these countries are NATO members, and therefore have the same agendas.

But the worst, most blatant example in recent years of Western media bias has been the decision, from the beginning of the Russian/Ukraine war, to blot out and censor all Russian media, so people in the West can gain no access to it. You can complain all you want about the pro-Putin bias in media sources like RT (the former Western reporters of which, incidentally, will tell you they were never told what and what not to report): a truly free media will allow all sides of a story to be told (recall the abolishing of the FCC fairness doctrine). The fact that Russia’s side of the story isn’t allowed to be told in the West is the essence of real propaganda.

People complain about how authoritarian Russia and China are…and of course they are, to quite an extent. But are the Western, NATO-allied countries really any less authoritarian, with so strictly-controlled a media that gets so much money and influence from right-wing billionaires? The way Covid was dealt with in the West can only be described as authoritarian. People running for the heads of state of these countries must be given bourgeois approval, hence “liberal democracy” is really just a euphemism for dictatorship of the bourgeoisie. Indeed, the worst kind of dictatorship is the one that fools people into thinking it isn’t one…and in a society where the rich keep getting richer, and the poor keep getting poorer, many in the West are being fooled.

My commenter’s next point was about her wish that the people of Ukraine and Russia would all rise up and overthrow their corrupt governments…dream on. We won’t solve the problems of the world by wishing for solutions; we’ll solve them through action. The idea of ordinary Ukrainians spontaneously rising up against their government, in the middle of a war zone, with their Nazi soldiers forcibly conscripting untrained men to fight and die, is beyond ludicrous. As for Russia, Putin’s approval rating has generally been high, so I’d say an uprising against him is unlikely, too.

Now, what has Putin been doing? Not only is he standing up to the real empire, the Western one, he’s also helping with the de-dollarization of the world, which will be a major move in putting that empire to an end. This will replace the current unipolar world with a multipolar one, which should in turn move us in the direction of world peace, with its balance of power. The multipolar world will be far from ideal, but it will put us in a position to make socialist agitation far more doable, with an at least greatly weakened American government far less likely to interfere.

But again, this kind of wishful thinking of hers is typical of a lot of the ultras, who want all social problems remedied at once instead of proper organizing and waiting for a revolutionary situation. But worse than all of this is how, in vilifying Putin while either ignoring or giving short shrift to what should be the obvious evils of US/NATO imperialism, these ultras are helping, either tacitly or actively, the fascist elements in Ukraine that are destabilizing the country and pushing us all closer to WWIII.

This support of US/NATO/Ukrainian aggression against Russia, forcing Putin to respond in kind, is what I mean by a left-wing form of fascism (it’s also what Shea was referring to in his article, though by social fascism, he was talking about left-of-centre social democracy, which Stalin called “objectively the moderate wing of fascism”), an idealistic insistence on pushing for so extreme a ‘pure’ form of leftism that it pushes us past the bitten tail of the ouroboros to its biting head, from extreme left to extreme right.

So I’ll say to my commenter that yes, she’s right to say it’s hardly leftist to support imperialism. She’s only wrong in where she attributes the actual imperialist aggression in the world. She is either egregiously ignorant of recent history, or she’s being most dishonest about it, rather like the mainstream Western media now.

Either way, her projection of guilt is remarkably shameless.

So anyway, when all is taken into account, mine is a moderate support of the Russian operation (hoping the horrible war will end as soon as possible), a support that far from idealizes Putin or his bourgeois government, and has no illusions about its hidden agendas. Nonetheless, the US/NATO imperialists are the far greater global threat, and we have no one else at the moment to repel them, so it looks as though it will have to be Putin’s government and military, as well as those of Xi Jinping, to lead the struggle against them. Once the Western empire is decisively defeated, then we can work on fixing the imperfections and genuine faults in Russia, China, and elsewhere, however great or small those faults may be.

Criticism of Russia and China are valid to a certain point, but it mustn’t be done to the point of brushing aside the far greater evils of the Western imperialists. To do so would be to aid those evils, however tacitly that aid might be given. And in a world in which fascism is coming back in style, it’s the far more blatant fascism that must first be fought…not helped by the ‘left’ anymore than by the right. .

‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Six

Oh, wow! That was such a restful sleep I had! I can see the morning sun shining through the window to my left, welcoming me to go outside. I know I can go outside of this circle on my living room floor, and even just outside my apartment building, with no fear of the magic of Mama’s ghost causing me such problems as she did for me last night.

How am I so free of fear? Because of my witch bottle, of course! I was already safe as soon as I made it and consecrated it with that verse I’d chanted to consecrate the magic circle.

When I left the circle with the witch bottle in my hand, my body didn’t change at all, the way it did so shockingly last night. Mama’s ghost was still frowning at me from the living room mirror, a good sign that she couldn’t do anything to harm me or frustrate me. I took the bottle and a shovel outside, dug a hole in the front lawn as planned, a small hole in the corner–where the lawn met the sidewalk and the driveway–where no one would notice much of a change in the look of the area, and I buried the bottle there.

I returned to my apartment with perfect safety–no bizarre changes to my body or anything else like that. I returned to my circle, this time with my bedroom blanket and pillow. I lay there on the floor, saw Mama’s ghost frowning in the mirror reflection again, and closed my eyes with a peaceful smile on my face. I fell asleep within a few minutes.

Now I can eat some cereal with no fear that she’s going to change it into something disgusting and inedible. I’m up, I’ve gone out of the circle with no problems, and I can confidently eat my breakfast.

I see myself in that mirror all looking normal. Mama’s ghost isn’t even there anymore, scowling or smiling. I guess she doesn’t want to see me gloating at her.

I’m eating a bowl of Shreddies in the kitchen now, and sure enough nothing is wrong. Oh, I feel so much better knowing that I’ve developed magical abilities to thwart her power! Thus encouraged, I’m sure to learn more so I can keep her from doing anything worse to me, or to the rest of the world.

Now that I’ve finished my delicious breakfast, I can take a shower, get dressed, and go to do my shift at the Pet Valu store. Of course, once I’ve gone far enough away from my apartment, my protective magic won’t be able to stop Mama from engaging in any more mischief. I’ll need protection for everywhere I go.

I’ll need to buy an amulet or a sachet.

I think I know a place downtown, an occult store. I can go there and look around. I just hope Mama doesn’t do anything to prevent me from getting there and finding something good.

***********

OK, I finished my shower and put on some fresh clothes, still with no problems. I just have to get outside and over to that downtown store safely. Mama’s ghost will be so mad at me for stopping her here at home that she’ll surely want to get revenge on me.

What am I going to do to protect myself on the way to that store? What if I chanted that verse I used to sanctify the circle and witch bottle? What if I chanted it over and over again, with no breaks in between? Hey, that just might work!

Since getting to the store is priority, I’ll have to be late for my shift at the pet food store. Oh, well: what is Aunt Jane going to do, fire me? She’d only be doing me a favour.

Well, I’m outside now, and I’ve walked past the spot where I buried the witch bottle. I’m walking on the sidewalk, getting farther and farther away from my apartment building, and so far, nothing crazy has happened.

But it’s sure to start happening any second now.

To be on the safe side, I’d better start chanting that verse.

Wana baka waigo,
Iman kuchi zdega
Kalu bodi gana.
Sibako woli zuku.

Wow, just as I started chanting the first line of the verse, I saw the nose of a man about to walk past me turn into a snake, yet my words quickly made the snake dissolve and turn back into a nose just as he passed me! Of the other people on the sidewalk about to pass me, I’m seeing green, slithery noses on them, too! I’d better keep chanting: Wana baka waigo…

Good, their noses are back to normal, too. Iman kuchi zdega…

Everything is staying normal…good. Kalu bodi gana…

I think I’ll be safe for the rest of the walk to the occult store. Sibako woli zuku.

Hey, who is that trio of boys coming up at me from behind? Wana baka waigo…They look familiar, kids who have annoyed me in the past.

“Hey, it’s that psycho freak, Roger Gunn!” one of the brats calls out from just behind my right ear. Iman kuchi zdega…

I feel a hard shove on my back from one of them.

“Leave me alone!” I shout at them, looking back at them with a scowl that, of course, does nothing to deter them.

What I see of them when I look back, though…

Instead of human faces on the three boys, I see the faces of pigs, with huge, mucus-moistened snouts! Now, instead of taunts, I’m hearing oinks and grunts.

This is what I get when I forget to keep chanting.

But instead of chanting the verse again, I’m running. I want to get away from those kids, porcine or not.

Of course, the three of them are running after me. I can hear the clanking sound of what sounds like six huge metallic robotic feet clomping on the sidewalk. I still hear grunting. I’m running as fast as I can. Wana…baka…waigo…

The metallic clanking is now just a sextet of sneaker footfalls. Iman…kuchi…zdega…No more oinking, but I can still hear those three brats running behind me. Kalu…bodi…gana… I hear their taunts.

“Who are you…talking to, you fucking…mental case?”

“There’s no one there…to talk to, you know that, right?”

“You’re seeing…and hearing things! Get therapy, you nut job!”

A few more blocks, and I’ll reach the occult store.

I just made the traffic light, and those kids didn’t make it…good. Looking back, I can see they’ve stopped chasing me. Still, I’d better resume my chanting, for I see their pig-faces and metallic feet again. Sibako woli zuku…

It’s so good not having to run anymore. I won’t be chanting the words while panting, weakening their effectiveness. Wana baka waigo…

I can see the sign of the store down the street. Good, I’m almost there. Iman kuchi zdega…

OK, here it is: Arnie’s Arcana. In I go…

Wait a minute–instead of seeing shelves of books and other merchandise in a well-lit store, I’m seeing a dark cave with stalactites and stalagmites. I forgot to chant again: Kalu bodi gana…

There, that’s better–a brightly-lit store with everything clearly displayed. Sibako woli zuku. Now, I just have to find the amulets and sachets. Wana baka waigo…

Books on ceremonial magic…Iman kuchi zdega… Books for Wiccans…Kalu bodi gana…Let me get past all these books…Sibako woli zuku…

Here’s a bunch of assorted merchandise, small things–maybe I’ll find the amulets and sachets here.

“Hello, can I help you?” a worker in the store asks me. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Do you have any amulets or sachets?” I ask.

It’s getting darker. The stalactites and stalagmites are coming back…

“Oof!” I just tripped over a tall stalagmite.

“Are you OK, Sir?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say.

Then I look up at her.

Instead of seeing a normal woman’s face, I see three black, snaky appendages coming from her cheeks and forehead, at the end of each of which is a bat, trying to bite at my face! “Oh, my God!” I yell as I scramble to get back up and away from her.

“Sir, what’s wrong?” she asks, but with the squeaking voice of a bat with the ability to speak. “Surely, I’m not that ugly.” She laughs nervously, but with the squeaky bat voice.

“No, it’s not that,” I say, then, “Wana baka waigo.

The bat appendages dissolve, and the dark cave lights up into a well-lit store again. “Iman kuchi zdega.”

“The amulets and sachets are over there, in the corner, Sir,” she says in her normal voice, gesturing to that corner, where I run in a spastic frenzy.

Kalu bodi gana,” I say in a tremulous voice as I frantically look over the amulets and sachets. As I’m looking them over, trying to focus on which ones look the best, I see the store darkening again. “Sibako woli zuku.” It lights up again.

“Sir, I know it’s none of my business, but have you thought about seeing a doctor?” she asks, sneering at me.

“No, I just need to buy these,” I say, holding up a sachet and an amulet I’ve chosen. “How much are they?”

The store darkens again, and instead of seeing her arms reach out to take the amulet and sachet to find the price tags I was too nervous to find myself, I see two long snakes grab them with their teeth, also biting my hands!

Oww!” I shout, then pull my hands back to suck on the bite wounds.

