The System is the Problem

I: Introduction

Anyone who has been reading my blog for a while should know by now that I, as an avowed Marxist, get static from right-wingers from time to time. There is, however, another group of people I criticize quite a bit, and who from time to time give me a hard time, too.

Liberals.

To be fair to them, many are well-intentioned in wanting progressive change in the world, but who are also, I feel, terribly misinformed about what’s really going on in the world. Part of this problem stems from the fact that many of them have similar class interests with people on the right, and therefore they don’t want to make the uncompromising but necessary changes in our political landscape that will ensure social justice, end the wars, and reverse ecocide.

In my article, The Liberal Mindset, I went into the psychological conflicts of liberals as I see them, those of wanting to effect progressive change (motivated by the superego), and wanting to retain their class privileges (motivated by the id). The result of this conflict is, of course, a lot of hypocrisy, in particular for those liberals in the upper echelons of economic and political power.

Examples of this hypocrisy are when AOC wears a “Tax the rich” dress at a Met Gala of the wealthy and privileged, Bernie Sanders decries the oligarchs, then backs Democrats pandering to the empire and corporations, or in my country, when Justin Trudeau talks all the politically correct talk, yet backs oil drilling on aboriginal land, or in one form or another, his government has backed Ukrainian Nazis.

As for those in the lower echelons who are liberals, their fault tends to stem from merely being misinformed. This fault is not, however, squarely on them. As is the case with so many of us these days in this neoliberal hellhole we live in, one is simply too busy working, dealing with day-to-day problems, to have the time to do the hard work of researching what is really going on in the world, learning the history of how we got here, and interpreting the meaning of world events correctly. Instead, most people rely on the slime oozing out of their TV set, the lies and propaganda coming out of it.

It is my hope that this article I’ve written can help correct those misconceptions of many liberals–that is, the well-meaning ones who simply don’t realize how much they’ve been misled, as opposed to those who ought to know better, or who cynically and deliberately go along with the mass deceptions because they benefit from them.

Furthermore, I hope that through these words I can impress upon these liberals that, in order to effect the kind of change that really needs to be made, change that is meaningful and isn’t merely a facelift, certain baselines must be maintained. Nothing below them is acceptable. A discussion of the content of these red lines follows:

II: No Voting for Bourgeois Parties…Ever!

The basic principle that needs to be understood about mainstream political parties–bourgeois parties–is that in spite of all their talk about striving to do what is best for the people, and what’s right for the nation, what they really do is solely in the interests of the capitalist class. The examples I gave above about the hypocrisies of liberals saying one thing and doing more or less the opposite are examples of this problem, hence voting for any of them will do nothing to help the common people.

Such political parties include the blue and red of the bogus American two-party system, the Tory and Labour Parties of the UK, and the Canadian Tories, Liberals, and NDP, as well as the many other bourgeois parties in the rest of the world. This is true even of social democrats like AOC, Sanders, or the NDP in Canada. In spite of the left-leaning nature of some of them, these ‘progressive’ ones will choose capitalism over socialism, Zionism over Palestinian rights, and even fascism if the ruling class is being threatened.

Liberalism acts as a kind of buffer against any friction the working class feels from the dictatorship of capital. So much of controlling the people involves using psychological tactics to keep us at bay; among those tactics is sustaining the illusion of hope that, somewhere down the line, a liberal or social democrat of conscience will lead the way and end the corporate stranglehold on us. As long as we keep hoping, we’ll keep voting, and an uprising will be staved off, even though those hopes keep getting frustrated.

More and more people are waking up to what this deception is doing, and they aren’t buying into the lies they keep hearing. As a result, fewer and fewer of them are wasting their time leaving home on Election Day and voting for someone who only talks and never delivers on his or her promises.

When the deceptive tactics are no longer working for a significant portion of the population, then other forms of keeping control are used, such as brute force. It’s no accident that in recent decades, there has been a militarization of the police, and when there are protests, agent provocateurs are deployed by the powers-that-be to stir up the protesting crowds, pick fights with them, and give the riot police an excuse to beat the protestors and arrest them.

As long as there is economic prosperity, as there was from 1945-1973, bourgeois governments can be, by their standards, generous and tax the rich sufficiently to fund social programs and other benefits for the poor. But when the economy is going through bad times, as has on-and-off been the case since 2008, the dictatorship of capital shows its true colours, and nothing is done to help the increasingly immiserated poor–quite the opposite, in fact, even to the point of such injustices as criminalizing homelessness.

In the case of American politics, we can see how both parties have moved things further and further to the right, even when either party allowed for some progressive policies. FDR gave Americans the New Deal, which in itself was good for softening the blow of capitalism for the working class, but even this good thing had a shadow side: in the very softening of capitalism, the New Deal ensured that the American ruling class didn’t have to fear a socialist revolution. Social democracy prevented the rise of real socialism.

While the rationalization for FDR’s putting of Japanese-Americans in internment camps (also called concentration camps, rather like those cages ICE is putting “illegals” into now) was as a protection against possible Japanese-American spies sending intelligence back to Japan, the fact is that that internment was yet another manifestation of good-old-fashioned American racism, a time-honored tradition going back to the times of black slavery, Native American genocide, the KKK, Jim Crow, “We reserve the right to refuse service to [Mexicans, Jews, the Irish, etc.],” and coming right to our times of “build the wall” and Russophobia.

On the Republican side, the Eisenhower era may have seen high taxes for the rich, and to his credit, he warned in his farewell address to curb the growing cancer of what he called the Military Industrial Complex as an enemy to world peace (a warning that subsequent American politicians have dutifully ignored), he and his administration were responsible for the 1954 Guatemalan coup, and helping with the 1953 Iranian coup, all justified as part of the Cold War policy of containment (the ultimate counterrevolution against communism has subsequently contributed to the neoliberal disaster we’re facing today).

That Iranian coup reinstalled the Shah, a puppet of Western imperialism and someone very unpopular among the Iranian people. This problem resulted in the 1979 Iranian Revolution, resulting in turn in Iran being another target for regime change, which has led to the recent hostility to and banging of the war drums against the country.

To his credit, LBJ signed legislation to promote African American civil rights, and by liberal standards, he helped fight the war on poverty. He also, however, helped escalate American involvement in Vietnam based on the bogus Gulf of Tonkin Incident; a quagmire ensued in Vietnam, a most unpopular war that brought about such atrocities as the My Lai Massacre. Once again, the rationale was to contain communism, without any consideration for what the Vietnamese actually wanted, they who had just shaken off French colonial rule by the mid-1950s. So much for the ‘progressive’ Democrats.

Nixon’s administration helped with the 1973 Chilean coup d’état, replacing the democratically-elected socialist Salvador Allende with the far-right strongman Augusto Pinochet, whose Chicago Boys“free market” economic policies can be seen as a testing ground for the neoliberal scourge that began under Reagan and Thatcher.

What people need to understand about all these coups d’état and other interventions is that they’re meant to keep the empire’s grip of power on the affected countries. The empire will never accept any country going its own way and finding its own path to improve the quality of life for its people.

The intentions of the governments that the CIA and/or MI6 have overthrown are to do such things as the nationalization of industry (oil, etc.) and land reform so the workers and farmers of these countries can gain control over their working lives, gain the full fruits of their labour, and use the profits from their work to fund social programs for the poor. The imperialists, however, know that allowing these reforms to happen will reduce, if not obliterate, the profits they’ve been stealing from these countries.

When the Western imperialists meddle in the affairs of these Third World countries in the ways I’ve just described, they try to rationalize their interference by claiming they’re promoting “freedom and democracy” and thwarting the “Red menace.” Such talk of wanting “democratic freedoms” for these developing countries is just, to use a psychoanalytic term, a case of reaction formation, or hiding one’s true, not-so-noble motives behind a mask of supposedly benevolent ones. The last thing the imperialists care about is the right of the Third World poor to have freedom and self-determination. One doesn’t achieve such a goal by installing the likes of the Shah or Pinochet.

Imperialism is not just some abstract word we leftists throw around to sound dramatic or to feel self-righteous. It’s a living, breathing menace that destroys the lives and crushes the hopes of millions of people around the world. It is also used by all bourgeois political parties, not just the ‘conservative’ ones. The red and blue in the US do it. Tory and Labour do it in the UK. Tories, Liberals, and the NDP do it in Canada. The Renaissance (En Marche) party and the National Party (or National Front) do it in France. And so on and so on.

Western liberals have to stop thinking that the whole world revolves around themselves and start looking into what happens in these other parts of the world, for our suffering and their suffering are interlinked.

To get back to my ‘history lesson,’ if you will–which of course is far from exhaustive–another example of US imperial meddling in another country’s affairs, one that would ultimately bite Americans in the ass (our suffering and theirs is interlinked, recall), is when Afghanistan was trying to implement socialism with the aid of the Soviet Union. Such things as the promotion of women’s rights were on the agenda…but the American government would never tolerate that agenda.

The Carter administration, with Zbigniew Brzezinski‘s influence, provoked the USSR into invading Afghanistan (as they provoked Russia’s invasion of Ukraine) in the manner I discussed in my analysis of Charlie Wilson’s War. During this proxy war, the Soviet-Afghan War of the 1980s, the US government armed the mujahideen to the teeth. These fighters were fundamentalist Muslims, people who could be called the Islamic equivalent of fascists. Reagan had some of them visit him in the White House. One of the mujahideen was Osama bin Laden. We all know what his involvement eventually led to.

Once the US government had achieved their goal of weakening the Soviet Union through this long war that ended in 1989, Afghanistan was abandoned, since the country was no longer politically useful to US imperialism. The result of this abandoning of the war-torn country to Muslim fundamentalists was the rise of the Taliban, whose ideology was the diametrical opposite of that of the original socialist/feminist plan.

There is a long history of the US government backing a country at first, then abandoning or even being outright hostile to them later. This is true not only of Afghanistan, but also of Iraq during the Iran-Iraq War, when the US backed the latter, giving them (or at least allowing them to acquire) their chemical and biological weapons, and Donald Rumsfeld was recorded on video shaking hands with Saddam Hussein), Panama (Manuel Noriega was a CIA asset for many years until the US government turned on him and invaded his country to apprehend him), and now, Ukraine, to name but a few examples. Recall Kissinger’s words on being friends with the US.