“Sir, I never hurt you,” she says, in her bat squeaks, those three bats flying out from her face again and trying to bite at my face again. One of them bites my left ear.

Aah!” I scream. “Let’s hurry to the cash register so I can pay for them. Quickly! Wana baka waigo!” The store lights up again, she’s back to normal, and we’re at the cash register.

“That’ll be $27.46, Sir,” she says with fear in her eyes. “Will that be cash, or charge?”

“Cash,” I say, then slap three ten dollar bills on the counter. The store is going dark and cavernous again, and a snake-arm takes the money and bites my hand before I can take it away. “Oww!

I fumble with the amulet, which is attached to a necklace, before putting it around my neck. As I hold it and look at it, I say, “Wana baka waigo, Iman kuchi zdega Kali bodi gana. Sibako woli zuku.” The store lights up again, and she looks normal again, with harmless arms.

Yes, she looks normal, alright…except for the terrified look on her face.

Now I’m staring at the sachet I bought and am holding in my hand, repeating the four-line verse to sanctify it, too. I put it in the chest pocket of my Pet Valu shirt, I look at the clerk, and slowly regain my breath. “I’m sorry about that, Miss,” I tell her.

“Sir, are you alright now?” she asks, her eyes getting teary. “You really gave me a scare there. Were you hallucinating or something?”

“Ma’am, this store sells magic stuff, does it not?” I ask rather petulantly as I feel my heartbeat slowing down. “If you sell that stuff, surely you also believe in magic, right? Some people who practice magic are witches, right?” She’s been nodding nervously to my reasoning. “Now, a witch has been using magic on me, making me see monstrous things. That’s why I needed to buy these things, to protect myself from her. I bought them, I’ve sanctified them, and now everything is OK. Thank you. I’ll go now.”

She’s too shaken up to say goodbye as I walk out of the store.

On the street and still shaking, but grateful to see everything all normal again, I feel my cellphone ringing in my pocket. I take it out. “Hello?”

“Roger?” Aunt Jane says. “Where the hell are you? You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

Instead of answering, I can’t stop laughing.

Axes

One
day,
an
ax
is
to
go
smashing down
on the floor
like Pete
Townshend’s
back in the day.

But
the
ax
is
not
go-
ing
to
shatter into a hundred
tiny pieces lying
scattered all over
the stage, like Pete’s
electric instrument.

The
act
of
re-
bel-
lion
won’t
just be a
noisy affair, to
irritate the rulers of
our cruel, uncaring world.

This
axe
will
come
down
from
the
sky
and
its
sharp blade will hack
off the heads of the
guardians of the rich.

Analysis of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’

Lady Chatterley’s Lover is a novel by D.H. Lawrence, his last–published privately in 1928 in Italy and in 1929 in France–before his death in 1930. An unexpurgated version of the novel wasn’t openly published in the UK until 1960, after the publisher, Penguin Books, won in an obscenity trial. The book was also banned for obscenity in the US, Canada, Australia, India, and Japan.

The book controversially tells the story of a sexual relationship between an upper-class woman and a working-class man, using what were originally deemed sexually explicit scenes and then-unprintable four-letter words.

Though the uncensored version of the book has been accepted since the beginning of the 1960s (recall Philip Larkin‘s poem on the new permissiveness resulting from “the end of the Chatterley ban”), Lady Chatterley’s Lover is not considered one of Lawrence’s best works. It’s been said that, though the novel has a high purpose–decrying the problems of the coal-mining industry and the soulless, emasculated modern man (as exemplified in Clifford Chatterley)–it fails in its promoting of an appreciation of sensuality as a solution.

Many film, TV, radio, and theatre adaptations of Lady Chatterley’s Lover have been made, including a 2022 film released late that year in UK cinemas and on Netflix.

Three major rifts are dealt with in the novel: mind vs body, the upper vs lower classes, and industrialization vs nature. Lawrence felt that it was a modern tragedy that the mind and body are so alienated from each other, often involving an excessive pursuit of intellectual interests while ignoring sensuality. Impotent Clifford especially personifies this problem, but it also expresses itself in the “tentative love affairs” of sisters Hilda and Constance (Lawrence, page 3). Lawrence’s ideal was an integration of mind and body through sensuality (page 340)–hence, the book’s frank expression of sex through the use of “taboo words” (page 367).

Lawrence also contrasts the beauty and vitality of nature with the mechanistic monotony of modern, industrialized life, a theme dealt with in his other novels. This issue can and should be tied in with the theme of class conflict.

As for the rift between the upper and lower classes as depicted in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, I wish to begin by saying that I have no illusions about Lawrence’s politics, which in all, seem to have been all over the place, as one looks over the course of his whole life. The novel itself is a paradox, having content to upset conservatives while also having a conservative, even stylistically Victorian, formality.

The only consistent idea I can find, from a cursory reading of Lawrence’s political philosophy, is an advocacy of individualism. Such writers as Terry Eagleton and Bertrand Russell found Lawrence to be reactionary, right-wing, and even proto-fascist in his thinking (during WWI). On the other hand, and I find this significant in relation to when he wrote and circulated Lady Chatterley’s Lover, he wrote in 1924 that he believed “a good form of socialism, if it could be brought about, would be the best form of government.” Also, in the late 1920s, he told his sister he would vote Labour if he was living in England.

So, though he certainly despised Soviet-style socialism as much as he did fascism (in his “A Propos of Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” he denounces “the State” in general–pages 352-353), sympathy for a generalized kind of socialism wasn’t all that far away from his mind. He was, after all, the son of a miner. It might be reasonable to think that he, in his later years, had at least some partiality towards libertarian socialism, if the above references are truly representative of his political thinking towards the end of his life.

In any case, in his “A Propos,” he wrote of a better time in England’s history, of men and women living in harmony with nature, moving to the rhythms of the days and seasons (page 356); from which today’s industrialized world has been a sad decline. He recognizes modern alienation, and the class antagonisms that inevitably result from it (page 365); but in my opinion, he misdiagnosed the problem, claiming that, instead of the cause being capitalism, it is a lack of pagan “blood-warmth of oneness and togetherness.”

Addled by bourgeois biases that one born in a working-class family in the late 19th century surely wouldn’t have had, Lawrence imagines that “In the old England, the curious blood-connection held the classes together. The squires might be arrogant, violent, bullying, and unjust, yet in some ways they were at one with the people, part of the same blood-stream.” (pages 365-366) I find it extraordinary how someone can reconcile the squires’ attitude with the people through “the same blood-stream.” Those denying the classist nature of the world’s problems always find some bizarre alternate cause: the Jews, the Freemasons, the NWO, “corporatism,” or in Lawrence’s case, a shifting away from pagan harmony with nature and away from an embracing of frank sensuality.

Yet it is precisely the capitalist seizure of the Commons, forcing the poor farmers to move to the cities and sell their only salable commodity, their labour, to the industrialists, mining companies, etc., that has led to our modern alienation from nature, from each other, and from our sexuality. Lawrence saw the actual problems, but misinterpreted them.

Therefore, in my analysis, though my Marxist reading of his novel won’t be what he meant, I believe it will uncover the true nature of the problems he addressed in it: alienation from our species-essence (body vs mind), industrial capitalism (industrialization vs nature), and class antagonisms (upper vs lower classes).

After having had those “tentative love affairs,” Constance “Connie” Reid marries Clifford Chatterley, an aristocrat, when she’s 23, in 1917. A month after the marriage, he is sent to fight in WWI, and he returns paralyzed from the waist down, rendering him impotent.

Now, for Lawrence, Clifford is largely an allegorical figure, his paralysis and impotence making him the personification of the life of the mind without the body, since Clifford takes up writing and chats with a number of intellectuals, leaving Connie to feel isolated. Note that one of the criticisms of this novel is how characters are reduced to allegorical types, leaving them without depth.

What I would find far more meaningful is to say that it was the very imperialist war that Clifford was made to fight in that is what has scathed him so, since that’s what has literally happened! No allegorical tripe about a mind without a body–simply a recognition that class antagonisms, which he as an aristocrat embodies, led to the imperialist competition over land that was WWI, and has injured him, alienating him from his species-essence, him mind alienated from his body.

Note that class struggle, be it in the forms of the master/slave, feudal lord/peasant, or bourgeois/proletarian, causes hurt to the powerful as well as the powerless, in that the powerful are always pressured to stay on top, always in fear of losing their power. When we see Clifford so deprived of his manhood (for this fear of the loss of power extends, of course, to the patriarchal family), psychologically as well as physically (recall his later being mothered by Mrs. Bolton), we can see how true this fear of loss of power is, and how this fear is dramatized in Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

The threat to the power of the patriarchal family is easily seen in Clifford’s having lost the ability to procreate, and therefore to pass the family name and property directly from father to son. When he tells Connie he’s willing to have her get pregnant by another man, as long as he’s of high birth, she doesn’t love the other man, and the baby is understood to be Clifford’s, we are then reminded of a quote from James Joyce‘s Ulysses:

“Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, from only begetter to only begotten…Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood. Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?” (Joyce, page 266)

Accordingly, Connie has a brief affair, not yet with Oliver Mellors, the gamekeeper, but first with a visiting Irish playwright named Michaelis. In all of this we can see the flimsy foundation that patrilineal succession is laid on: the whole point behind the maintenance of a man’s power and authority over his wife is to ensure, at least within reason, that he is, indeed, the father of all of the children in his home.

To that end, girls are expected to be virgins on their wedding night, wives are forbidden to have affairs (whereas adulterous husbands are given more of a slap on the wrist), women are discouraged from having careers (for fear of their independence leading to them having affairs), and sons, being the heirs of the family name and property, are treated better than daughters.

We already see in Lady Chatterley’s Lover the beginnings of the breakdown of the patriarchal family system, which writers like Friedrich Engels recognized as intimately linked with systems of class oppression, in how Connie has lost her virginity before even marrying Clifford. The bohemian lifestyle she learned from her father, Sir Malcolm, a painter and unabashed sensualist. Her affair with Michaelis makes her later liaison with Mellors not at all surprising.

In his “A Propos of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, D.H. Lawrence goes on and on about his advocacy of monogamy and marriage, which is an odd way to defend a novel in which the sympathetic characters are committing adultery, trying to get divorced, and only hopeful of getting married by the end. One should remember that there’s a difference between an author’s conscious, stated intentions in writing a novel, and his unconscious reasons for presenting it the way he has.

With the original banning of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Lawrence would have been accused of trying to corrupt public morals (page 345). An impassioned and lengthy defence of monogamy and marriage, as seen in his “A Propos,” is thus not at all surprising. For this reason, I would take his defence of marriage with a grain of salt.

His novel was meant, according to him, as a championing of “true phallic marriage” (page 360), of monogamy with the right admixture of sensuality, of the union of body and mind. That may be all well and fine, but the average reader probably isn’t going to receive that message; one often doesn’t remember all the details that Lawrence was hoping one would retain in reading his book, let alone link those details in a way that makes his message of advocating ‘sensual marriage’ clear.

Instead, the reader will, rightly or wrongly, more likely glean from Lady Chatterley’s Lover an advocacy of free love and sex for mere physical pleasure. All the things the moralists of yesteryear were condemning the book for. In this, we can see how Lawrence’s critics have said that his novel hasn’t quite succeeded in the purpose he claimed it had.

For such reasons as these, and now that we live in a more liberal world, one far more tolerant of novels, films, etc., the deal more frankly with sexuality, I feel that we can reinterpret the meaning of Lawrence’s novel in our own way, and therefore can reconsider and reappraise it, that is, in a more favourable way. A key hint to how that reinterpretation and reappraisal can be made is in seeing how the novel deals with class, which is also an important feature of the sexual relationship between Connie and Mellors.

Connie is from the upper classes, married to an aristocrat. Mellors is of the working class. Their coming together, as such, in a sexual union is as much a shock to people like Clifford and Hilda as is their adultery and lewdness. We Marxists might look on such a union, as I did with the sex scene between Alexander and Maria in Tarkovsky‘s film, The Sacrifice, as symbolic of the dissolving of class differences.

Now, just as with Lawrence’s pro-marriage arguments, his openly-expressed disdain for socialism, particularly the Soviet kind (page 352), as we read in his “A Propos” and in his other statements at other times of his life, is something we can take with a grain of salt, especially when we place them in historical context. Just as there was opposition to frank, four-letter expressions of sexuality back then, so was there opposition throughout the bourgeois Western world to socialism (consider the proliferation of fascism in the 1920s as an example).

Lawrence’s depiction of the hard, soulless life of the Tevershall miners could easily have been interpreted as an indirect advocacy of socialism, even if Lawrence hadn’t intended such a reading. To protect his reputation from the “commie” label would have been a strong motive for him to speak ill of socialism, regardless of his actual feelings about the ideology. After all, recall how Marx had to deal with the accusation of communists apparently wishing to abolish marriage, and to hold women in common (it can be found in The Communist Manifesto, II: Proletarians and Communists, 37-38–link above).

Now, Mellors is working-class, but he’s more than that. In the army in WWI, he was a lieutenant. He is also well-read and intelligent. When speaking, he sometimes shifts from the accent of one from the middle class to his Derbyshire accent, a more working-class dialect. When speaking in this latter manner, he often uses those four-letter words. But during his more articulate moments, we can see in him the potential of the working class to rise up to something higher.

In the case of Connie, though she’s from the upper class and married to a minor nobleman, her previous bohemian lifestyle, current affair with Mellors, and her attempts at imitating his Derbyshire accent, as well as her learning his naughty words (pages 194-195), all symbolize her willingness to come down, just as Mellors is capable of coming up. This mobility of theirs shows how, in the world of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, the boundaries between the lower and upper classes are blurred.

“And now she touched him, and it was the sons of god with the daughters of men.” (pages 191-192) As I’ve discussed elsewhere, the coming-together of such worlds as the divine and human ones is something thought best to be kept separate. Connie’s and Mellors’s sexual union is just such a union socially frowned on.

Just as Connie and Mellors, as well as their coming together, are relatable and sympathetic, so is Clifford, as an aristocrat who is totally out of touch with the real world, totally unrelatable and unsympathetic. His impotence, weakness, and infantile dependence on Mrs. Bolton can all be seen to represent the modern fading-away into irrelevance of the nobility and all things feudal.

His impotence, as it relates to Lawrence’s idealizing of sensuality, is not something Clifford can be faulted with, since it was the result of a war injury and therefore beyond his control. For such reasons as this, I feel that a more legitimate criticism of him is based on his class arrogance and pursuit of money and power on the one hand, and his helpless dependance on workers like Mrs. Bolton on the other.

Indeed, his Oedipal dependence on her can easily be related to the final stage of Hegel‘s master/slave dialectic, in which the slave, through the accumulated labour value of all of his or her work for the master, has rendered the master so helpless and dependent that the roles of powerful and powerless are traded. Accordingly, Mrs. Bolton’s attitude towards Clifford is paradoxically one of admiration and worship of his nobility, yet also of contempt for his arrogance. “She was very good and competent, and she soon knew how to have him in her power.” (page 88) She is a mother to him, adoring her sweet baby, yet also looking down on the pathetic weakling.

In contrast to Clifford’s vain pretensions to being a part of the literary world, we have the earthy language of Mellors, with its fucks, cunts, arses, pisses, shits, etc. He is a double of Clifford in many ways, though a much more sympathetic version. He, too, has been cuckolded by his wife (Bertha Coutts), whom he hasn’t yet divorced, as Clifford never divorces Connie within the confines of the novel. Mellors is aloof and sarcastic, not wishing to socialize much, paralleling Clifford’s arrogant disconnect from the people. He, too, was scathed while serving in WWI, though he suffered pneumonia from it, rather than paralysis. Mellors, however, has a nobility from his inner character, rather than from a position of birth. He is the stud that Clifford can never be.

His use of four-letter words, as well as his sex scenes with Connie, contrast with Clifford’s abandonment of the body in a way that can symbolize something Lawrence never wrote of in his “A Propos”: the superiority of a materialist philosophy to that of idealism, making possible a Marxist spin on Hegel’s master/slave dialectic. Four-letter words give most physical expression to the sexual and biological acts they refer to, an all-too physical expression for prudish minds.

More can be said on the novel’s preference of materialism to idealism, as seen on page 258, when Connie says this to Clifford: “Give me the body. I believe the life of the body is a greater reality than the life of the mind…With the Greeks it gave a lovely flicker, then Plato and Aristotle killed it, and Jesus finished it off. But now the body is coming really to life, it is really rising from the tomb.” (my emphasis)

As far as the bad-mouthing of “Bolshevism” in the novel is concerned, in Chapter IV in particular, consider the sources of it. Bolshevism is “hate of the bourgeois,” according to Charlie May, to which Tommy Dukes agrees “Absolutely”; Hammond would “deny that Bolshevism is logical,” and he says, “The Bolshevists aren’t really intelligent”; Berry considers Bolshevism to be as “half-witted” as “[their] social life in the west” (pages 38-39). There’s of course no way Clifford would ever approve of “Bolshevism.” When Connie coldly doesn’t kiss him goodnight, he imagines her to be a “bolshevik” (page 52), projecting his own coldness onto her.

But who are all of these men, in the world that Lawrence constructed? They aren’t at all sympathetic. None of them has the required, vaunted sensuality. These intellectuals are all talk and no action, engaging in empty, meaningless discussions on love, sex, and politics. They personify what I said above about how inferior idealism is to materialism.

Lawrence recognizes the evils that come from money and greed: “Society was terrible because it was insane. Civilised society is insane. Money and so-called love are its two great manias; money a long way first.” (page 104) Mellors, to a great extent the spokesman of Lawrence, imagines he’ll protect Connie from “the insentient iron world and the Mammon of mechanical greed.” (page 130)

Still, Lawrence acknowledged, through Mellors’s experiences, how “if you were poor and wretched you had to care [about money]…the care about money was like a great cancer, eating away the individuals of all classes.” (page 155)

Shortly after the above quote, we have Mellors thinking about how much he wants to have Connie “in his arms” (page 156). He goes over to the Chatterley’s house, in his wish to be close to her. Mrs. Bolton sees him through the window, recognizes him by his nearby dog, and realizes that he is Lady Chatterley’s lover. (page 158)

This juxtaposition of his recognition of the need for money with his need to be with Connie, even to the point of going over to Clifford’s house in the hope of seeing her, is significant. Clifford has, in abundance, all the things that working-class Mellors needs: money, “the woman” (page 156), and the property.

Mellors’s making love with Clifford’s wife, the taking of the aristocrat’s ‘property’ (recall what I said above about Engels and the relationship of the patriarchal family with the origins of property), is thus symbolically a revolutionary act. We see here the connection between capitalism and patrilineage, and how Mellors’s affair with Connie–his seizing of the means of reproduction, as it were–is a defiance of these two forms of ownership. Mellors going over to Clifford’s house is also symbolic defiance.

On pages 166-167 there is a vivid description of Connie’s experience, during a car ride to Uthwaite, of “the long squalid straggle of Tevershall” (pages 165-166). Here we have a depiction of the harsh life of the English working class, of the local miners and where they live…”all went by ugly, ugly, ugly…”

As Connie looks on the ugliness of Tevershall with horror, she shudders at the thought of producing an heir to Wragby, thus continuing this classist state of affairs. Lawrence may have insisted on his diagnosis that the problem of the “Half-corpses, all of them” [that is, the Teverhsall workers] is because industrialization has cut the men away from the rhythms of nature, yet as I said above, it was precisely the development of industrial capitalism, the ruthless pursuit of profit, that brought about that cutting away.

It’s the elephant in the room that Lawrence, addled by anti-Sovietism, completely missed. “The industrial England blots out the agricultural England.” (page 171) Put another way, capitalist England stole the Commons from the English farmers, forcing them to look for work in the ugly, industrialized cities.

On pages 174-175, Connie further contemplates the ugliness and death-like state of the miners. One senses her feelings of alienation from these men, their alienation from each other, and each man’s alienation from his species-essence.

After having contemplated the miners, Connie returns home, and she sees Mellors there. Just as the miners work for Clifford, so is Mellors “One of Clifford’s hirelings!” (page 177). Immediately after, the novel quotes Julius Caesar, with two lines from Cassius: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,/But in ourselves, that we are underlings.” (Act I, scene ii, lines 140-141)

In the context of this section of Lawrence’s novel, with Connie’s having just contemplated the plight of the miners, of Mellors similar position as a “hireling,” and “an underling,” the Shakespeare quote, meant to rouse Brutus to join Cassius’ conspiracy to assassinate Caesar, is implicitly being used to suggest the need for a revolt of the “underlings” against Clifford.

Immediately after is a discussion between Connie and Mrs. Bolton about the death of the latter’s husband in the mining pit (pages 178-179). So again, by way of juxtaposition, we see a linking of the suffering of the miners, and of that of Mellors, with the death of Mrs. Bolton’s husband in the pit–all examples of the oppression of the working class.

Mrs. Bolton speaks of the alienation caused by those “as runs the pit…they all want to separate a woman and a man, if they’re [physically] together.” The killing of her husband was just such a separation, the taking of him from her.

Such alienation finds its opposite in the lovemaking between Connie and Mellors, especially when she orgasms in Chapter XII. “Beauty! What beauty!…How was it possible, this beauty here, where she had previously only been repelled?” (page 192) It is just after this lovemaking, her first with him that feels warm and wonderful, instead of ridiculously distant, that she repeatedly asks him if he loves her (she manages to squeak a yes out of the otherwise aloof man), and she imitates his Derbyshire dialect and dirty words. In all of this, we can sense their growing togetherness.

In the following chapter, we get a sense of Clifford’s arrogant attitude towards the miners, him wishing to prevent them from striking without their consent (page 197). Connie, with him in the woods, gets into an argument with him about the miners’ plight, and his callous attitude towards them. Again, given our sympathy to her and antipathy to him, we can safely conclude that the narrative is far more favourable to the working class than to the upper class, despite Lawrence’s denials.

After the argument, Clifford’s motorized wheelchair gets stuck on a steep incline. He wants Mellors to fix it. Stubborn Clifford insists on trying to get up the incline without any help from Mellors or Connie, but it becomes obvious that only a push from them will get the wheelchair up.

In this scene, so humiliating for Clifford, we see the fall of the pride of the man who just spoke of the strength and responsibility of the aristocracy over the workers. Clifford’s powerlessness represents the waning power and relevance of the upper classes.

Mellors’s helping of Clifford, despite exhausting himself because of how his pneumonia has weakened him, puts him in the same position as mothering Mrs. Bolton: we see again the final stage of the slave/master dialectic, with Mellors’s rising power and Clifford’s decline, a contrast paralleled with the former’s phallic potency vs the latter’s lack of it.

Yet if Clifford feels physically and psychologically emasculated, so has Mellors felt that way, if only psychologically so. He tells Connie of his past sexual experiences with those women who weren’t interested in sex, those who “had nearly taken all the balls out of [him]” (page 221). Then came Bertha Coutts, who liked sex all too much for Mellors’s liking. Too sexually aggressive for him, she had a vagina that “was a beak tearing at [him],” like a vagina dentata.