Once the USSR and Soviet Bloc were dissolved and Russia was plunged into economic turmoil in the 1990s, with most Russians never having wanted the Soviet system to end, and majorities of them consistently seeing its end as a bad thing, the Western ruling class no longer feared that their oppression of the working class would lead to a socialist revolution. So it was only a matter of time before NAFTA was signed into law, Welfare was gutted, and the Telecommunications Act of 1996 was enacted, allowing mergers and acquisitions in the media to lead eventually to 90% of the US media to be controlled by six corporations, meaning that most of Americans’ access to information would be controlled by the superrich and narrated by their bourgeois agendas.

By the mid-1990s, the Russians disliked their alcoholic president Yeltsin so much that many tried to vote the Communist Party back into power. But the US, under the Clinton administration, liked their Russian puppet so much that they helped manipulate things during the 1996 Russian election so Yeltsin could be reelected. This interference in that election was openly admitted to at the time…on the cover of Time magazine. The US government likes it when Russia is weak, not when she’s strong, as she would become under Putin–hence his demonization in our media.

The situation has been similar with regard to China, which brought back the market in the mid-1980s under Deng Xiaoping. The Western ruling class was content to have China be their factory, where they could outsource labour and pay for it with much lower wages; but now that China has risen economically and politically enough to challenge the global hegemony of the “rules-based international order,” the Western powers don’t like the country anymore, and in selling them billions of dollars in weapons, the US wants to use Taiwan against mainland China the same way they used Ukraine against Russia, as a stick with which to beat the offending country.

Remember that all the mainstream Western political parties support these aggressive policies, with few exceptions. Once the socialist states had been either dissolved, weakened, or made to revert to the market, the Western imperialists knew they could do anything they wanted to any country, and generally get away with it. This is why these political parties, whether right-wing or “left-wing,” should never be voted for by people who care about the working class and the global poor.

Part of thwarting all those countries that won’t bow to the will of the Western empire is to smear them with propaganda hostile to them. A tried-and-true tactic has been to identify ‘evil, tyrannical dictators,’ and insist on the need to remove them and replace them with ‘democratic’ ones (translation: replace them with leaders willing to cater to imperialist interests).

In recent history, we saw this in the first Iraq War against Saddam. Then it happened in the “humanitarian war” against Slobodan Milosevic in Yugoslavia. Then it happened to Saddam again in the 2000s. Then it happened to Gaddafi, who was, contrary to Western propaganda, actually a benevolent dictator who provided lots of social programs that helped Libyans; the resulting US/French/NATO intervention turned the once-most prosperous nation in Africa into a failed state with an open slave market. Then a protracted “civil war” in Syria destroyed the country and replaced the ‘tyrant’ Bashar al-Assad with an Al Qaeda/ISIS affiliated strongman.

Now, none of this is to say that these scapegoated and toppled heads of state were completely blameless. They don’t have to be, though, for us to be justified in opposing their being overthrown. The point is that it is the citizens of their respective countries who should be allowed to decide for themselves whether or not their leaders should have been removed, and not the empire. Furthermore, whoever is to replace them should be people who represent the genuine interests of the citizens of those countries, not the interests of the empire.

The same judgements apply to Iran, Russia, and China, the current targets of imperial aggression. Again, there are many aspects of the governments of these three countries that I, and many others on the left, find fault with. Such faults, however, do not justify starting wars with them.

A big problem with all the mainstream political parties is that they all, to at least some degree, advocate regime change, or have advocated regime change, in all or almost all of these countries with scapegoated governments. For this reason–as well as the reason I gave at the beginning of this section, that none of these parties do anything substantive about capitalist exploitation of the working class and immiseration of the poor–one should never vote for bourgeois political parties if one wants to see genuine progress for the common people. By now, people should know that capitalism and imperialism are inextricably intertwined.

III: Stop Uncritically Believing the Mainstream Media

I mentioned above how Bill Clinton’s signing of the Telecommunications Act of 1996 into law resulted in mergers and acquisitions in the media that in turn have led to 90% of American media being controlled by six corporations, and that this means that most of Americans’ access to information is being controlled by the wealthy and powerful. This means that the superrich, not representatives of ordinary people, decide what ‘the truth’ is and isn’t for us.

This problem is not limited to American reporting. There is a global network of media sources that reports essentially the same news stores with basically the same–typically pro-US/NATO–slant, just liberal and conservative variations on them, at most (note in this connection that ‘conservative’ and ‘liberal,’ properly understood, are just right-wing infighting). The reason for this bias is that the bourgeoisie all over the world have the same interests, in spite of such things as inter-imperialist conflict: they all want more for themselves and less for everyone else; this is why genuine leftist opinions are marginalized, if they’re even represented at all.

Even more fraudulent is that what is understood to be “left-wing” reporting is actually just liberalism: it caters to the interests of the Democratic Party (AOC, Sanders, Obama, “the Squad,” etc.), the Canadian Liberal Party (Justin Trudeau, as unapologetically avowed a Zionist as Biden is), the British Labour Party (whose Tony Blair, recall, backed George W. Bush in invading Iraq and promoting imperialism and neoliberalism in general), etc. Because of all of this deception, a huge swathe of the Western population doesn’t even know what the left actually represents ideologically. I’ve known people who call themselves “left-wing,” and in the same breath said they were going to vote for Kamala Harris!

The ruling class finds such political ignorance to be extremely useful. Let the masses believe the left is only about identity politics (‘The ascent of Obama and Harris means we have racial equality!…doesn’t it?’), vaguely defined notions of raising taxes (which 1., aren’t generally raised on the rich, and 2., are generally used to fund the military), ‘girlbosses’ (while one ‘girlboss,’ Hillary Clinton and her State Department, helped to oppose a pay raise from going to garment workers in Haiti), and…last, but not least…anti-Trump!

Now, I don’t like Trump any more than the average liberal, but if you’re going to oppose him, do so for the right reasons, not the partisan ones presented by the Democratic Party and the mainstream bourgeois liberal media. There is, of course, an epic catalogue of perfectly legitimate reasons to oppose the Trump agenda, but many of these are ignored by the blue side because, to be blunt, the blue supports them, too (or at least doesn’t have the guts to oppose him on them): the ongoing ethnic cleansing of Palestine, no provision for the poor, banging the war drums against China, etc.

While Trump has obvious fascist tendencies (to put it mildly), his proper place in contemporary politics is as controlled opposition. The American public, and the West in general, are being manipulated by the media into believing that he, the GOP and Musk are the only things wrong with American politics, rather than the entire system as a whole, which I’ve been arguing. The entire system created the conditions that gave rise to Trump, and liberals need to confront this reality.

Though Obama has always been a darling of the media, portrayed as all grace, style, and class, with no scandals, the very object of liberal idolatry, what is given short shrift in the media is how he extended the Patriot Act, bailed out the banks just as Dubya did, enabled mass surveillance of American citizens, drone-bombed many, wrecked Libya (check the links above), enabled the genocide in Yemen, was the Deporter-in-Chief, and had seven countries bombed in 2016.

Conservatives made their own idiotic misrepresentations of Obama in the media, calling him a “socialist” and a “communist,” when in reality he was anything but. Apart from this distortion of the facts about him, it also reinforces the false narrative that the Democrats are “left-wing,” when as I explained above about LBJ, the left-leaning Democrats of the 1960s weren’t even all that left-leaning (which goes double for JFK, during whose administration the failed Bay of Pigs Invasion and Cuban Missile Crisis occurred).

Another thing orchestrated during Obama’s administration was yet another CIA-backed coup d’état in 2014 in Ukraine, which the mainstream bourgeois liberal media has called a ‘spontaneous and peaceful Euromaidan “revolution” by freedom-loving people.’ US neocon fingerprints were all over this catastrophe, the evidence including a recorded phone conversation between Victoria Nuland and US Ambassador to Ukraine, Geoffrey Pyatt, in which they discussed their plans for the future of the country and she infamously said, “Fuck the EU.”

Why did this coup have to happen, for the sake of the neocon imperialist agenda? The democratically-elected Viktor Yanukovych had wanted to make arrangements with Russia to sort out Ukraine’s financial problems without needing to resort to loans from the IMF and thus be saddled with crushing debts and neoliberal policies putting the country in economic chains. Working with Putin’s Russia, of course, is absolutely verboten with the US/NATO empire, so Yanukovych had to go.

And who’s played a huge role in the government replacing that of Yanukovych? Ukrainian neonazi groups, including Svoboda, the Azov Battalion, and other Nazi sympathizers who idolize Stepan Bandera, of whom again the mainstream Western media speaks euphemistically as being mere ‘nationalists.’ Prior to the Russian intervention in Ukraine in late February of 2022, there were liberal media sources that would acknowledge Ukraine’s Nazi problem, though they tried to downplay it as best they could. Since the Russian intervention, though, the Western media has suddenly developed amnesia about the Ukrainian Nazis, and instead engages in denial and dismisses the issue as mere “Russian propaganda.”

Contrary to these denials, though, there has been a consistent strand within a significant minority of the Ukrainian population that has sympathized with fascism, a strand that goes back to around WWII. In the West’s Cold War against communism, the CIA gave aid to anti-Soviet resistance groups in Ukraine, including Bandera’s OUN, as can be seen in Operation Aerodynamic.

To get back to Obama’s sweeping deportations of ‘illegal’ immigrants, a policy continued during the Biden administration, the mainstream media says little of their guilt in the problem, while screaming hysterically when the Trump administrations have been guilty of the evil.

Similarly, when the Biden administration was arming and enabling the Israeli genocide of Gaza, little criticism in the mainstream media was given against the Democrats. When Trump, however, announced that he planned to have the surviving Gazans moved to either Egypt or Jordan so he could transform the devastation of Gaza into a kind of Monaco (also an egregious and outrageous continuation of the ethnic cleansing of the area), only then was the mainstream media in a furor over the plan.

The same can be said of Trump’s repressing of pro-Palestinian protestors: the Biden administration, in various forms, was trying to silence protest of the genocide, too.

The larger hypocrisy surrounding the whole Israel-Palestine problem, however, is in how up in arms the media has been about the Russia-Ukraine War–demonizing Putin for intervening in what, as of 2022, had already been going on for about eight years (more on that later)–while being mostly silent about the war crimes of Netanyahu and the IDF. Recall the warm reception that Netanyahu got in Congress, with only one Democrat, Rashida Tlaib, taking a principled stand against him in the room for the sake of the Palestinians.