So as I said above, Mellors is in a number of ways a double of Clifford. Bertha’s sexual aggression, relative to Mellors, is parallel to Connie’s sexual aggression, relative to Clifford. Commenting on Mellors’s experience of his wife, she quotes As You Like It and says that he had “too much of a good thing.” Some criticize the novel’s depiction of Bertha, treating her sexual aggression as a bad thing, as not acceptably ‘womanly’; but it’s not that she has desires that are ‘unwomanly,’ for Melors is happy to have a woman who wants sex. It’s just that she’s too aggressive about it, even for him.

Added to Bertha’s excesses are her fleeing to another man while Mellors was in the army in India, and all of her troublemaking while Connie is in Venice, stirring up the gossip about his affair with Connie, which leads to Mellors getting fired. Bertha has psychologically castrated him many times, but he’s a far more sympathetic character than Clifford.

Mellors seems to be ambivalent about the issues that socialism raises. On the one hand, he has a bookshelf including “books about bolshevist Russia” (page 233), yet on the other, he blames “a steady sort of bolshevism [for] just killing off the human thing, and worshipping the mechanical thing.” (page 238) Still, he recognizes that “We’re forced to make a bit [of money] for us-selves, an’ a fair lot for th’bosses.” (page 240) He would “wipe the machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake.” (page 242)

Recall what I said above about the capitalists starting industrialization, something Lawrence isn’t interested in acknowledging. Now, the Bolsheviks, of course, industrialized, too (i.e., Stalin beginning his Five-Year Plans around the time that Lady Chatterley’s Lover was written), but with the aim of building up the productive forces in order ultimately to end capitalism and the alienation it causes. Capitalists industrialize only to maximize profit, not to provide for all.

In contrast to all this antipathy towards mechanistic, ugly industrialization, our two lovers adore all that is nature; and during a heavy rain, they both strip naked (Connie first) and run out into it and get soaked (pages 242-243). Back inside after having made love out there, they get warm by the fire, he strokes her buttocks and “secret entrances” (page 244), he admires her beautiful body, and they discuss plans of running away together, having their baby, and divorcing their spouses…acts of liberation!

Intertwining flowers in each other’s pubic hair, they imagine a wedding of their genitals, naming them “John Thomas” and “Lady Jane.” Incidentally, Lawrence at one point considered naming his novel John Thomas and Lady Jane.

Another example of the novel’s acknowledgement of how problematic class is comes when Hilda learns that her sister’s lover is working class. Hilda, of course, disapproves (page 262), for “she loathed any ‘lowering’ of oneself, or the family.” She imagines the affair will end, but this is wish-fulfillment. “One can’t mix up with the working people.” (page 265)

Hilda, when meeting Mellors, dislikes him even more, from hearing his Derbyshire dialect. She’d rather he spoke “natural,” or “normal English” (page 268), since it would sound more pleasing to her “solid Scotch middle class” disposition. (page 262)

Now, Connie would naturally defend Mellors against her sister’s snobbish judgements of him, but her own upper-middle-class prejudices rise up from her unconscious when she, in Venice now, has learned of Bertha’s stirring up of trouble back home (page 290). She imagines of Mellors, upon hearing of his wife’s excesses, that “He was perhaps really common, really low,” and she worries about the “humiliating” damage done to her reputation if Clifford should learn about her affair with Mellors.

Her father, Sir Malcolm, warms up to Mellors soon enough after meeting him back in England; but when Clifford finally learns of the affair, he regresses to such a childlike state that, kissed consolingly by maternal Mrs. Bolton, he is “in a relaxation of madonna-worship.” (page 320) When he learns that the other man is Mellors, though, Clifford is in such a fury that he says she “ought to be wiped off the face of the earth!” (page 326) This choice of words, by the way, is interesting in how they echo Mellors’s wish to wipe machines off the face of the earth. Note how the antipathies of the upper class are diametrically opposed to those of the working class. Mellors would wipe out machines that destroy the proletariat; Clifford would wipe out women who defy the patriarchal family. Accordingly, he refuses to divorce her.

In a letter to Connie, Mellors–who is in the process of working out his divorce from Bertha–discusses such things as the workers wanting to nationalize industry, and wanting to establish a Soviet; he shows his ambivalence about such things again (page 324). He says the men are doomed, and he makes a thinly-veiled reference to Lenin: “they go about as if there was nothing to be done. Anyhow, nobody knows what should be done.” (page 330)

He then speaks of his preference of a society unconcerned with money (one might recall, in this connection, that one of the ultimate goals of communist society is that it should be money-less). Instead, Mellors would have everybody dancing about like pagans who “acknowledge the great god Pan”–more of Lawrence’s vague solutions to modern problems.

Among the last things that Mellors says to Connie in his letter, which brings the novel to an end, is his dialectic, as it were, of chastity and fucking, the former of which he equates with the snow of winter, and the latter of which he equates with spring. He says, “So I love chastity now, because it is the peace that comes of fucking.” (page 332)

He puts it this way because he and Connie have to wait until both are properly divorced before they can marry and therefore resume their lovemaking. They must be patient before they can have that sensual pleasure again. For him, “it is so good to be chaste, like a river of cool water in [his] soul.” (page 332)

This chastity is like a building-up of reserved passion, to be held in until finally they can be together again, to release that passion in a fiery explosion of sex. I’m reminded of the Hindu concept of tapas, which in Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty‘s book, Siva: the Erotic Ascetic, is defined as “The heat of asceticism.” (O’Flaherty, page 324) Elsewhere in her book, she speaks of tapas in this way: “Chastity was characteristic of Indian asceticism from the very start. The Upanishads say that one may realize the Self by practising tapas in the forest, free from passion…Sexual excitement represented a threat against which the ascetic must constantly be on guard. When Brahma desired his daughter, he lost all the tapas which he had amassed in order to create…Although in human terms asceticism is opposed to sexuality and fertility, in mythological terms tapas is itself a powerful creative force, a generative power of ascetic heat.” (pages 40, 41)

So Lady Chatterley’s Lover ends with the hope that Connie, with child by Mellors, will be with him again one day. Then, the winter of their chaste discontent will be made glorious spring by this son of a fuck.

As we know, Lawrence bemoaned modern, industrialized England’s decline from its earlier world, in which men and women lived in harmony with nature, and the body and the mind weren’t alienated from each other, but unified in freely-expressed sensuality. Though his novel depicts the barriers of class in all their ugliness, he seems to prefer old English tradition to a socialist resolving of the class problem, which is odd, given his portrayal of aristocratic Clifford as not only weak and ineffectual, but also unsympathetic, perpetuating industrialization and its killing of the workers’ souls, just so he can make more money…like a capitalist.

It is for these reasons that I feel that a Marxist reading of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, in spite of how different Lawrence claimed his intentions were in his “A Propos” of the novel, is by far the easiest and best interpretation of it. A writer may claim that his novel means one thing while he’s unconsciously meant something quite different. He might intentionally mislead us about his intentions, to protect us from knowing its real meaning and therefore not spoiling us with its secrets, or to protect himself against allegations of corrupting morals or promoting socialism, as I speculated above. In any case, I don’t feel bound to keeping my interpretations in conformity with his “A Propos,” and I therefore feel free to interpret as I wish.

Connie’s affair with Mellors, as I see it, is a symbolic act of revolt against the patriarchal family and the class system, two social problems that are intermixed. The frank expression of sexuality, with its four-letter words, is connected with the advocacy of such a revolt, since, despite Lawrence’s denials, it’s a case of épater la bourgeoisie. The lovers’ bearing of a child that is not Clifford’s is a symbolic termination of the patriarchal family and the upper classes, all in one stroke.

Connie’s and Mellors’s union is that of the upper and lower classes, a symbolic blurring of class distinctions. Their leaving of Tevershall and Wragby is a turning of one’s back on the ugliness of industrial capitalism. I’d say the book’s censorship had even more to do with this political subversiveness than the dirty words…even if Lawrence had never intended it.

D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, New York, Bantam Classics, 1968

‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Five

I’m in my apartment now; I just slammed the door shut behind me and locked it. I have a box of white chalk in my bedroom desk drawer. I’ll run over there, take a piece of chalk from it, and draw the circle on the wooden floor in the living room.

I’m in such a frantic state, drawing this circle in such a hurry. I’m sure it isn’t a perfect circle, the radii all equidistant from the centre, but it seems close enough. I don’t remember any passages in the books I read saying anything about the magic circle having to be perfectly round. I’m just so scared after seeing that ‘elephant man’ on the street behind me, one of Mama’s spells, that I want this magic circle of protection finished and ready as soon as possible.

Oh, shit! I forgot to get that large ruler I also have in my bedroom desk drawer, the one under where I had the box of chalk. I’m so frantic to get this done, I’m not thinking straight, and making myself take needless extra trips! Anyway, I’ll get the ruler, then use the chalk to draw a pentacle in the circle.

There, the lines are as straight as I could make them, and measured as equally apart from each other as I could make them. Again, they aren’t perfect, but close enough. I’m in a hurry to keep Mama out, and I must balance accuracy with urgency.

And now, I’ll light five candles and put one at each point of the pentacle touching the circle; then I’ll turn off the lights. Mama had a box of candles in one of the kitchen drawers. I’ll get them…Oh, where are they?! Here they are. There’s a lighter in here, too–how convenient.

There…all the candles are lit, and I can turn off the lights now. My notebook is in the circle, so I can get in and chant that verse to sanctify this zone of protection. I hope my pronunciation of the words of the ancient language is close enough to be effective; I hope their spelling in the ABCs is consistent with English pronunciation. Here goes:

Wana baka waigo,
Iman kuchi zdega
Kalu bodi gana.
Sibato woli zuku.

Whoa! Suddenly, I feel this warm vibration all around me. It’s soothing. My magic must be working! I must have done it all right, or at least well enough. I feel safe in here. Mama can’t get at me!

Oh, what peace of mind! I can go to sleep here. I’m warm enough for now; I won’t need my blanket. I’ll just get a cushion off the sofa, which is just outside the circle, and use it for a pillow.

Ooh! When my hand went out of the circle to grab the cushion, my hand felt a little chill. For a few seconds there, it felt none of the soothing vibrations in here. There really is a clear difference between my zone of safety and everything outside.

Hey, out there, the mirror on the far wall, just beside the TV. I see not only my reflection, but also the image of some horrible-looking old woman with long, shaggy grey hair. In the dark, the face isn’t easy to see.

Oh, that must be Mama’s ghost! She’s frowning, obviously mad because she cannot get at me in here. Well, good: let her be mad. I’m safe in here. I’m glad she’s mad.

I’ll bet she’s mad not only because the magic circle and pentacle are keeping her out, but also because she hates the messy chalk marks on the wooden floor. She was always a neat freak, yelling at me for being a “slob,” as she’d always called me. Well, she can’t do anything about my messiness now, not as long as I stay in this circle.

Of course, I’ll have to leave the circle for this and that.

Oh well, I’m not worrying about that now.

I’m getting some sleep. I’m exhausted. I’ll curl up in a fetal position so I don’t kick over any of the candles.

**************

Uh-oh. I gotta take a piss!

How long was I sleeping? Let me click the light on my watch. It’s 12:00 midnight now; I slept for about three hours. The bathroom’s out in front of me to the right. In between the bathroom and the mirror by the TV is the hallway leading to the front door. To get to the bathroom isn’t far, of course, but it’s well outside of my circle.

And that mirror. I can see Mama’s ghost there, looking right at me. She isn’t frowning any more.

Now she’s grinning at me.

With those cruel eyes of hers.

I can’t hold it in any longer. I have to pee.

Whatever she does, I’ll just have to deal with it. I can’t be like Howard Hughes and piss in bottles just to stay in this circle. I’ll have to go out for other things, anyway: crapping, getting food, going to work…

Ugh! I’m already hating this life.

Anyway, I’ve gotta go.

I can see her grinning at me in the reflection.

She’s waiting for me to sprint.

Oh, well, Mama. Have at me.