What both ‘standing with Ukraine’ and being a Zionist have in common is supporting the interests of the Western empire, whether these supporters are consciously aware of it or not. As a racist, apartheid ethno-state, Israel is a crucial ally to the Western imperialists, as I’ve argued elsewhere, helping them gain a foothold in an area that’s extremely important to them geo-strategically and financially (all that Middle Eastern oil!). Because Israel epitomizes the evil of settler-colonialism (which has already caused devastation to the indigenous peoples of such places as what’s now the US, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand), Israel, to put it bluntly, should not exist. A one-state solution, Palestine–where communities of Jews may live with Muslims and Christians with full equal civil rights–is the only viable one to lead to a lasting peace in the region.

Similarly, a lasting peace in Eastern Europe will come only when the US and NATO stop provoking Russia; one wouldn’t know this, however, from listening to the lies and biased reporting of the Western media on the issue. It’s not the job of the Western media to inform us properly on what’s going on in the world. It’s their job, as mandated by their corporate bosses, in cahoots with the imperialist powers-that-be, to manufacture consent for all these wars, not only to advance the interests of managing the globe-spanning empire, but also to sell weapons so that defence contractors like Boeing, Lockheed-Martin, Raytheon, Northrup Grumman, etc., can keep their profits up. After all, the tendency of the rate of profit to fall necessitates this perpetuating of war for the sake of business.

It’s not that the average American consumer, or any Western consumer, of all this media propaganda is stupid: it’s that the manipulation of emotions has gotten that effective. Media manipulation has reached an amazing level of sophistication. It can toy with the fears, anger, and hopes of ordinary people, often enough reasonably intelligent people, in ways that we should find disturbing. For all of us, intelligent, simple, or everything in between, have emotional weaknesses that the ruling class can exploit with the media they own.

Two of the fundamental psychological defence mechanisms we have that they can take advantage of are projection and splitting. I’ve already mentioned the use of reaction formation to trick us into thinking that our governments’ intention is to spread “freedom and democracy” to countries like the former Soviet ones, Iraq, Libya, Syria, Ukraine, and–in their future schemes–Russia and China. What they’ve actually done is wreck those countries and aggravate the oppression there. By “reaction formation,” recall, I mean the pretense of good intentions to mask evil ones.

Allied with reaction formation is psychological splitting, or black-and-white thinking. The fake good intentions of our ruling classes are the “white,” while the intentions of the governments of the countries targeted by imperialism are the “black.” Note how in this black and white, there is no grey area. Good is essentially all good, and bad is all bad. We’re not given the opportunity to explore moral ambiguity or nuance on either side.

Next, we see where projection comes into the mix. All the “black” of our own Western governments gets projected onto the targeted countries. They’re all the bad guys: we could never possibly be the bad guys. They tyrannize their people, so their governments have to be overthrown. Oh, sure, our governments have their share of problems, but they don’t need to be overthrown–they just need to be ‘reformed.’ It doesn’t even occur to us that the governments of the other countries just need reforms to fix what’s actually wrong with them.

Part of the appeal of splitting and projection of our problems onto those other countries is our own collective narcissism, as well as xenophobia towards all those…strange…countries that we actually just don’t know much about. Part of our susceptibility to splitting and projection is in how these defence mechanisms are among our most primitive and infantile emotions.

Melanie Klein noticed how babies of around four to six months old engage in what she called the paranoid-schizoid position–“paranoid,” because of the persecutory anxiety one feels towards those (the mother who frustrates her baby by not, for example, providing milk or other forms of care when the baby wants it) whom we split off as bad, fearing they’ll retaliate; and “schizoid,” referring to the spitting into absolute good and bad, this latter being projected onto the ‘bad’ one.

The paranoid-schizoid position (PS) doesn’t end in infancy, though: it returns again and again, from time to time, throughout one’s life, as does its opposite, the depressive position (D). As Wilfred Bion would put it in his shorthand, we oscillate between the two positions throughout life like this: PS <–> D.

Now, when we apply Kleinian psychoanalysis to our current political situation, in which what is wrong with our Western governments is split off and projected onto countries like Russia, China, Iran, etc., to realize that there’s a mix of good and bad in both Western and Eastern governments (just as a baby soon realizes that its mother is also a mix of good and bad) is a truly depressive position to take.

The West in modern history has always looked for enemies in other parts of the world to scapegoat and project onto: in the 20th century, the enemy was communism; in the 2000s, it was Islamic terrorism; by the 2010s, leaders like Gaddafi and Assad were fingered, while the propaganda against Putin was building; and now, all eyes are on China. This has all gone on while neoliberal capitalism has been tightening its grip on our necks, enabled by both conservative and liberal political parties in the West. It is depressing to realize how depraved the corruption is in our own countries, and how much we must focus on that, rather than what’s going on elsewhere.

Let’s look at what the Biden administration did, and what liberals consider an ‘acceptable’ alternative to Trump. He did little, if anything, significant in terms of improving the American healthcare system, and this is when the pandemic was killing off so many. Instead of using taxpayer money to help the American poor, billions were pumped into providing weapons to Ukraine to fight an unwinnable war with a country armed to the teeth with thousands of nuclear weapons, risking WWIII. Worst of all, his administration also sent millions of dollars worth of weapons to Israel to aid it in its genocide and ethnic cleansing of Palestinians.

We can’t just blame this on one man’s ineptitude. In his mounting dementia, Biden probably didn’t do much more than just sign the paperwork and approve the decisions that those working with him (Harris, Blinken, etc.) made. How much worse does the Democratic Party have to get (nuclear brinksmanship, genocide, widening the gap between the rich and the poor, etc.) before liberals finally face the truth that they aren’t even a “lesser evil” than Trump? The entire system is the problem.

Now, as far as Putin is concerned, he is far from being my political ideal. He’s a bourgeois reactionary politician with obvious authoritarian tendencies, and I disapprove of his conservative stance on LGBT issues. That said, though, people need to grow up and stop seeing him as some kind of comic book villain. He doesn’t have horns or hooves. The Western media has been saturated with scary images and narratives about how ‘evil’ he is and that he wants to build an empire out of Eastern Europe. There is no proof of such ambitions. The annexation of Crimea was supported in a referendum by the great majority of people living there, ethnic Russians who know better than to live in a country with Russophobic Nazis in its government and military. I don’t care that the Western media dismissed the referendum results as ‘illegitimate.’ I’ll believe the Russians before I believe US/NATO propaganda any day, and here’s why:

IV: The Ukraine Debacle

Recall earlier what I said about projection. It applies perfectly to this situation about Putin’s seeming ambitions over dominating Europe, and the way some people idiotically call him “Putler.” It is the US that has had territorial ambitions over Europe, and NATO is used for this purpose, for NATO is an extension of US imperialism.

NATO was originally formed in 1949 as a reaction to the rise of the Soviet Bloc after the end of WWII. When the USSR and the Soviet Bloc had dissolved by the early 1990s, one would have thought that NATO wouldn’t be needed anymore.

But here we are now, with more NATO than ever.

It must be emphasized that NATO was never a friend to Russia, so expanding the alliance closer and closer to Russia’s borders was not going to go over well, and those pushing for NATO’s enlargement would have known Russia’s objections to it better than anyone…but they still pushed for it, which should tell you something about their real motives.

The US, though not formally called an empire, is the real empire of the world, with hundreds of military bases in countries spanning the globe, including many all over Europe, which were put there at the end of WWII. The Marshall Plan further cemented Europe’s economic dependence on the US, as well as the European capitalists’ fears of Soviet revolutions on the continent.

An example of European subservience to the US can be seen in their timid reaction to the Nordstream pipeline bombing, an act of eco-terrorism that was so obviously the result of scheming in the US government (with help from Norway) that Biden and Nuland practically confessed their guilt. Seymour Hersh did so thorough an investigation of what happened that he detailed exactly how the sabotage was carried out. The motive? to get Germany to stop buying Russian oil and instead buy the more expensive American oil. Barely a peep of complaint against the US was made by those in power in Europe, so in the thrall of US hegemony are they; Hersh’s article, of course, has been dismissed, or at least doubted, by the mainstream media.

But to get back to Russia, NATO, and Ukraine, our story really begins back at the time of the reunification of Germany. Gorbachev was promised by the Americans that the absorption of all of Germany into NATO would result in the Western alliance not moving “one inch” eastward. This wasn’t just a promise that would later be broken. It was an outright lie.

In the late 1990s, that move eastward would begin with the inclusion of the Czech Republic, Poland, and Hungary; Russia was already making their displeasure with this enlargement known. Russia was particularly upset when, in 2004, the three Baltic States–Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania–joined NATO; they were originally part of the Soviet Union, and thus once part of the Warsaw Pact. NATO was creeping closer and closer to Russia’s borders.

Things really came to a head by the late 2000s, when the Bush administration pushed for the inclusion of Ukraine and Georgia in NATO, two countries right on Russia’s border, and thus a red line for Putin.

All of these provocations, combined with the 2014 coup in Ukraine that I discussed above in Part III, give us the needed historical context in which to understand why Russia invaded the country in late February of 2022. The invasion didn’t happen because ‘Putin bad, Putin bad.’ It didn’t happen because Putin has imperialist ambitions to take over Europe. Indeed, though there are some ulterior motives behind the Russian invasion–those of the mundane capitalist sort involving the taking of Ukraine’s natural resources–such an imperialism, if it can even be called that, is minuscule in comparison to that of the US and NATO.

No–the real, essential reason for the Russian intervention is what happened during the years between the 2014 coup and the 2022 intervention. The Nazis, who since the coup became a part of the Ukrainian government and military, hate the ethnic Russians of the eastern Donbass region of Ukraine, and they enacted discriminatory legislation against those Russians, including banning their right to use their language. Naturally, those Russians rebelled against the Nazis’ bigotry, and a civil war began.

The Donbass Russians tried to establish autonomy, similar to the breaking-away of Crimea. The Ukrainian Nazis responded with an eight-year attempt at ethnic cleansing, resulting in turn with the killing of thousands of ethnic Russians in eastern Ukraine. These provocations and atrocities are what distinguish Ukrainian fascism from that of other countries, including even Russia. Was Putin just supposed to sit back and let this killing go on undeterred?

Note that eight years of that civil war went on before he sent his troops in. In the meantime, he acted in good faith with European leaders to work out a peace agreement, the Minsk Accords. During this time, those on the other side of the bargaining table were actually buying time so that a sufficient number of weapons could be sent to Ukraine…including the Javelins that Trump sent!…so the Ukrainians could be ready for war. If it had really been Putin’s intention to invade just for the sake of invading, why wait eight years to do so? Why not go in much sooner, before Ukraine got all the weapons?

It was the US and NATO who wanted this war, not Russia. Because a direct war between Russia and the US/NATO would have meant WWIII and possible nuclear annihilation, even the psychopaths leading the Western governments didn’t want that, so they opted for a proxy war instead, getting the Ukrainians to do their dirty work for them…just as they’d used the mujahideen to bleed the Soviet Union dry in the 1980s, and for the exact same reason.

To understand what’s really going on in the world, one must see it from a global perspective, not just from that of our local area. It is a reality we learn from history that all empires rise and fall: Persia, Ancient Greece, Rome, the Ottoman Empire, Britain, and now, the American empire. The US has been losing a number of wars over the past several decades, two of the prominent ones being Vietnam and, recently, Afghanistan. De-dollarization has played a role, too.

As the US empire is falling, new powers are rising, including Russia and China. The psychopathic leaders of the Western governments will never accept this supplanting of their global hegemony (such a refusal to accept it is implied in the existence of PNAC). This changing global reality, the emergence of BRICS to create a new, multipolar world order, is the real reason for all of this hostility in the media against Russia and China.

Hence, the caricaturing of Putin and Xi Jinping as evil schemers bent on world domination–a projection of that same lust for power that our own Western heads of state have. It’s painful to face the fact that it’s our own leaders in the West who are the bad guys, but it’s a fact that we must face.

A number of Western political pundits have been warning for years that a provocation of war between Russia and Ukraine would not end well. These pundits include John Mearsheimer and Jeffrey Sachs: these two men are Americans, and their opposition to the US/NATO agenda, blaming it for having caused the war, is not “Russian propaganda.” It’s basic common sense. We have seen in recent months (as of this article’s publication) how Mearsheimer’s prediction that Ukraine would “get wrecked” has come all too true.

Now, agreeing with Trump that an end to this war should be sought is not the same as viewing him as a ‘good guy.’ Ending this war is a no-brainer: even an asshole like Trump can see that. Him wanting peace, in and of itself, is a case of broken clocks being right twice a day. To use another clarifying metaphor, Trump’s wish to end the Russia/Ukraine war is a small island of good in an ocean of all the evil things his administration is doing. I assume you already know what many, if not most, of what those evil things are, Dear Reader, so I won’t enumerate them here.

As for Trump’s agenda on Ukraine, though, I feel I should point out a number of the bad things here. His removal of military aid to the country to end the war is not, of course, out of compassion for the suffering Ukrainians; he’s being tight with money, just as he is with making the other NATO members pay ‘their share’ into NATO, or with allowing Musk to cut funding to many American government programs. It’s all part of the whole neoliberal culture of cutting spending, regardless of whether people need that spending or not, that has been plaguing the US and the rest of the world since the Reagan and Thatcher years.

Added to this problem is the fact that Trump wants Ukraine to give the US its rare earth minerals as ‘compensation’ for all the military aid the Biden administration gave to the war-torn country. This is tantamount to a colonizing of Ukraine, imperialistically stealing its natural resources for the profit of the US. The US covets these resources so they can be used for producing electronics, including smartphones, batteries, and electric cars; it also covets them because China has so many of its own rare earth minerals.

So what we see here is yet another example of the American empire in its toxic relationship of ‘idealize, devalue, discard’ in its attitude towards other countries. Ukraine was useful to the US for a time, hence the idolizing of Zelenskyy as a ‘hero’–indeed, provoking Russia with this war has meant that Russia was too busy to continue helping Syria, and now that Assad has been overthrown, replaced with Jolani and his band of murderers killing such groups as Alawites in a new genocide, and Israel is free to capture a big chunk of Syrian land–but now that Ukraine is no longer useful to imperialist interests, the US no longer feels a need to “stand with Ukraine,” and we’ve seen how Zelenskyy has been tossed aside.

So with Ukraine now abandoned, as have so many other puppet states, reminding us of Kissinger’s words about the lethality of friendship with the US, the GOP under Trump can focus on the war that they feel is the urgent one: the coming war on China. As I said above, the US/NATO empire cannot bear to let any other country rise above it, and China’s miraculous rise from the once ‘sick man of Asia’ to an economy to rival that of the US simply cannot be tolerated, hence the Western media’s demonizing of Xi Jinping no less than Putin.

Now, part of Trump’s plan has been to make a deal with Russia so it will team up with the US against China. This is idiotic wishful thinking on Trump’s part. Say what you like against Putin–he isn’t a stupid man, though. After the US has fucked over Russia so many times over the decades, why would Putin trust Russia’s sworn enemy? Speaking of enemies, though…

V: China is Not the West’s Enemy

To be frank, I find a lot to criticize about ‘socialism with Chinese characteristics.’ While I can understand China’s need to bring back the market in order to build up the country’s productive forces, the country’s economic rise has demonstrated that it is ready now to return, in some sense, at least, to its MLM roots. Though the lifting of millions of Chinese out of extreme poverty is both commendable and impressive, and the punishing of Chinese billionaires by the government for fraudulent actions and corruption is a sign that the will of the people is being acknowledged, the very continuing existence of billionaires in the country, a socialist state, with extreme wealth inequality, still sticks in my gut.

That all said, though, the last thing we need is for China to be yet another target for regime change, especially by the American empire. The CPC being the CPC (as opposed to the GOP or the DNC), can be reformed to make the changes I wish to see in the country; its government doesn’t need to be overthrown, as do those of…certain other countries. As with Russia, any changes to be made in the political system of China are to be decided by the locals themselves, not by Western imperialists.

Now that the American empire is turning its gaze away from Russia and Ukraine (having wrecked the latter), it is now aiming its predatory instincts on China. The propaganda machine is going to say that China means to invade Taiwan, so the West must intervene to save the island I live on. Bullshit.

As I said above, the real issue that the US imperialists are worried about is the rise of China as a new global power. Such a rise will compromise American hegemony and preeminence, and the US ruling class cannot tolerate such a sharing of prestige.

Of course, there is the idea that the US and China could simply learn how to cooperate and make business deals that would be mutually beneficial for everyone; but there’s always this mentality that the American political right has to be better than everyone else, they have to compete instead of cooperate, and so a partnership with China is out of the question. Hence, Trump’s tariffs and trade wars, and all the needless destructiveness, price rises, and other problems these will cause.

One thing that particularly upsets the American ruling class is the possibility that China will take control of, and capitalize on, TSMC in Taiwan. This is why a new TSMC foundry is being built in Arizona. It will take a very long time before this new American branch can be brought up to speed so it can be on a level comparable to the Taiwanese foundry, so they can’t outright replace the original any time soon.

Still, there has been contemplation, if a war between China and the US over Taiwan breaks out, of the idea of the US destroying the Taiwanese TSMC so that China can’t take advantage of it at the expense of the US. Such a move on the part of the US would be foolish in the extreme, given how important the Taiwanese foundry is to the world economy and the making of so much of our tech; but the psychopaths in the Western governments are just that desperate to thwart China’s rise.

Regardless of whether or not the US is planning to destroy the Taiwanese TSMC, still, a war with China would still be an utterly insane thing to do. Not only would it be needless–contrary to all the propaganda, China has no desire to invade Taiwan; they want a peaceful reunification with the island, which most countries worldwide have acknowledged as already being a province of China, and they have been amazingly patient about waiting for this reunification, meaning to use military force only as a last resort–it would also be terribly destructive to the world economy, and with China’s hundreds of nuclear weapons, there’s once again the risk of nuclear war, just as there is with hostility to Russia.

As a resident of Taiwan, I naturally want to prevent my home from turning into a war zone. It’s so easy for Westerners to sit at their computers and phones in the safety of their homes there, putting up Ukrainian, or, in this case, Taiwanese flags on their online profile pages, saying “I stand with (either place),” yet they won’t be in the places where the fighting and bombing is going on. I, on the other hand, will be in one of those places.

The fear that foreign forces, be they communists, Islamic terrorists, Russians, Chinese, etc., are trying to come in and destroy the US is not only a right-wing idea, but it’s also another example of projection. As I’ve tried to demonstrate with my many, but far from complete, examples is that it’s the US imperialists and their NATO lackeys who have been going into other countries, interfering with their political processes either through manipulating the vote (Russia, 1996–showing the hypocrisy of the thoroughly debunked ‘Russiagate’ conspiracy theory) or through coups d’état, and bombing and destabilizing them. American conservatives and liberals have to start recognizing their hypocrisy when they imagine others trying to destroy them, while turning the other way when their own leaders destroy other lands, like Syria, Gaza, Libya, Yemen, etc.

And while I have no love for Trump whatsoever, I can also see the idea of him being pals with Putin as yet another wish to project American-born evil out of the US and put it in Russia. Trump’s bigotry and insensitivity to the needs of marginalized people and to those of the Earth are clearly a result of his having been raised in, and receiving the enculturation of, American capitalism. Putin didn’t need to teach Trump any new vices. Trump is no aberration in a country founded on black slavery and the genocide of the Native Americans. He personifies the culmination of centuries of these vices. Trump is the naked empire, as opposed to the clothed Democrats–smooth, glib talkers like Obama. Trump isn’t the entire problem or even the bulk of the problem–the system as a whole is.

VI: Conclusion–What is to be Done?

When we begin to understand that the problem is not this personality vs that one (e.g., Trump vs Biden, or Trump vs Sanders), nor is it this political party vs that one (GOP vs DNC, Tory vs Labour, Conservatives, Liberals, or NDP, etc.), and we realize instead that it’s the entire capitalist/imperialist system that is the problem, then we can orient our thinking towards a real, meaningful solution. Part of that orientation is understanding that voting doesn’t work.

To paraphrase what George Carlin once said, the politicians aren’t worth thinking about because the only reason they’re there is to create the illusion that voters actually have a choice in the direction their government is going…they don’t. They have owners–the capitalist class, who own the politicians, the media (conservative and liberal), the police, the banks, etc.

Multinational investment companies, or “shadow banks,” like BlackRock, Vanguard, State Street, etc., own trillions of dollars each and invest in everything from weapons-making companies to the media to pharmaceuticals to our food. They control just about everything. Do you really think they’re going to allow you to vote in someone who will tax them out of their wealth?