This has to have been the maddest dash ever. I banged my foot on the bathroom door as I was racing in here. Oww, that hurt!

Unzip my pants, whip it out…aahh

As it’s pouring into the toilet bowl, I’m trying to resist the temptation to look at myself in the bathroom mirror on the medicine cabinet. I don’t want to see Mama’s ghastly face there.

Oh, I finally emptied myself. That feels much better. I’ll zip myself up and wash my hands, keeping my face down so as not to see the mirror reflection.

Pour the water on my hands. Lather up the soap. As I’m rubbing the lather on my hands, I can feel my heart pounding and my body shaking.

She hasn’t done anything yet, thank God, but I’m still vulnerable out here. I’ve got to finish up here and get back in my circle as fast as possible.

OK, I’m rinsing the soap off…come on, hurry up and get all off my hands! There, now I’ll just get a towel and wipe them dry…there.

Hang the towel back on the towel rack on the wall behind me, there. And now I can get out of…

What? I just absent-mindedly looked in the mirror. I don’t see Mama with me, but I…don’t see myself…in it, either.

Instead, I see…

My God, this is the sickest hallucination I’ve ever had!

My head is a giant nose! It’s got tiny eyes on it.

On the tip of the nose is a small foot!

Below the foot is an…asshole?

I’m touching my ‘head,’ and feeling the big nose; I’m touching my ‘nose,’ and feeling the tiny, wiggling toes on the foot. I’m inhaling, and smelling…shit.

I scream out loud, but hear the roar of a huge fart. As I’m running out of the bathroom, hearing Mama’s cackling the whole time, it’s awkward for me: as I stagger toward the circle, I look down at my feet, but I see hands there instead!

Finally, I reach the circle, falling into it.

Whoa, that couldn’t have just been one of my hallucinations! I never see or hear things anywhere near that surreal! A man with the head of a blue elephant? My head as a giant nose with eyes on it? My nose as a little foot? My mouth as an anus? My feet as hands? These were all Mama’s magic, surely!

I can see her in that mirror reflection over there, still grinning and laughing at me. I see myself with the nose-head, the foot-nose, and the asshole-mouth. As I feel my face, everything feels normal here: I can feel my hair, my forehead, eyebrows, eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. I’m looking down and seeing my feet as feet.

I can see the clear difference between how it is inside the circle and outside. My magic circle of protection clearly works. I just have to have protection for when I have to go outside of it.

That will mean making a witch bottle. I’ll get a bottle of lemonade out of the fridge, drink it all down, wash it, get some scissors, and clip my nails and some of my hair to put in the empty bottle. Then I’ll piss in it. Since it’s past midnight now, I’ll go out and bury it on the front lawn outside as soon as it’s ready.

Well, I guess I’m gonna have my nose-head, etc., for a while. Off to the kitchen for that bottle!

As soon as I’ve come outside the circle, I’ve felt my feet turn back into hands. I’m clumsily making my way to the kitchen. Time to open the fridge…

What? My hands are feet!

I’ll have to go down on my ass and open the fridge with my feet-hands. This is going to be awkward…there. Reaching up to get the bottle…more awkwardness…there. It’s too awkward for me to drink with my feet-hands. I’ll have to put the bottle between my hands-feet, and drink it down that way. Off with the cap, first.

Gulp it down my asshole-mouth…Eww! The lemonade is piss!

What a mess I’ve made all over the kitchen floor after spitting it out. That was stupid of me: of course, Mama was going to change more things, upset me more, and thwart my plans! I should take the bottle with the scissors back to the circle and do everything there. The scissors are in the kitchen drawer…there, got ’em with my foot-hand. Back to the circle.

Oh, shit! I forgot to put the cap back on the bottle. As I’m staggering back to the circle, I’m spilling piss on myself!

Finally, I’m back in. My body’s back to normal, and my lemonade is real lemonade. I’ll gulp this all down, clip my nails and snip off a bit of my hair, and put them in the empty bottle. I’d rather piss my own piss into it than trust the piss Mama put into the bottle outside the circle, for obvious reasons.

There, I drank it all down, and I’m glad I got rid of that horrible piss-taste in my mouth. Oh, I can see Mama’s ghost in the mirror; she isn’t smiling anymore. That scowl on her withered face is really reassuring.

I’ll just clip all my fingernails…there…put them in the bottle. I guess I don’t need to wash it; if I did, she’d still be smiling, waiting for me to come back out to use the kitchen sink, then have a chance to frustrate my hopes once again. There, I’ve cut off some hair, and put it in, too.

Now I’ll just wait to pee, and after that, chant those sacred, ancient words to sanctify the bottle. Then I’ll bury it outside, and I should be all the safer from Mama’s ghost.

Tomorrow, I’ll go find a shop that sells amulets and sachets.

Hey, I feel a piss coming on. Unzip, and let it out…aahh!

I’ll chant that verse again, then go back to sleep.

I see Mama’s really frowning in that mirror reflection.

Good.

Analysis of ‘The Sacrifice’

The Sacrifice (Offret) is a 1986 Swedish film written and directed by Andrei Tarkovsky. It stars Erland Josephson, with Susan Fleetwood, Allan Edwall, Sven Wollter, and Valérie Mairesse. Many of the crew had worked in Ingmar Bergman films.

The Sacrifice was Tarkovsky’s last film, and his third film as an expatriate from the Soviet Union, after Nostalghia and the documentary, Voyage in Time. He died of cancer shortly after filming it; in fact, he was too ill to attend its presentation at the Cannes Film Festival in 1986. It won the Grand Prix there, as 1972’s Solaris had.

The film also won Tarkovsky his third FIPRESCI Prize at Cannes, and his third Palme D’Or nomination. It won the BAFTA Award for Best Foreign Language Film in 1988. It was considered as a nominee for the Best Foreign Language Film at the 59th Academy Awards, but it didn’t get the nomination.

As was a problem with Stalker, the shooting of The Sacrifice included a failed attempt to capture something important on film: this time, the climactic burning down of the house of Alexander (Josephson), because the only camera used to film the burning jammed, thus ruining the footage. The house had to be reconstructed at great expense in two weeks, and the burning was more prudently re-filmed with two cameras.

Here is a link to quotes, in English translation, from the film; and here is a link to the complete film, with English subtitles.

The film begins with a shot of a detail from Leonardo da Vinci’s unfinished painting, Adoration of the Magi. The detail from the painting shows the baby Jesus receiving a gift from one of the Magi. As we look at this detail, we see the credits and hear the aria “Erbarme mich, mein Gott” (“Have mercy, my God”), from JS Bach’s St. Matthew Passion.

When the credits have all been shown, the camera shot slowly moves upwards, so we see the palm tree in the top centre of the painting. From this, we go to a distant shot of a tree that Alexander is planting near the shore at Närsholmen, on the island of Gotland. The tree is Alexander’s gift to the land there, just as Jesus received gifts with a tree in the background, one associated with the Virgin Mary (partly from the verse, “You are stately as a palm tree,” from the Song of Songs7:7). A movie called The Sacrifice fittingly has gift-giving as a major theme.

Just as we see a celebration of Christ’s birth in the painting, with a tree in the background, so is it Alexander’s birthday, with him planting a tree, and he’s soon to receive gifts. Also, just as Christianity is a fusion of Biblical and pagan elements (as I argued here), so is The Sacrifice a combination of Christian and pagan elements, as we’ll soon see.

Trees have been sacred in both paganism and Christianity, and Leonardo’s painting, with its ruin of a pagan building in the background (not that we’ll see this part during the credits), shows the supplanting of paganism by Christianity.

Alexander asks “Little Man” (a boy played by Tommy Kjellqvist), his son, to help with the tree. Alexander speaks of an orthodox monk planting a barren tree on a mountainside. The tree was to be watered every day until it came to life; after three years of this constant work, the tree was finally covered with blossoms! In this story, we learn the value of systemic work.

This notion of constantly doing something would be contrasted with constantly talking, something Alexander has a problem with, and even admits to himself. A former actor turned journalist, critic, and lecturer of aesthetics, he will later quote Hamlet: “Words, words, words,” sharing the Dane’s opinion that words are useless, and action is needed (while also doing plenty of the former and not enough of the latter).

In this connection, we should remember that, for the great majority of the film, Little Man doesn’t say a word, because of a throat operation he’s recently undergone. Only at the very end of the film does he say anything, which is, “In the beginning was the Word. Why is that, Papa?” As a mute for almost all of the film, this innocent child is almost as Christ-like as the baby in Leonardo’s painting, who also would have been without a word to say.

Action without speech would thus seem to be the moral ideal of the film…and yet Jesus–committing the ultimate salvific act, his self-sacrifice on the Cross–is called “the Word” at the beginning of the Gospel of John. This Jesus had many important words to say in all four Gospels, too, of course, including his parables. Tarkovsky in fact called this last film of his a “parable,” according to his book, Sculpting in Time: Reflections on the Cinema (1985).

On the other side of the coin, one may question the moral validity of Alexander’s actions to save the world from a nuclear holocaust. Salvation by adultery? Salvation by arson? Do such actions really appease an angry god, be he Christian or pagan?

As a result of such considerations of works vs. words, one can see a dialectical relationship between these in terms of their worth. Both words and actions have their share of validity vs. worthlessness.

A similar dialectical relationship can be seen in theism vs. atheism in the film, as I also noted in my analysis of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Otto (Edwall) arrives on his bike as a postman to give Alexander a telegram wishing him a happy birthday, with jocular allusions to Richard III and The Idiot (Alexander has played both King Richard III and Prince Myshkin on the stage, back in his acting days.)

Otto asks Alexander about his relationship with God, to which the latter answers, “nonexistent.” This attitude is soon to change, though, when he learns from the news of the threat of WWIII. There are no atheists in fallout shelters, apparently.

Otto discusses his interest in Nietzsche‘s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, in which it is famously declared, “God is dead!” Yet later, Otto will discuss his belief in witches, angels, and the bizarre idea that Alexander can prevent nuclear war through having a sexual union with Maria (played by Guðrún Gísladóttir), one of his house servants, who is also, according to Otto, a witch “in the best possible sense.”

We can see a dialectical relationship even between that English king and Russian prince whom Alexander once played on the stage: the former is clever, but as ugly morally as he is physically deformed; the latter is simple and naïve, yet has a good heart. Such ambiguities and equivocations can be found throughout The Sacrifice, for spirituality here is at one moment portrayed as the highest good, and the next moment, the highest foolishness.

Speaking of foolishness, while he has Little Man sitting on his lap among trees further away from the shore and closer to his house, Alexander tells the little boy about what a difficult thing the fear of death is. It sometimes makes us do things we ought not to do…and yet it is this very fear of death, in a nuclear holocaust, that drives Alexander not only to sleep with Maria, but also to burn his house down, in some superstitious hope that these acts will save humanity from destruction.

At home, Alexander has received a gift from Victor (Wollter), the family doctor who did Little Man’s throat operation, as well as a close friend of Alexander’s family. The gift is a book of pre-Renaissance art depicting Christian saints; Alexander is most pleased with it, since though his relationship with God is “non-existent,” he has aspirations to bring it into existence. There’s a sense he’s been waiting for a catalyst to make this happen–it’s coming soon.

His English wife, Adelaide (Fleetwood), also an actress and fluent in Swedish, appears in the house with her daughter, Marta (played by Filippa Franzén). House servants Maria and Julia (Mairesse) are preparing the birthday dinner, and Otto will soon arrive with his own gift for Alexander, a huge, framed, old map of Europe.

“Every gift involves a sacrifice,” Otto says.

Is adultery with one’s maid a gift to God? Otto seems to think so, in spite of Exodus 20:14.

Is burning down one’s house a gift to God? Alexander seems to think so, as we’ll see.