And these considerations bring me to my next point, which I’m sure will be a sensitive one as far as the liberal supporters of Bernie Sanders are concerned. We all know how passionate he is in his denunciations of Trump, Musk, and the rest of the American oligarchy. He has done some good in galvanizing the masses, so I’ll give credit where credit is due.

Still, where Sanders could be a start for many of the left-leaning liberal persuasion, he cannot be the end. He is weak on US foreign policy, he supports Zionism, and he backs a number of, if not most or all of, the establishment policies I critiqued above. To make real, substantive changes in American domestic and foreign policy, and to take down the oligarchs in a way that all his fiery rhetoric against them cannot even come close to doing, liberals must go beyond Bernie Sanders: this article explains why in minute detail, far beyond the scope of my blog post.

What is needed is not another fiery speaker who just denounces Trump, Musk, and the GOP in general, then leads the masses by the nose and at the last minute drops out of the race and tells his followers to go behind the next Democratic corporate whore. Sanders has done this twice already, as I mentioned above, with the awful Hillary Clinton, then with Biden, the worst president the US has had so far (though, to be fair, in Trump’s first few weeks, he has already worked hard to out-worse Biden’s worst, but still…). Sanders is the sheepdog of the US left, and liberals need to face this fact if change is really what they want. He’s betrayed us before; he’ll do it again.

Even if…par miracle!…Sanders, AOC, Jill Stein, or anyone like that got voted in, someone like that in the US, or their equivalents in any of the other countries of the Anglo/American/Western world, there is simply no way that the oligarchs would allow them to legislate them out of their wealth. Nobody knows this reality better than the left-leaning politicians themselves, who are so enmeshed in the corruption of the system. The rhetoric of someone like Sanders is there to raise people’s hope, then in the end, to let us all down.

What the people need to do instead is to start a grassroots political movement, one outside of the corrupt establishment completely. First, we educate, agitate, and organize. Build up the unions. Do a few general strikes. The ultimate goal, however, is not to have a political party to vote for, since as I said above, voting won’t stop the oligarchs by even the weight of an atom.

The political party must prepare for revolution.

Revolution is not voting. It’s not “working within the system.” It isn’t “reforming” the system. It isn’t a dinner party. Revolution is doing something I don’t dare say on FB for fear of enduring the annoyance of FB jail.

Revolution means overthrowing our governments.

I’ve never once said that this would be easy. With militarized police and AI-enhanced surveillance, accomplishing such a feat will be desperately hard.

But there is no other way.

In my heart, I don’t like violence any more than the next person; but it isn’t a matter of liking violence–it’s simply the only way to end our oppression. If we try to keep alive the fruitless hope of voting for the liberal parties again and foolishly thinking we can nudge them to the left by even a millimetre, we’ll only be enabling them, conservative or liberal, to move even further in the direction of fascism.

Young, able-bodied people are going to have to fight this fight. As for people like me, in our mid-50s, we’ll have to pull a Ben Kenobi here: “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.” The young must go to the gym–work out, lift weights–and get training in the use of weapons and guerrilla tactics. I wish it hadn’t come to this, but it has. They must do this because the right-wing, fascist sympathizers have already been doing this for years, and our side must be ready for them.

Whatever we do, we can no longer afford to fool ourselves with thinking that only the conservatives are the problem (e.g., replace Trump and Musk with another Democrat, and we’ll build from there). The system is the problem. If we want our world to avoid ecological and societal collapse, and avoid nuclear war, the entire global system must be overthrown as soon as possible.

This isn’t about dreaming of a lofty, impossible-to-attain utopia. It’s about our basic survival. Either the system dies, or we die.

Analysis of ‘Life of Pi’

I: Introduction

Life of Pi is a 2001 philosophical novel written by Yann Martel. Issues of spirituality and metaphysics are explored from an early age by the titular character and protagonist, Piscine Molitor “Pi” Patel, an Indian boy from Pondicherry who recognizes divine truth in all religions, focusing particularly on his Hindu faith, Christianity, and Islam.

The novel has sold more than ten million copies worldwide, after having been rejected by at least five London publishing houses, then accepted by Knopf Canada. Martel won the Man Booker Prize in 2002, among other literature awards. Ang Lee made a movie adaptation in 2012, with Suraj Sharma as Pi when a teen.

Here is a link to quotes from the book.

The story is understood to be one that will make the reader “believe in God,” as a local Indian told Martel at the Indian Coffee House on Nehru Street in Pondicherry, a small territory south of Madras on the coast of Tamil Nadu (pages xii-xiii). By the time I finished reading the novel, though, I found myself with even less reason to believe in God than when I’d started. In any case, Martel found Pi, the man who would tell him this story, back in Canada, in Toronto (page xv).

This opening information is found in the “Author’s Note,” which ends with Martel making a plea to support our artists, without whom we’ll lose imagination in favour of “crude reality,” we’ll believe in nothing, and we’ll have “worthless dreams.” This idea ties in with the notion of belief in God as preferable to atheism. Artists make things up, including mythical tales (see my Tanah chapters for examples), for these come from our imagination.

I’m convinced that Pi has made up the whole story of surviving on a lifeboat with animals, as preferred to the crude reality of being on the boat with his mother, the cook, and the Taiwanese sailor. Imagination and religious belief are our escapes from the horrors of reality, which make us believe in nothing and give us worthless dreams.

This preference of theism over atheism is linked to the philosophy of absurdism, in which we insist on giving life an artificial meaning in spite of life’s obvious, ongoing lack of it. I explored this idea in The Old Man and the Sea. In my analysis of Hemingway‘s novella, I read Santiago’s ultimately failed attempt at bringing a huge marlin ashore as an allegory of man’s ever-failing attempt to bring meaning to life. The opium of religion attempts the same thing for us. We must imagine Sisyphus happy, but how can he be?

Bear in mind, Dear Reader, that I am no better when it comes to maintaining such illusions. I plead guilty as charged when it comes to constructing comforting illusions in my posts on The Three Unities, Beyond the Pairs of Opposites, The Unity of Space, Synchronicity and September 11th, etc. I, too, have tried to make meaning in a meaningless universe, for such is the absurdity of the human condition.

II: Part One–Toronto and Pondicherry

Now begins the narrative from Pi’s own perspective. A key thing to understand about first-person narrators is that they generally tend to be unreliable. Someone who claims to have survived on a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger for months in the middle of the Pacific Ocean? We may like the story of the animals on the lifeboat better than that of him with the cook, Pi’s mother, and the Taiwanese sailor…but that doesn’t make the former story true.

Pi begins by saying that his suffering left him “sad and gloomy,” and a combination of his studies and religion “slowly brought [him] back to life” (page 3). The trauma he experienced on the lifeboat–the cook’s amputation of the leg of the injured sailor, who dies soon after and whose body is sliced into pieces for fish bait, then some pieces eaten by the cook, who later kill’s Pi’s mother before the boy’s eyes, then Pi avenges her by killing the cook and eating his body–is unbearable. This is why religion is so important to Pi. He’s begging God for forgiveness…in all religious traditions, just to be sure. As a murderer and a cannibal, he needs redemption, salvation.

How much he was interested in religion as a child we cannot know for sure, since so much of his narration is coloured with the emotional effect of the ordeal he suffered on the lifeboat. We must keep this reality in mind as we go through his narrative, for properly understood, his autobiography is presented as a myth, which in turn is a fanciful distortion of actual events. The “life of Pi” may be an entertaining story, but it is by no means reliable.

He says that “death sticks so closely to life” because of envy, jealousy, and that death is in love with life (pages 6 and 7). I’m reminded of Blake‘s line, “Eternity is in love with the productions of time.” I suspect that Pi, in his university studies, has learned the Blake quote; he’s replaced “the productions of time” with life, and “Eternity” (i.e., God) with death, which I read as a Freudian slip, revealing his true, unconscious feelings about the nature of the divine.

He was named after a swimming pool–Piscine Molitor (page 9), because Mamaji–a good friend of Pi’s family, and whom he saw as an uncle–was a champion competitive swimmer who found the Piscine Molitor to be the most glorious of all swimming pools (page 14).

The learning and practice of swimming, “doing a stroke with increasing ease and speed, over and over,” leads to a state of hypnosis, with the water coning to a state of “liquid light.” (page 12). The association here of swimming with hypnosis, a meditative state of trance, suggests the association of water with the divine, the infinite ocean of Brahman.

Such associations lead to an important point about what the protagonist’s name means symbolically. He’s been named after a swimming pool, a small enclosure of water; he’ll later be surrounded in the water of the Pacific Ocean, in the Mariana Trench, a seemingly infinite vastness of water. The swimming pool in the ocean is like Atman at one with Brahman; Piscine in the Pacific. He won’t experience nirvana there, though.

The trauma he experiences there is so overwhelming that he, as I explained above, uses religion to help him restore a sense of mental stability. And as I’ve argued in a number of other posts, the mystical experience is not one of sentimentality, all sunshine and rainbows: heaven and hell, nirvana and samsara, sin and sainthood, are in dialectical proximity, where the head of the ouroboros (heaven) bites its tail (hell). Such an extremity is what Pi experiences out there in his lifeboat with the tiger.

Since Pi grew up in a family with a father who owned a zoo in Pondicherry, he has a perspective on animals in captivity that differs from many of us who deplore the sight of caged animals. He sees zoo animals as much happier than those out in the wild (pages 20-25), and he gives a persuasive argument for this position. Animals in the wild, to him, are like the homeless. Zoos guarantee animals food, and give them security, safety, and a sense of routine and structure.

All I know is what I once saw in a zoo not too far a drive from my city of residence in East Asia back in 1996: a huge gorilla in a cage in which it barely had room to roam around. All one had to do was look at its face to see how terribly unhappy it was. Its whole life was sitting there, being stared at by people. That it would come around regularly and bang on the bars was a clear sign that it wanted out. I’m not saying all, or even most, zoos are this insensitive to animals’ emotional needs (I hope not!), but clearly some have been this way, and that’s already too many.

In any case, for Pi, zoos provide the same service for animals that religions provide for man: in their limiting of freedom, they provide structure and safety (or so religions promise, at least). For many of us, though, that limiting of freedom, as for that gorilla I saw in that cage, is a problem in itself not to be trivialized. Pi’s preference of structure and security over the unpredictable wildness of freedom is the kind of thing Erich Fromm wrote about in Escape from Freedom: individual freedom can cause fear, anxiety, and alienation, whereas relinquishing freedom and embracing authoritarianism in such forms as religion can provide feelings of security.

After experiencing the tohu-wa-bohu, if you will, of months on the Pacific Ocean, Pi is starving not just for food, but for structure. The formless void that the ocean represents is, psychologically speaking, Lacan‘s notion of The Real, a state of affairs that cannot be verbalized or symbolized, because its content cannot be differentiated–hence its traumatic quality.

Religion is what has restored a sense of structure to Pi’s life, thus delivering him from psychological fragmentation and a psychotic break from reality. The God delusion has saved him from just plain delusion.

There’s an element of narcissism in the pious, despite their professed humility. In being members of ‘the one, true faith,’ of the elect, they imagine themselves to be part of an elite, morally superior group of people, regardless of how their grace may be from faith and not from good works, or if they see themselves as just submitting to God’s will. For Pi, this pious narcissism is just his defence against fragmentation.

His religious narcissism expresses itself in his identifying of himself with the divine. I’ve already mentioned how, as “Piscine,” the human swimming pool floating in an ocean of Brahman, he as Atman is united with the pantheistic Ultimate Reality. In Chapter 5, he discusses various annoyances he’s had with his name; on one occasion during his university days, he’d rather not tell the pizza delivery people his name on the phone, so instead he refers to himself as, “I am who I am.” (page 26)

In discussing changes made to his name, Pi compares his situation with characters in the New Testament: Simon to Peter, Saul to Paul, etc. This is again Pi’s narcissism in comparing himself to the great religious men of history.

Now, narcissism doesn’t come without narcissistic injury. As a child, Pi had to endure endless taunts about his name from his classmates, mispronouncing his name on purpose as “Pissing Patel!” (page 26) He compares this experience of schoolyard bullying with Christ’s Passion: one of his tormentors is a “Roman soldier,” and he goes into class “wearing [his] crown of thorns.” (page 27)

When it comes to this bullying over his name, Pi doesn’t limit the comparisons of religious persecution to Christian ones. He also speaks of “feeling like the persecuted prophet Muhammad in Medina, peace be upon him.” (page 28)

As a solution to this problem with his name, Piscine presents an abbreviation of his name to his class on the first day of the new school year; to add to the distraction away from “Pissing,” he discusses some basic geometry–3.14, which is known as both a transcendental number and an irrational one.

So his name, as representative of Atman, has gone through the Hegelian dialectic: pristine Piscine, the water of a beautiful, spotless swimming pool (thesis); Pissing, a filthy liquid (antithesis); and Pi, a transcendental/irrational number (synthesis). We’re not concerned here with the strictly mathematical denotations of “transcendental” and “irrational” numbers, but rather with the connotations of these two words and how they relate to the symbolism and philosophy behind the novel.

The decimal representation of π never ends, giving it the association of infinity that ties in with the divine connotations of Pi’s name, as does, of course, the connotations of “transcendental.” As a number that cannot be expressed exactly in normal, verbal communication, π is associated in the novel with the notion of the ineffability of the divine. Small wonder Piscine prefers this short form of his name.

“Irrational,” of course, also implies the absurdity of Pi’s attempts to attribute divinity to himself, and to attribute meaning to the chaos of his life.

At one point in his youth, Pi had a biology teacher named Mr. Satish Kumar, an active communist and avowed atheist (page 33). Young Pi is shocked to hear Kumar say, “Religion is darkness.” In Pi’s opinion, “Religion is light.” (page 35)

When Kumar was Pi’s age, he was “racked with polio.” He wondered, Where is God? In the end, it was medicine that saved him, not God (page 36). In Kumar’s opinion, justice and peace will come to the Earth when the workers “take hold of the means of production“, not when God intervenes in human affairs (page 37).

Though he sharply disagrees with Kumar, Pi respects him. Pi thinks well of both theists and atheists, but as far as agnostics are concerned, doubt should be entertained only temporarily. One should ultimately commit oneself to belief either in God or in no God (page 37).

How does one resolve this contradiction between Pi’s accepting of both belief and unbelief? Imagine how Pi must have felt on that lifeboat, hungry for months, having seen his mother murdered before his very eyes, then killing her murderer and having to resort to cannibalism to relieve his hunger. He had to have been asking himself, Where is God? He can empathize with the feelings of this atheist…though I believe the real reconciliation is deep in Pi’s unconscious.

As Pi goes on telling his story to Martel, “At times he gets agitated.” (page 56) It seems as though he’ll want to stop talking about his life, though he still does want to tell his story. I believe his conflict stems from the same place as his contradictory feelings about God, which I’ll get into later.

Pi speaks about his first religion, which of course is the Hindu faith of his upbringing. It’s an early “exaltation, no bigger than a mustard seed” (page 63)–in Pi’s mind, there’s a fusion of Hinduism and Christianity. To him, the relation between Brahman and Atman is like that of the three persons of the Trinity–a mysterious one (page 65).

Later, Pi picks up on Catholicism (Chapter 17), then Islam (Chapter 18). After this, he meets a Muslim named, of all names, Satish Kumar (page 82), the exact same name as the communist atheist. I suspect this is an example of Pi being an unreliable narrator, fabricating two people of the exact same name, but of opposing views on religion, as a personification of his own inner, unconscious conflicts about his own spirituality.

Pi loves both Kumars, as opposing as their beliefs are. He refers to them as if they’re indistinguishable from each other (pages 111-112). As for agnostics, though, Pi says they are “beholden to dry, yeastiness factuality.” (page 85) In his opinion, agnostics “lack imagination and miss the better story.” Consider, in this connection, the hell of doubt Pi went through on that lifeboat over that period of months; it was much longer than temporary doubt.

Recall that in Life of Pi, “the better story” is the one with the animals on the lifeboat, the mythical account suggestive of the existence of divinity, which, in spite of how fanciful it may be, is better than believing the horrible story about his mother, the cook, and the sailor. To be “the reincarnation of Sri Ramakrishna” (i.e., embracing not just Hindu traditions, but also Christianity and Islam), or being an atheist, is better than being an agnostic, forever in doubt.

Pi can hardly remember what his mother looked like (pages 116-117)–his repressed memory of her lessens the pain of having watched her murdered. Here lies the real reconciliation of his acceptance of firm belief vs firm unbelief: his insistence on believing in and loving God is really a reaction formation against his unconscious hatred of a God that abandoned him and his mother in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, where we must go now.

Memory is an ocean and [Pi] bobs on its surface.” (page 56)

III: Part Two–The Pacific Ocean

The Noah’s ark symbolism of the part of this novel dealing with a ship at sea with animals in it is so obvious that one shouldn’t need to mention it. There are, however, crucial differences between the Biblical narrative and the Life of Pi account that ought to be mentioned.

God preserves Noah’s family and all of the animals in the ark throughout the rainy days and nights of the Great Flood. Everyone and every animal aboard the sinking Tsimtsum dies (to our knowledge, at least),…and only Pi is escaped alone to tell thee. The ark rests on the mountains of Ararat; the Tsimtsum sits at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, in the Mariana Trench. In this latter catastrophe, one must ask: Where is God?

Remember that according to the original story, the lifeboat animals are Pi’s mother (Orange Juice, the orangutan), the cook (the hyena), the Taiwanese sailor with the broken leg (the similarly injured zebra), and Pi himself (Richard Parker, the tiger). So Pi is really the only living thing that survived.

When we say that the tiger represents Pi, we actually mean the animal represents what Jung would have called the Shadow, that part of one’s personality that one rejects and wishes didn’t exist, so it is repressed and split off. This splitting-off is seen in how Pi isn’t replaced with a tiger: he’s still in the mythical narrative, unlike his mother, the cook and the sailor. The tiger’s human name is understood to be the result of a clerical error (Chapter 48)–his capturer’s name was switched with his actual name, “Thirsty”–but giving him this odd name reinforces the idea that the tiger actually represents a human being…Pi. Pi, in a lifeboat surrounded by undrinkable salt water, is the truly thirsty one, and not just for water…for salvation.

The repression of Pi’s Shadow is represented in part by the tiger’s being kept under the boat’s tarpaulin, but repression, properly understood, isn’t about pushing unacceptable, anxiety-causing feelings down into some kind of dark, mental dungeon where they hide and are unseen. The repressed returns to consciousness, but in a new, unrecognizable form–it hides in plain sight. For this reason, psychoanalysts use the term unconscious, and not the pop psychology term, ‘subconscious.’ The repressed isn’t beneath consciousness; it’s unknown, without consciousness.

By a clever mental trick, Pi has made himself forget that his mother, the cook, and the sailor were on the lifeboat with him…and he forgets his latent murderous, cannibalistic impulses. To use Lacanian language, Pi has practiced a repression of a configuration of signifiers, replacing them with signifiers of animals. As we can observe, the objects of his repression are right there in the lifeboat with him, hiding in plain sight.

He describes “Orange Juice,” the orangutan mother of two males, as arriving to the lifeboat “floating on an island of bananas…as lovely as the Virgin Mary” (pages 146-147). He calls her “Oh blessed Great Mother, Pondicherry fertility goddess…” etc. Why, naturally he will speak of her that way. This is his actual mother, of two males…himself and his brother, Ravi.

Speaking of Ravi, later on, Pi imagines his brother teasing him about filling his lifeboat with animals and wondering if Pi thinks he’s Noah (page 158). Indeed, these imagined taunts of Ravi’s are really a projection of the fact that, deep down, Pi knows he’s deluding himself.

A similar projection happens when Pi sees the orangutan looking out on the water, searching for her two young ones and grieving over their loss. Pi notes that she has been “unintentionally mimicking what [he] had been doing [those] past thirty-six hours.” (page 165). Pi really imagines his own mother, now dead and her soul in heaven, grieving not only over Ravi having perished on the Tsimtsum, but also Pi suffering on that lifeboat all alone. It’s really he who is grieving over her, his dad, and Ravi. What’s worse, the orangutan is showing no feelings at all for him, when she is representing his mother; this hurts even more.

When the hyena has killed the zebra and the orangutan, this latter dead animal is described as not only “beheaded,” but also lying with her arms “spread wide open and her short legs…folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross.” (pages 174-175) The horrors of the cook killing the sailor and Pi’s mother (who is also beheaded) must be mitigated not only with the replacement of animal signifiers, but also with the solace of religious iconography.