There’s a sense of coolness not only between Otto, the postman, and bourgeois Victor, but also between Maria and bourgeois Adelaide, who finds the odd Icelandic servant frightening; bourgeois Alexander also finds her a bit “odd.” Otto, Maria’s neighbour, is more acquainted with her, and thus thinks better of her. It shouldn’t be surprising to find fellow proletarians warmer with each other, but alienated among the bourgeoisie.

Studying the map, Alexander imagines it to depict a much happier Europe than that of the modern world, just as he was idealizing in his mind the book’s pictures of ancient saints. He prefers the world of the past to that of the disillusioning present.

He discusses his having given up on acting due to a feeling that his identity dissolves in his roles. He came to be ashamed of impersonating other people. Adelaide preferred him as an actor, fell in love with him then; but she has grown disenchanted with him as a mere bookish, loquacious intellectual now.

Her disenchantment with him seems to have led to alienation in the family, an aloofness between him on the one side, and her and Marta on the other, while he is trying hard to be close with his son, to compensate for that alienation.

These issues lead to a suspicion that Adelaide has been having an affair with Victor. In fact, given that pretty Marta is barely of the age of consent, and that we see Victor touching her in a creepy way later on, I suspect that our good doctor has been in bed with both mother and daughter! Could this be why he wants to take a job in Australia, to escape the guilt of his tangled sexual indiscretions? I’ll discuss these issues in more detail later on.

After discussing his hobby of collecting evidence of the paranormal, Otto suddenly collapses on the living room floor. When the other guests check on him, he insists that he is alright; apparently, an evil angel has passed by and touched him.

Almost immediately after that, the guests hear jet fighters flying low, just above the house, and causing such a shaking that a large jar of milk falls off a shelf and breaks on the floor. All of the guests are disturbed by the jets except Otto, who remains still on the chair he’s gone to after his fall. It’s as if he knew the jets were coming, and he is equating them with the angel that touched him.

Alexander has been outside, looking at a miniature model of his house, something Little Man and Otto have made for him as a birthday gift. Upon beholding the model, Alexander quotes Macbeth in the original English: “Which of you have done this?”, which originally was the Scottish King’s frightened response to seeing the ghost of Banquo, whom he’s just had murdered. It’s as though Alexander, seeing himself in the future and seeing the ‘ghost’ of the house he is to burn, is feeling a similar guilt and looking for someone else to blame it on, to project it onto.

He goes back into the house to find all the guests listening to a news report about what seems to be the beginning of WWIII and a possible nuclear holocaust. Everyone is in a state of shock, but Adelaide reacts in the most extreme way, having a complete mental breakdown and needing a sedative from Victor.

A few interesting things should be noted about Adelaide in connection with what used to be called ‘female hysteria.’ Her hairstyle and dress remind one of the fashions of the 19th century, the last in which diagnoses of ‘hysteria’ in women were common. She calls out to the men to “do something,” to come to the rescue of the Victorian-minded woman. A prominent symptom of ‘hysteria’ was hypersexuality; now, while Adelaide is flipping out, and Victor is embracing her from behind in an effort to restrain her (holding her almost like a lover), her legs are spread out on the floor, revealing sensuous hosiery and high heels.

I’m not at all trying to revive bizarre, antiquated, and indeed sexist theories of mental illness in women (Freud himself, not exactly one to be called a feminist, was one of the first people to acknowledge symptoms associated with ‘hysteria’ in men, thus contributing to the decline in the diagnosis of this spurious medical condition.). I’m merely making links here between Adelaide’s mental state, her sexuality, and foolish old world thinking. After all, Alexander is about to engage in some hysteria of his own.

The needle that Victor sticks into Adelaide’s arm, to sedate her, can be seen as a phallic symbol. Some in the 19th century believed that genital stimulation could treat women’s ‘hysteria,’ including the use of the first electric vibrators [!]. My point in bringing all of this up is to show how it’s hinted, in symbolic and literal form, that Victor and Adelaide are lovers.

As Victor is embracing her, Alexander is further off, looking out a window: shouldn’t her husband be holding her? In this we can see the family dysfunction hiding behind a birthday party.

Victor asks Julia if she wants a phallic shot of sedation, she who’s shown no signs of mental breakdown, but who is as pretty as Adelaide. The maid walks away without a word, as if disgusted by the doctor’s apparent lechery. Then he goes over to pretty Marta to give her a shot. She says she doesn’t need the shot, but he insists, with a lecherous smirk and that creepy touching of her face that I mentioned above, that “it’s absolutely necessary.” That shot is symbolic Rohypnol…isn’t it?

Alexander would rather have drinks than the doctor’s offered shot. Otto doesn’t want a shot, either. (Perhaps by sedating the two men, Victor would have a chance to get at Mother and daughter, with Julia being discreet enough not to say anything.) Marta offers to go upstairs with Victor, while Julia watches over Mama [!]. A little later, we’ll see Marta get naked in her bedroom, knowing that Victor is still around, and Otto has left.

The phones are dead, and the electricity is out. Julia refuses to wake Little Man and have him traumatized with knowledge of humanity’s impending doom.

Alone in a room near sleeping Little Man, the Leonardo painting hanging on the wall, Alexander takes a look at it, then says the Lord’s Prayer. Teary-eyed, he is now entering his own version of ‘hysteria,’ behaving foolishly in a state of fear. Terrified of nuclear war, he has come to what he has been waiting for all of his life: to bring back into existence his relationship with God.

Note how contradictory his prayer is. After finishing his recital of the Lord’s Prayer, he on the one hand offers all he has to God, including his son (as mad as Abraham must have been), then he begs God to restore everything to what it was before the news report. In this prolix prayer, he offers to be mute for the rest of his life. His ‘brevity’ is like that of Polonius–the soul of folly.

His prayer thus demonstrates a paradoxical attitude towards faith and spirituality in this film: it’s illuminating and comforting, yet foolish. The terror of nuclear war urgently needs an escape, yet the opium of the people is no more than that–an escape. Fittingly, after his prayer, Alexander gets on a couch and sleeps to escape his fears.

Before we see his dream, though, we see an example of one of the family problems that he must at least be suspicious of: that scene I mentioned above, of Marta getting naked in her bedroom, happens now. She calls for Victor, saying she needs him [!]. Alexander hopes to save the world, and he can’t even set his own family issues right!

Alexander’s dream, in black and white, begins with melancholy Japanese flute music and dripping water for a soundtrack. It depicts him looking out of a window from a dark room to see snow on the grass. Since he has fears of WWIII, this snow could be seen as symbolic of a nuclear winter. Outside now, he’s stepping in the mud and puddles of melted snow, symbolic of a return to formless, primordial Chaos after the destruction of the world.

He bends down and moves some leaves and trash aside to reveal a number of coins. So much of the motive behind Cold War hostilities, leading to the danger of nuclear war, is money: either the greedy love of it, or the urge to transform society so that it can be shared by all or be eliminated altogether.

He walks in the snow, looking around. More of those coins are seen in the snow, among the puddles, mud, and trash. He sees the bare feet of Little Man in the snow, so vulnerable in the danger of WWIII, and he speaks fearfully for the boy, who then runs away. We hear the sound of approaching fighter jets, which blow aside everything on the ground as they fly by.

He wakes from his dream with a jolt.

Otto returns, to tell Alexander what, apparently, he needs to do to save the world from nuclear war. He must make love with Maria, one of his house servants! Since Otto, as we know, has an interest in the paranormal, and Maria is “the best” kind of witch, such rationalizing is all we need, it seems, to be convinced of this “last hope” as a viable solution.

Alexander sneaks out of his house while Adelaide and Victor are sitting together at a table outside [!], and he uses Otto’s bicycle to ride over to Maria’s home. All of this subterfuge just reinforces the sense of alienation in Alexander’s marriage.

When he arrives at Maria’s home, then begins what must be the most bizarre seduction in human history. Seriously: how does a man convince a woman (his employee) to have sex with him, saying that their tumble in bed is the only way nuclear armageddon can be prevented?

He starts by discussing a time when he was a boy and his mother was ill, and he wanted to tidy up an unweeded garden, so it would be more pleasing to her eyes. After doing so with the utmost diligence, he regrets his gardening efforts, preferring the unruly beauty of the original garden. The story seems to be teaching us not to tamper with nature, not to change anything from its original state, for it may have beauty despite its messy imperfections.

Il ne faut pas cultiver notre jardin.

When he’s come to the point of asking to lie with Maria, he points to his temple a pistol he’s taken from home, implying he’ll kill himself if she doesn’t consent to the sex. One is reminded of when Richard Gloucester, a role Alexander has played, remember, threatens to stab himself if Lady Anne won’t accept the evil hunchback’s hand in marriage. So Maria gives herself to Alexander. Indeed,…

Was ever woman in this humour woo’d?
Was ever woman in this humour won?

The fact that, when the lovemaking happens, we don’t see it done the usual way, but rather Tarkovsky has us see the two lovers floating, turning together in a circle over her bed, emphasizes that it isn’t the sex act per se that matters, but what their physical union symbolizes.

And when we see the sex in a symbolic sense, we can see how it finally makes sense. Consider who Alexander and Maria are in relation to each other. He is her employer. He is an affluent bourgeois, she is a worker. Their sexual union symbolizes the removal of class differences. Their lovemaking represents the sublation of the material contradiction between the upper and lower classes, which is vital in ending nuclear brinksmanship between the US and the USSR, as I’ll explain in more detail later.

Now, many will object to my interpretation on the grounds that the oh, so spiritual Tarkovsky wasn’t exactly a card-carrying Marxist-Leninist. There was friction between him and his mystic visions, on the one hand, and the atheistic Soviet authorities, on the other hand. After all, he left the Soviet Union to make his last movies, like The Sacrifice, for the sake of pursuing artistic freedom, did he not?

That friction between him and the Soviet government was there, but it’s been exaggerated by bourgeois, imperialist propagandists (as one can see in liberal Wikipedia). The fact is that Soviet censorship had been softening little by little over the years, ever since the death of Stalin in 1953, three years before Tarkovsky’s first student film and nine years before Ivan’s Childhood, his first feature film. Though the Soviet censors would have been sensitive to anything even remotely, subtly critical of communism, they would have also recognized Tarkovsky’s obvious genius, and would have known that promoting that genius would have been good for the USSR’s global reputation; so a balance between censorship and indulgence was sought.

Recall, also, that Tarkovsky’s son insisted that his father was no political dissident. While Tarkovsky was surely no doctrinaire supporter of the Soviet system, being someone born, raised, and educated in the USSR, he would have at least unconsciously absorbed some basic socialist values, like closing up the gap between the rich and the poor, something this sex scene can be seen to symbolize.

There is a dream sequence seen while Alexander and Maria are making love, in which we see her in the hairstyle and clothing of Adelaide; this shot suggests a wish-fulfillment of Maria being his true soulmate. This vision, along with one–immediately after another brief shot of Leonardo’s painting–of naked Marta chasing after chickens (representing cowardly Victor, who’s running off to Australia after his sexual misconduct?), reinforces our understanding of the failure of Alexander’s married life, his own unconscious acknowledging of that failure.

As they make love, we can hear Maria’s voice, comforting Alexander, trying to soothe his pain and ease his fears. It’s easy to see how he’d prefer her to his emotionally volatile wife, whom, indeed, we see lurking in the darkness immediately after we see naked Marta.

He wakes up on his sofa, back at home. The power and telephones are back. His beloved Japanese flute music is playing on his stereo. He later puts on a Japanese robe, as if about to perform some kind of Shinto ritual.

The electricity having come back, right after the supposedly salvific lovemaking, implies that all is back to normal, that God, satisfied with Alexander’s ‘gift,’ has prevented nuclear war. Still, Alexander is not assured of the world’s safety, of this Nietzschean eternal recurrence (i.e., from the end of the world to its new beginning) that Otto had promised, so Alexander–in his ongoing religious hysteria–feels he must make the ultimate sacrifice: burn his house to the ground.

Further evidence of his family’s dysfunction is seen when, as he’s sneaking around behind them in his frenzy, Adelaide and Marta are upset to have heard of Victor’s plan to leave them and go to Australia. The women complain of Alexander losing his ‘friend,’ but they’re really just jealously upset about losing a lover. Victor, of course, just wants to run away from facing the responsibilities of his own sexual misconduct.

Alexander must be aware that he’s been made a cuckold: he’d be overhearing their conversation as he’s sneaking around, and he must have seen and heard previous hints of their fooling around behind his back. Part of his reason for burning down the house, rendering Adelaide and Marta homeless, must be out of spite; yet with no consideration for Little Man, whom he deeply loves, Alexander is still being irrational.

And again, I must ask, especially if the lovemaking with Maria (also Alexander’s unconscious revenge against his adulteress wife) is enough to save the world: why would burning down his house appease God? Didn’t He prefer His Son’s crucifixion?

My answer to this, as with the lovemaking with Maria, is that its meaning is symbolic. Alexander’s house, where his maids work, is his property. Private property, which we socialists wish to abolish, is places: farmland, factories, office buildings, apartment buildings–the means of production.

The acquisition and accumulation of capital (which must ever expand), along with the ruthless and jealous wish to protect ownership of it, have led to the export of capital into other countries, as well as competition over who will exploit the most of those countries. This has resulted in two imperialist world wars, and with the American invention of the atomic bomb, fears of nuclear war.

So, to avert nuclear war, Alexander’s burning down of his house can be seen to symbolize a bourgeois sacrifice of private property. (This message is especially relevant to us today, in our current Cold War with Russia and China–hence my urgent recommendation of this film.) Class war is the inevitable result of rich landowners leaving very little for the poor to live with. Bourgeois exploitation of the proletariat, being so intolerable for the poor, necessitates class antagonisms and socialist revolution.

In the modern world, imperialism as the highest stage of capitalism makes war inevitable, as a competition for land and resources. The Manhattan Project brought in the nuclear age, resulting in the necessity of the USSR, China, and the DPRK to develop their own nuclear weapons programs, to prevent the US from bombing them as Japan had been bombed. To prevent nuclear war, then, the class antagonisms of capitalism and imperialism must be ended–hence, the abolition of private property, as Alexander’s arson symbolizes.

It’s fitting in this connection that, as the house is burning down to the ground and his family, Julia, and Victor return from their walk to watch the fire in horror, Maria arrives on her bicycle and Alexander runs up to her, falls to his knees, and kisses her hands. This is symbolic of the bourgeois ceding power to the worker, as linked with the burning down of the house as representing the abolishing of private property.

Bourgeois Adelaide and Victor take him away from Maria, he runs back to her, and they take him away again, Adelaide growling at Maria, “Don’t touch him!” This symbolizes capitalist attempts at counterrevolution. As a bourgeois himself, Alexander can thus be seen as like Engels.

Now, the above is my allegoric interpretation of Tarkovsky’s “parable.” On the literal level, however, it’s obvious that Alexander, driven to hysteria by the fear of nuclear annihilation, has simply gone mad in his religious ecstasy. Just as Tarkovsky was, as I speculate, ambivalent about socialism, so was he ambivalent about spirituality and religion, seeing both the good and bad sides in it. Spirituality can give comfort, and it can cause one to go mad. Tarkovsky’s genius allowed him to have just as nuanced an attitude towards religion as he had towards socialism.

It’s safe to assume that the paramedics, presumably answering a call from a neighbour about the arson, will drive Alexander to a mental hospital. His family has fallen apart just as he has mentally. There is no spiritual edification to be found in this scene, except for the allegory I provided.

With the end of this family’s world achieved in his arson, the eternal recurrence brings us back to the beginning with Little Man tending the tree. Finally, he can speak, and he quotes the opening of the Gospel of John as mentioned above. His question, “Why is that, Papa?”, seems to be another example of Tarkovsky’s ambivalence towards religion. The quote from John affirms it, while the boy’s question challenges its validity.

The lesson that the parable of The Sacrifice seems to be teaching us is that spirituality has its good and bad sides, and that we must be forever mindful of both. It’s a wavelike dialectic, going up and down and up and down.

‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Four

A week has passed since I had that nightmare, or vision, or whatever it was. Nothing crazy has happened since then; Mama’s ghost hasn’t done anything to upset me. She’s probably just taking her time with me–starting slowly and gradually building up, knowing that that dream, or vision, would be enough to disturb me for at least a week.

As I’ve walked to work and back home, I haven’t even seen that man trying to get my attention. Didn’t Mom want me to talk to him, according her her taunts, speaking through other people’s mouths?

Anyway, I’m in the Pet Valu store now, at the cash register, waiting for customers to come in. My aunt is using the washroom at the moment.

This is so stupid–me continuing to work here, when Mama left me so much money that I could just stay at home and never need to work again! If Aunt Jane wants to take over Mom’s business, for a way to pass the time, that’s her business; but she could easily hire someone to replace me…why won’t she?

I just heard the toilet flush in the back. She can come back here and be bored at the cash register while I face cans, or something. Here she comes.

“I can take over here, Roger,” she says.

“Good,” I snort, then step aside for her.

“Why the grumpy attitude?” she asks me with a scowl.

“I’m sick of it here,” I say. “Why don’t you find someone else to do this job? I don’t need the money. You know Mama left me enough to live on.”

“I already told you why, Roger. Your mother told me months ago, when she felt her health declining, that she wanted you to continue working, in spite of the objections she predicted you would make, so you would stay in contact with other people. That’s why I agreed to take over the pet food store when she died. We worry about you, Roger, that is, the whole family does. If you quit your job here, you’ll just sit around at home all day and all night, doing nothing but watching TV or wasting time online–probably looking at porn or something–avoiding people, and just rotting away in isolation. Having this job keeps you around people. It keeps you functioning on at least some level of normality. It’s good for you.”

I groan in annoyance at all of these words. The last thing that interacting with people has ever been is good for me; but try to convince my aunt to see the truth in that!

“I guess I’ll go face the cans,” I say with a sigh.

“Actually, there are some bags of Iams at the back,” she says. “They’re too big and heavy for me to lift. I need you to pick them up and put them under the older ones.”

“OK.” I walk over to the back.

At least I’d managed to talk her out of moving in with me, back when she suggested the idea…to watch over me, and make sure I “wasn’t doing anything foolish.” Her living in the apartment with me would be beyond awkward.

Just as I’ve been thinking about her interfering in my life, think of the Devil, and she appears.

I’m putting the older bags of Iams dog food on the two new bags I got from the back, and she has just arrived. I can feel her standing behind me.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Roger, if you’ve talked to your father yet,” she says, causing me to groan in annoyance. “A few days ago, he told me he tried to get your attention when you were coming here or going home, and you just kept ignoring him, so he gave up trying. Have you spoken to him since then?”

“Of course not,” I say, then hiss between clenched teeth, “And he’s not my father. My father is dead. And even if he were alive, my real father couldn’t be such a foolish looking fellow as he.”

“How can you be so sure he isn’t your father if you never even find out? Why would he pretend?”

“Because he’s delusional, of course!”

“Roger, you’re hardly the one to be judging the mental stability of others, with your tendency to see and hear things. Don’t project your faults onto others…and don’t talk to me in that tone!”

“If you don’t like the way I talk to you, then just fire me!”

“You’re not getting out of this job, and out of the social world, this easily. You are going to meet him sooner or later, even if I have to bring him over to your apartment.”

“Oh, God, just leave me alone, would you?”

“Just get back to those bags, and watch your mouth,” she says, then walks away in a huff. “Impossible kid,” I hear her say under her breath.

Yeah, impossible “kid.” Mama always used to call me a kid, even well into my adulthood. I heard her call me that a few times even days before she died. I was never an adult to her, because she didn’t want me to be one. I had to remain a child in a man’s body for her, so she could control me better. She ruined my life with her witchcraft, and she seems to have come back to life in the form of my Aunt Jane. Or perhaps her spirit is possessing my aunt…that could be it!

Either way, I’m no freer than when Mama was alive.

Maybe this is it: maybe she’s using her magic in a subtle way. Could Mama’s spirit be worried that I, having learned a little magic of my own, might learn more, develop my skills at it, grow in power, and thus be a threat to her? It’s possible…unlikely, but possible.

Perhaps I can make it less unlikely if I really do make more of a study of the magic arts. In any case, she’ll keep persecuting me, and causing more and more mischief for the rest of the world, regardless of whether I try to stop her or not…so I’d better try learning more.

After work, I’m going back to the library.

*************

Here I am, at a table with a dozen or so books about how to communicate with, influence, and protect oneself from the spirit world. I’ve already spent several hours jotting down notes in the hope that they’ll help me against Mama.

I have no way of knowing if any of the books I’ve chosen are authoritative or if they’ve all been written by quacks and charlatans. If they’re any good at all, have I written down the better information from them, or have I just written down a bunch of useless nonsense?

In any case, what I have learned has at least given me some hope that I can stop Mama. It will improve my chances of sleeping tonight, if it doesn’t do anything else for me.

It’s getting late. I see nothing but black out that window over there to my right. I’d better put these books away and go home. I can read more from them tomorrow, and I can find more information online on my laptop, if I feel like it.

**********

I’m walking on a sidewalk with the library behind me, lampposts giving me some light in an otherwise starless, black night. It will be at least another ten blocks or so before I reach my apartment. The darkness is ominous.

A few of the spells I read about looked as if they could be effective. In my living room, I can use a piece of chalk or something to draw a magic circle on the floor, draw a pentacle in it, and chant the verse I wrote down to sanctify it.

If the spell works, that is, if it keeps Mama out, I can get my sleeping bag and sleep there, with the TV and my laptop handy to keep me entertained.

As for when I need to leave that zone of protection, another thing I learned from those books is that I can get an amulet or a witch bottle, something I can take with me anywhere for protection against Mama’s ghost. I hope buying such things won’t gouge out too much of my money.

I could fill the witch bottle with my urine, hair or nail clippings, or maybe with rosemary or red wine, if I find pissing into it to be too disgusting. I could bury the bottle in the dirt on the front lawn of my apartment building; I’ll do it at night, so no one sees me and tries to stop me.

The amulet could be a necklace of some kind that I can wear everywhere, never taking it off, for extra protection. I could buy a sachet, or Chinese xiangbao, to ward off Mama’s evil. All of these extra precautions should keep me safe; if none of them work, I really have no idea of what I’m going to do.

Hey…are those footsteps I’m hearing behind me? At this time of night, there are few pedestrians walking about, and there were none on the sidewalk as I left the almost-empty library, and I haven’t seen one person walking here since. Am I imagining the footsteps? Dare I look behind me?

Those aren’t my own footsteps, are they? Is my mind exaggerating the sound, making an imaginary echo? I’ll keep walking and listening: a pair of footfalls, or two pairs of them?

I’m hearing two pairs–no echo.

There’s no way I’m going to stop walking. In fact, I’m going to start walking faster, with long strides.

The person behind me is doing the same thing.

He…or she…sounds really close behind, too.

“Roger, please,” the male voice behind me says. “Can I have a minute to talk to you?”

Oh, God. It’s that guy again! Fine, I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him to go away, as rude as I can be.

“Listen, buddy, can you fu…?” I begin as I’m turning my head back to see him. But what I end up seeing–illuminated by a nearby lamppost–is a man’s body with the head of a blue elephant!

“Roger, I can prove to you that I am your fa…” he begins.

But I’m already running, screaming, before that thing can finish its sentence.