The greatest terror of all for Pi, though, is the sudden emergence of Richard Parker from his hitherto hiding place, under the tarpaulin. Pi describes the tiger’s head as “gigantic…the size of the planet Jupiter to [Pi’s] dazed senses. His paws were like volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica.” (page 175) This is when the tiger comes out and kills the hyena.

Since, as I said above, the tiger represents all that Pi abhors in himself–his potential to do evil–we can understand the real reason he’s so terrified of Richard Parker. The vastness of the tiger’s head and the violence those claws are capable of are signifiers his unconscious is using to hide the violence inside himself. He doesn’t really fear a tiger on that lifeboat: he fears the viciousness he’s capable of when put in a desperate situation.

The tiger coming out and killing the hyena is when, actually, Pi avenges his mother’s murder and engages in cannibalism. This is the real horror that has caused him to spend “the night in a state of delirium.” He imagines he’s dreamt of a tiger; this could very well be, since the tiger is from his unconscious (under the tarpaulin), a signifier to replace his actual murderous, cannibalistic impulses (page 175).

The cannibalism, of course, is a reflection of his extreme, desperate hunger, something plaguing the vegetarian with guilt and shame, for his starving isn’t enough for his superego and its lofty moral demands to excuse him from resorting to such a shocking diet. Paralleling this hunger is his extreme thirst, like the thirst of Richard Parker “Thirsty,” Pi’s Shadow. Accordingly, he compares his extreme thirst to that of crucified Christ. His identification with his thirsty Saviour once again helps to mitigate his guilt (page 179).

Pi talks about how only fear can defeat life (page 214). This fear “is difficult to put into words.” (page 216) He speaks of this fear “nestl[ing] in your memory like gangrene: it seeks to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it.” One should remember this “gangrene” in connection with the infection in the broken leg of the Taiwanese sailor, which was the cook’s justification for amputating it (page 408). Signifiers are being shuffled in Pi’s mind once again.

This fear that rots words away is the trauma of Lacan’s inexpressible Real, that realm of human experience without differentiating signifiers, like an ineffable, formless ocean of Brahman. To prevent this kind of fear from taking you over and consuming you, “You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don’t, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness…you open yourself to further attacks of fear.” (page 216) The fear spreads through you, like an infection, gangrene. This is why Pi needs the zoo animal signifiers–to keep the fear at bay.

The divine is not a God of sentimentality, one that will take away all your pain in one fell swoop. It’s often terrifying. I reflected on this reality in my analysis of Moby-Dick. In Chapter 35, “The Mast-Head,” Melville warns the pantheists who are “lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant unconscious reverie” and who lose their identity. If they aren’t careful while in this sleep, their feet may slip, and they may fall into that sea of Brahman, “no more to rise for ever.” (Melville, pages 162-163) As I’ve argued elsewhere, heaven and hell, or nirvana and samsara, are dialectically close to each other. Pi’s experience of God is terrifying, not edifying.

This is why “It was Richard Parker who calmed [Pi] down.” (Martel, page 216) The tiger was at first Pi’s repressed Shadow, having come out of his unconscious to kill the cook and avenge his mother, then to eat the cook’s flesh. After that, Pi’s Shadow was split off and projected from him as a hallucinated tiger, to become the replacement signifier of Pi the murderous, cannibalistic savage. This replacement signifier, Richard Parker, thus saved Pi from himself.

Pi’s fear of the tiger jumping on him and eating him is really his fear of integrating and becoming one with his Shadow. This union would force Pi to confront his unbearable guilt, and in his despair, he’d have to kill himself on that lifeboat. Hence, Pi “had to tame him” (page 218), that is, to come to terms with the Shadow that the tiger represents and calm him while keeping him separate–split off and projected from Pi.

Richard Parker couldn’t die, though, for if he did, Pi “would be left alone with despair.” (page 219) Without his projection of his murderous and cannibalistic impulses onto a hallucinated tiger, Pi would have succumbed to shame, self-hate, and suicidal despair. He went from being terrified of the tiger to needing it to survive.

A point should be made about the Tsimtsum. The Japanese ship is named after a Kabbalistic concept referring to God ‘contracting’ Himself into a vacuum during the Creation. The implication is that, on that sinking ship, God wasn’t there. It’s unlikely that teenage Pi would have heard of such an obscure word; he must have learned it during his university studies, and then fictitiously applied it to the Japanese ship. It’s further proof of how unreliable he is as a narrator. It’s also an example of his use of replacement signifiers to help him repress his trauma and unconscious hatred of God.

Recall what I said above that all Pi’s talk about loving God is really a reaction formation against his unconscious anger at God for not being there when he and his mother most desperately needed Him. “Tsimtsum,” which doesn’t even sound like typical Japanese, let alone is appropriate for the name of a Japanese ship, refers to the paradoxical absence and presence of God during the Creation. He’s there, yet He isn’t there, right when Pi’s family needs Him. He just let this failed Noah’s ark sink.

As I argued in Part IX of my analysis of the primeval history in Genesis, the Great Flood was a return to the pre-Creation state of the world, with water everywhere and no separation of opposing elements (light/darkness, water above or below, sea/land, etc.). In Tsimtsum, the paradoxically simultaneous presence and absence of God (via the vacant space) happens during Creation like the Flood as ‘second Creation’ (which is dialectically at one with God’s destruction of the world). Thus there is no separation between God vs no-God, or between creation vs destruction. This is the undifferentiated, traumatic world of Lacan’s Real.

Tsimtsum’s non-differentiation between the presence and absence of God leads us to a non-differentiation between theism and atheism: agnosticism. Recall that Pi can respect atheists, but not agnostics. Here we can see why: it’s the agony of doubt that torments Pi so much. If there’s no God, oh well: Pi’s ordeal happened because…well…shit happens. But if…if there is a God, why didn’t He help Pi?

Doubt, for Pi, is a terrifying state of limbo, trapped in between God and no-God…Tsimtsum, the sinking ship. Thus, Pi’s retroactive naming of the Japanese ship with the Kabbalistic concept is yet another replacement signifier to help him repress his agonizing doubt, something that can only be temporarily tolerated, but which if entertained long enough, might lead to Pi’s realization that he, unconsciously and perhaps only in part, hates God.

He’s far too attached to a belief in the divine to reject it, so he must not only believe in, but also love, God. Doing so requires a reaction formation of affirming religious ideas from traditions from all over the world, an intense love of God to annihilate even the suspicion of hating Him.

In Chapter 58, he gets the lifeboat survival manual and peruses it (pages 221-223). This book is like his Bible, Koran, or Vedic scriptures.

At one point, he looks down at the water and sees all the swimming fish, so many of them racing around that he contemplates how the sea is like a big, busy, bustling city (pages 234-235). The fish seem like cars, buses, and trucks. “The predominant colour was green.” This comparison of the ocean to a city, with lots of green, seems like wish-fulfillment to him. Pi is aching to set foot on land again.

In Chapter 60, Pi wakes up in the middle of the night and, awed by the brightly shining stars, contemplates his tiny place in the infinity of space above and the ocean below. He feels like the Hindu sage Markandeya, who also had a vision of the universe and everything (pages 236-237), and who also saw a deluge that killed all living things. As always, Pi is using religion and myth to give his suffering meaning and structure.

Some time after, he tells of the first time he’s killed a flying fish (page 245). He claims, “It was the first sentient being I had ever killed.” Oh, really, Pi? Are you sure there wasn’t any sentient being before this fish that you killed out of desperation for food? Abel killed sheep for sacrifices before his brother murdered him; with your killing of a fish, shouldn’t you feel as guilty as Abel, rather than as Cain? Or is there the memory of a human killing that you’ve repressed and replaced with this flying fish signifier, causing you to equate yourself with the older brother, rather than the younger one?

Indeed, Pi survives 227 days, with a daily routine that includes prayer five times a day (pages 254-256), and he “survived because [he] made a point of forgetting.” (page 257) He’s used religiosity and repressed memory, blotting out his traumas and replacing human signifiers with animal ones in his unconscious, to help him go on living.

He speaks of his clothes having disintegrated from the sun and the salt (page 257). “For months [he] lived stark naked,” as sky-clad as a Jain. He lost everything, just like possessionless Hamlet when he returned to Denmark after being on a ship to England with Rosencrantz and Guildensternnaked (i.e., without possessions–Act IV, Scene vii, lines 49-58) and betrayed.

Pi speaks of having “looked at a number of beautiful starry nights,” and of gaining spiritual guidance from the stars (i.e., the stars as symbols of heavenly gods). They have never given him geographical direction, though, as he so desperately needs now, on the lifeboat in the watery middle of nowhere (page 259). Once again, he speaks of religion as a great guide, when his Heavenly Father isn’t helping this lost soul at all.

He thinks of himself as “a strict vegetarian” (page 264), and perhaps that aspect of his autobiography is reliable; but in resorting to the killing of animals for food, such as sea turtles, he claims to having “descended to a level of savagery [he] never imagined possible.” One can understand the moral argument of vegetarians, but I think it’s the eating of the cook’s flesh that he truly finds an unimaginable savagery. Replacing the signifier of human flesh with that of animal flesh, as distasteful as that may be to him, is nonetheless bearable.

Recall how I described the lifeboat survival manual as his holy scripture. I say that because of what Pi says at the beginning of Chapter 73: other than salvation, he wishes he had a book. He has “no scripture in the lifeboat,” hence he has to make do with the survival manual, which is essentially what scripture is meant for, anyway–the salvation and survival of the soul. He lacks Krishna‘s words (page 279). A Bhagavad Gita would have been handy.

In Chapter 74, he speaks of doing “religious rituals” in an attempt to lift his spirits. He wants to love God, but it is “so hard to love.” He’s afraid his heart will “sink to the very bottom of the Pacific”…just like the Tsimtsum, symbol of the present/absent God that sank, Noah’s failed ark (page 280).

He speaks of what’s left of his clothes as “GOD’S HAT!” and “GOD’S ATTIRE!” He calls Richard Parker “GOD’S CAT!” and his lifeboat “GOD’S ARK!”, etc. (page 281) Since these things are all Pi’s possessions, we can see that he’s once again narcissistically identifying himself with God, or using narcissism as a defence against fragmentation, as I described above.

Soon after, though, he realizes he’s been fooling himself. God’s hat is unravelling. His pants are falling apart, His cat is a danger to him, and His ark is a jail. All of Pi’s attempts to exalt God, and himself in his narcissistic association with Him, are failing because they’re all just a reaction formation against his unconscious anger at a God that has failed him.