Horizons

There
are those
who think our world today is normal in this state,

when
actually,
our world today should be seen from this perspective.

Many
on the
right think all our problems should be seen this way,

but
such a
vantage point just pushes things the other way.

The left is pushed so far aside, it isn’t even seen,

and
so, the
middle’s pushed rightwards, yet still seen as the centre.

False Families

False families are primarily concerned with their public image, as ‘virtuous,’ ‘upstanding,’ ‘admirable,’ ‘moral,’ and ‘loving.’ Maintaining this image is far more important to them than actually striving to live up to such ideals, since doing the latter is, of course, far more difficult.

One doesn’t just put on an act of virtue and goodness, while secretly knowing that one isn’t the good family member one pretends to be. These people lie to themselves as successfully as they lie to the public. Contemplating the truth is much too intolerable, an unbearable blow to their inflated egos; so they must convince themselves that the theatre of virtue put on is real.

Conflicts and feelings of resentment are inevitable, even in the best of families, but the better ones will at least try to resolve these problems as fairly as they can. Toxic families, on the other hand, will find ways of ‘resolving’ these conflicts so that they can maintain an illusion of blamelessness for most of the family, while projecting the unavoidable blame on one, or a few, scapegoat(s).

A healthy family will, paradoxically, acknowledge fault, blame, and ill emotional health in all the family members who are at fault in the conflict, and they will reserve judgement fairly and in proportion to how much fault each member involved has. A false family, or toxic one, or emotionally abusive one (whichever name you wish to use to describe them), will dump all or most of the blame on the scapegoat(s), while absolving of blame other family members who may bear much, if not most or all, of the blame, thus maintaining the illusion of family health for the majority of the members.

A false family has a black-and-white view of the family members. Generally speaking, and with at least relatively few exceptions, certain members are seen as largely good: the narcissistic parent (the ringleader of the toxic family structure) and his or her golden children, his or her flying monkeys. On the other side are those deemed largely ‘bad’: the codependent parent and the scapegoat(s) or identified patient(s). Any reasonable person would know that everyone is a lighter or darker grey between the good and bad extremes, but the group narcissism of the toxic family will admit to little beyond the black and white.

This is the kind of family that I had to endure growing up with. To be sure, I have plenty of glaring faults, but I hardly deserved to be scapegoated because of them. In fact, a reasonable argument can be made that the exacerbating, if not largely the origin, of most of my faults was because of the emotional abuse that I suffered under my parents’ mismanagement of the family.

I have already described in detail, in the links given above as well as such links as these, the whole story of how I was bullied, belittled, lied to, and subjected to gaslighting by my late parents and older siblings (my brothers, R. and F., and my sister, J.). If you have either already read some or all of those posts, or if you don’t care to do so much reading, Dear Reader, then please just go along with what I’m saying to you now: that my having gone NO CONTACT with the family for the past seven years (as of this post’s publication) has been perfectly justified, for the sake of protecting myself against being subjected to any further emotional abuse in the future, something guaranteed from those three surviving siblings. When trying to heal from C-PTSD, one cannot do so while in contact with any of the abusers.

One of the family’s chief rationalizations for bullying me and treating me with contempt is one of those glaring faults I referred to above: namely, my self-centredness (something supposedly based on ‘my autism,’ or really their distorted, outdated definition of autism, which is a mental condition I learned from psychiatrists that I don’t really have, but was rather one of my late mother’s many fabrications). As far as I’m concerned, only my wife has the right to complain of my selfishness (which was really the result of my alienation from an emotionally neglectful family), for unlike the family, my wife is truly selfless.

As I said above, the selflessness of a false family is just that…false. It is an outward show, meant not only to impress and fool the public, but also for the false family to fool themselves into thinking they’re genuinely good people. One only has to use one’s instincts, though, to realize that there’s nothing good about bullies and narcissists. Accordingly, highly sensitive people like me can see through the family bullshit, and they as a result get scapegoated…to protect the lie.

When my mother was dying of breast cancer, she was nonetheless healthy enough to tell me a slew of lies online (see the links above for details), after I’d already known of other lies of hers (e.g., the autism lie mentioned above). When you know someone has lied to you, you cannot trust the liar ever again–this is ancient wisdom. I, living on the other side of the world and already refusing to communicate with her for fear of more manipulating, had no way of knowing if the messages by phone or email about her dying were real, or just another fabrication to make me feel guilty and manipulate me into making a visit to Canada that I vowed never again to make.

My brother R. wanted me to phone Mom, who was in hospital and on her deathbed, to make regular phone calls and chat with her, something I absolutely didn’t want to do, especially given her ever-impenitent attitude. R. wanted me to put on a show of love, which I refused to do.

He later stumbled upon a YouTube video I’d made about seven years before her death, in which I bitterly recited “This Be the Verse,” by Philip Larkin. The combination of my refusal to call her with my recitation of a poem with a four-letter word made him (freshly grieving over her death) so angry that, instead of letting himself calm down and then later asking me, in the comments section, what Mom had done to make me so mad at her, he made a snarky comment to the effect that I’m apparently mentally “disturbed,” and that I should be ashamed of myself for not loving a mother who, apparently, “loved [me] more than anyone else on the planet.”

No attempt was made at an investigation to find out what happened between Mom and me: there was just an assumption that she was ‘all-good,’ and that I am ‘all-bad.” This is the typical attitude of the false family, which idealizes the narcissistic parent and his or her golden children/flying monkeys, and a further vilifying of the family scapegoat.

The way I acted at her death, combined with my continued enforcement of the NO CONTACT rule, is essentially the family’s motive for never trying to contact me since, save for two or three puny attempts by my sister J.–the number one golden child of the family, who is obligated ‘to love’ her younger brother (for the sake of a show of family virtue, remember)–to contact me by email, Facebook, and Twitter. I never responded to this hoovering, of course.

The thing is, for the great majority of the family, save J. and Mom when she was alive, there was never an interest in contacting me, with ever so few exceptions, for the whole time I’ve lived in Taiwan. R., my other brother F., and all the others have never needed my reaction to Mom’s death as a reason never to contact me.

In our family, the word love is meaningless; the words like and dislike, however, do have meaning. Love for them just means family obligation. While love is supposed to be unconditional (i.e., we can be mad at or resentful of family members because of certain faults of theirs, but we won’t stop loving them for that), this family is selective about whom they care about. R., F., and J., and their spouses and kids (minus any new scapegoats intended to replace me and my cousins) are loved and cared for because they are liked.

As for us scapegoats, though J. pays lip service to caring about me (and is convinced that her fake love is genuine, as was Mom), we could all rot in a leper colony for all R. and F. care. I grudgingly respect my brothers’ attitude to me, since at least there’s a dram of honesty in it.

I’ve known the truth of the above for years, but recently I’ve discovered further proof to consolidate the accuracy of my judgement of them. This new proof lies in their total non-reaction to the growing crisis between China and the US regarding my home here in Taiwan.

It doesn’t matter if the family believes the lies and propaganda being spewed from the mainstream Western media about China wanting ‘to invade’ the ‘nation’ of Taiwan, or if they know the truth that I’ve known, which is that the American government has been trying to provoke China into invading, the way the US and NATO provoked Russia for years into invading Ukraine. My home is in danger of becoming a war zone, in which my wife, her family, and I could suffer and die.

…and my ‘morally superior’ family hasn’t lifted a finger to contact me and offer to get us to safety.

[It is totally unfeasible for me to return to Canada, since apart from my estrangement from the family, my limited skill set–teaching English as a second language–will not find me much of anything in terms of employment there; the vast majority of such jobs, teaching immigrants, are presumably already snatched up. My wife and I moving to Canada would almost guarantee us a future of homelessness. In any case, I have high hopes that the American empire will crumble before it even has a chance of bringing about a war with China.]

Now, a number of objections to what I’ve said need to be addressed and put into proper context. I haven’t exactly made it easy for the family to communicate with me–such is the nature of going NO CONTACT. I blocked them, for example, from sending emails to me; and as I mentioned above, I refused to answer J. in her attempts to contact me through Facebook and Twitter.

That said, though, attempts to contact me are far from impossible. Since they know my internet/pen name, they could contact me here in the comments section. They could contact the Taipei Economic and Cultural Office, who in turn could contact me by email or phone. The family could phone me themselves! A simple Google search of Mawr Gorshin could bring up a slew of websites where I can be found, and if I never answer their messages, they can pester me over and over again until I finally relent.

It’s not that they can’t contact me. They just don’t want to.

Please don’t misinterpret my meaning, Dear Reader. I’m not saying that I want them to contact me…No! I’d find such attempts at communicating with me to be nothing less than triggering. But this isn’t about what I want: it’s about what they want.

If my mother were still alive, to her credit, she would have stopped at nothing to break through my defences and get to me. My siblings’ attempts have been less than feeble…and they imagine themselves better than I, a mere scapegoat.

The point I’m trying to make here is that this lack of a response proves that they don’t really love me. There is a continuity between this callous disregard for my safety here in East Asia, and back in the day when I was a kid, when F. used to spit on me and hit me, J. played disgusting games with me when I was about eight or nine, and these two and R. shouting one four-letter word after another at me, usually over minor things I’d done to annoy them.

It simply doesn’t occur to them that I am a human being, with a heart and feelings, who has the same basic rights as everyone else. I’ll bet that R. and F. would smile at the thought of me trapped in a war zone…those two fucking bastards! J. calls them ‘brothers,’ by the way. Anyway, all of this only further justifies my continued estrangement from them.

Another objection to the conclusions I’ve drawn is that the family may mistakenly believe that I’m dead (from Covid, presumably–a virus the vast majority of those having died from being either people in their 70s or 80s, or people who had other health problems, neither of which apply to me). After all, J. sent me her direct Twitter message around that time, and as I said above, I never responded to it.

Aside from the overblown media hysteria around Covid, though, why would my not responding necessarily mean I died? Does J. think someone hacked my Twitter account? All she has to do is follow me there, find my many blog articles posted there, and read some of them to know, by my idiosyncratic writing style (and photo at the top!) that it’s really me. My politics have changed radically since the days when we were still talking to each other, but changing one’s political opinions (in my case, from centre-right to hard-left) is surprising, but far from impossible.

But again, this issue leads back to my argument before: if they really need to know if I’m alive or dead, they can just keep pushing and nagging online until I finally respond, or get the Taipei Economic and Cultural Office to contact me. If I’m dead, have they received proof of it? Did they get a death certificate? Has a corpse been produced?

Merely assuming I’m dead is just an excuse not to try to find out for sure. Again, it’s not that they can’t find out for sure. They just don’t think I’m worth the effort…these people who routinely bullied and belittled me when I was a kid, who deliberately undermined my ability to develop self-confidence, and whom Mom never reprimanded for it.

…and it justifies my estrangement from them all the more.

Their reason for not loving me is not because of my faults: everyone has faults, but some people’s faults are put under a magnifying glass (mine and my cousins), while others’ faults are swept under the rug (R.’s, F.’s, J.’s, and our parents’). It’s a vicious double standard, and it’s proof that my family is a false one.

Now, what I want to say to you, Dear Reader, is that if you find yourself the scapegoat of a false family, know that it’s not your fault that they don’t love you (though they may pretend to); it is their fault. They are supposed to love you, and it is their failure, not yours, that they don’t truly love you.

So give yourself heaps of love, to compensate for what they so cruelly denied you, because you’re worth it.

[Postscript: If by chance any of my elder siblings, or anyone else in the family back in Canada, should contact me here in the comments section, my response would be a quote I heard from my condescending sister decades ago: “You’ve left it a little late, haven’t you?” The US has been banging the war drums against China for years now. It’s been a hot item in the news for at least about a year, since Pelosi’s provocative visit to Taiwan last summer…and only now do they contact me, if they ever plan to?]