“God’s ark [is] a jail” because the Tsimtsum was also a jail of an ark.

Pi goes on and on about his battles with hunger, and how they are driving him mad. He can feel remotely good only with a full belly; he needs turtle meat just to smile. At one point, he even tries to eat the tiger’s shit, his hunger is so desperate. Such an excess should be seen as yet another unconscious replacement for his eating of the cook’s flesh (pages 286-287).

In Chapter 83, Pi describes a sea storm (page 303). His choice of words to depict the scene is fascinating: “landscape,” “hillocks of water,” “mountains,” and “valleys” of ocean waves. He’s demonstrating wish-fulfillment again, as with the ‘city-sea’ and the ‘cars,’ ‘trucks,’ and ‘buses’ of busy, swimming fish in a water ‘predominantly green.’ He wishes, quite urgently now, of course, that he were on land.

He says, “the boat clung to the sea anchors like a mountain climber to a rope.” The huge crest was like a “mountain [that] would shift, and the ground beneath [Pi and Richard Parker] would start sinking in a most stomach-sickening way.” (pages 303-304)

In the storm scene in the film, Pi at first tries to show reverence to God while he’s pelted with rain and tossed about by the pitiless storm. He calls out, “Praise be to God! Lord of all worlds! The compassionate, the merciful!” (surah 1:2-3) He tells Richard Parker to come out from the tarpaulin and see God’s lightning flashing in the sky–“It’s beautiful!” This is the desperate madness of someone trying to reconcile himself to a world that is utterly indifferent as to whether he and the tiger live or die. Pi appears to be suffering from some kind of Stockholm Syndrome, as far as ‘God’ is concerned.

Only later, as the storm continues on in its ruthless battery of the lifeboat, does Pi finally express his frustration, saying he’s lost his family, he’s lost everything, and what more could God possibly want of him? Yet in his anger, he still mustn’t risk blasphemy, so he includes in his rant, “I surrender!” like a good Muslim.

Symbolically, this storm represents the traumatizing, inexpressible, undifferentiated world of the Real. The danger to him and the tiger represents the threat of psychological fragmentation, and so Pi’s stubborn faith in God is his way of retaining his sanity.

Having a sound sense of psychological structure, as Heinz Kohut understood it, is through maintaining what he called the bipolar self. One pole is of the grandiose self, that of mirroring and ambitions, one’s narcissistic aggrandizement of oneself; and the other pole is of the idealized parental imago, of idealizing another, an authority figure (Mother or Father, essentially) as an affirming, validating mirror of oneself. For Pi, the grandiose self is Atman; his idealized parental imago is Brahman, or his Heavenly Father. The loss of his parents has necessitated their replacement with God, a father figure.

He’s seen his mother murdered before his eyes; with his father already gone, she was all that was left of his idealized parental imago. This trauma has already weakened his bipolar self to the point of a dangerously brittle fragility. His killing and eating of the cook, something he couldn’t help doing, is still a heinous sin whose narcissistic injury would have shattered his grandiose self, the only remaining pole of his bipolar self, causing him to be at the very brink of fragmentation, a psychotic break from reality.

He can restore his sanity only by replacing his parents with a new idealized parental imago: God the Father. Repudiating his Heavenly Father would be, in Lacanian terms, foreclosure, a dismissing of the Name of the Father and the Symbolic Order of language, culture, society, and customs, treating them as if they’d never existed; this would lead to psychosis. Hence, Pi must believe in God to stay sane.

In Chapter 84, Pi sees a number of whales further off in the water, and they seem to him to be “a short-lived archipelago of volcanic islands.” Again, it’s the wish-fulfillment of seeing supposed land (page 309). Then, he sees six birds, imagining “each one to be an angel, announcing nearby land.” (page 310) More wish-fulfillment.

In Chapter 86, Pi spots a ship, and he tries to draw the crew’s attention to him by shouting and firing off a rocket flare, but all to no avail: “it was salvation barely missed.” (page 317) The ship sails away.

In Chapter 88, “One day, [they] came upon trash.” Among the foul-smelling things of this island of rubbish is a refrigerator; he opens it, letting out a “pungent and disgusting” smell (page 391). His hunger is further frustrated with all the rotten remains of food inside: “dark juices, a quantity of completely rotten vegetables, milk so curdled and infected it was a greenish jelly,” and a dead animal.

By Chapter 90, he starts to go blind. He feels near death, and it’s like a harrowing of hell for him (pages 324-325). The tiger is dying, too–naturally: Richard Parker is Pi, his Shadow.

He’s also concluded that he’s gone mad, and in his madness, blindness, and weakening to the point of near death, he hears a voice, and there begins a conversation (pages 326-327). Remember Pi’s extreme hunger as the context for all of this. He speaks, to the voice, of “someone else” as a “figment of your fancy” (page 326). Then he notes the word fig as the first syllable of figment (i.e., as in ‘figment of one’s imagination,’ or “fancy”). Pi is “dreaming of figs,” and the voice speaks of wanting a piece, for the owner of the voice, like Pi, is starving (page 327).

If Pi can hallucinate about animals on his lifeboat, as signifiers in his unconscious to replace those of his mother, the cook, and the sailor, then he can certainly, in his madness and blindness, have auditory hallucinations about another starving man on a neighbouring boat.

Later on, when the voice rejects the offer of a carrot, Pi concludes that it’s been Richard Parker who has been speaking with him, the “carnivorous rascal.” (page 330) As insane as this sounds, on the surface, to be hearing the voice of a talking tiger, when one considers the root cause of Pi’s madness, such foolish reasoning begins to make a kind of weird sense. Both the tiger and the other man, this double of Pi’s, his “brother,” who as it turns out is also blind (page 336), are projections of himself. In his madness, Pi is fusing both projections, the tiger and his “brother,” into one entity, if temporarily.

Later, his “brother” asks for cigarettes, whose nicotine is an appetite suppressant, something a starving man may crave for relief of his hunger (page 337). As it turns out, Pi has eaten his supply of cigarettes, but left the filters. Well, Pi doesn’t smoke (page 338).

By the end of Chapter 90, Richard Parker has attacked and killed Pi’s “brother” (page 342). Since both are figments of Pi’s imagination, his Shadow and a double of himself, then this killing is really a wish-fulfillment. Pi wishes he could end his suffering by dying…to sleep, no more…a consummation devoutly to be wished. And to die violently, as he imagines the tiger killed the hyena, but it was really he who killed the cook, is really just him mentally atoning for his bloody revenge on the killer of his mother.

His use of his ‘brother’s’ arm as bait is, of course, another example of replacing the signifier of the cook using the sailor’s leg for bait (page 343). And that Pi “ate some of his flesh” is the closest he can come to confronting his actual eating of the cook’s flesh.

In the very long Chapter 92, Pi has reached the island of algae (page 343). He knows many will not believe this part of his story. Of course not. It’s utter mythological nonsense, to take it literally.

‘”Look for green,” said the survival manual.’ (page 345) Just as with the ‘predominantly green’ city of fish swimming under the lifeboat, this hallucination of Pi’s is just more wish-fulfillment for him, his craving to find land. As a vegetarian, he also craves green to eat.

Naturally, he “babble[s] incoherent thanks to God” (page 346), comes onto the island, and bites into the green, “tubular seaweed” (page 347). The inner tube is “bitterly salty–but the outer…[is] delicious.” (page 348) What’s more, the taste is sweet, sugary. The algae’s sweetness is a pleasure and a delight one wouldn’t normally associate with such a food, and this sweetness ties in with everything else about this island: it’s a fake paradise.

This island is like Spenser‘s Bower of Bliss (from The Faerie Queene), a place of superficial, sensual pleasures one would indulge in to excess, yet it’s a trap. It lulls one into a state of idleness and torpor, distracting one from one’s quest or purpose; it would change a man into an animal.

Another apt literary comparison is Calypso‘s island, Ogygia, from Book V of The Odyssey, where Odysseus is kept to be the nymph’s eternal husband, with promises for him of eternal life and physical pleasures. Still, he knows he must return to Ithaca and to his wife, Penelope, and so after seven yers as Calypso’s reluctant lover, he is finally set free with the gods’ help. Pi, too, must leave his algae island.

Pi’s discovery of “hundreds of thousands of meerkats” on the island of algae is particularly interesting (page 356). This mongoose species is native to Southern Africa, so their presence on this Pacific island is most curious, and it only reinforces how mythical and improbable this place’s existence is, outside of Pi’s imagination.

He sees the meerkats all ‘turning to [him] and standing at attention, as if saying “Yes, sir?”‘ (page 357) Then they lose interest in him and all bend down at the same time, to nibble at the algae or stare into the ponds (evenly scattered and identically sized). All bent down thus, they remind him of prayer time in a mosque. They’re gentle, docile, and submissive.

Indeed, in meerkat, we can discover such puns as meek, mere, and cat. Though the animal is a kind of mongoose, we can play around with these four words for psychological purposes. Since this whole place and all of the animals here, including Richard Parker, are figments of Pi’s imagination, we can understand the meerkats to be ‘mere cats,’ or ‘meek cats,’ if you will.

In his mind, these animals have become a replacement signifier for the tiger, which recall is Pi’s Shadow, the dark, dangerous part of his personality that he has split off and projected from himself because he can’t accept it. The emergence of meerkats allows him to replace Richard Parker as a more acceptable signifier in his unconscious for his Shadow.

Instead of a ravenous tiger in his unconscious, he has ‘mere cats’ there…’meek cats’ that shall inherit the Earth. Richard Parker can kill and gobble up as many of them as he likes, and because they’ve lived on this island without predators for so many generations, they’ve no longer had any need of fear. They’re unruffled as the tiger kills them (page 361).

Since the tiger represents a rejected part of Pi’s mind, and the meerkats signify a more acceptable version of the tiger, then its killing and eating of them represents Pi’s integrating of his Shadow, and it’s also a kind of autocannibalism, which leads to another point.

I’ve discussed many times in other posts how I use the ouroboros as a symbol for the dialectical relationship between opposites: how the serpent’s biting head represents one extreme, the bitten tail is the opposite extreme, how at the point of biting, the one extreme phases dialectically into its opposite, and every intermediate point between the opposites corresponds with every place on the serpent’s coiled body, which is a circular continuum. One thing I’ve never discussed until now, however, is how the ouroboros engages in autocannibalism, or what the implications of this autocannibalism are.

The extreme of Pi’s ordeal (bitten tail)–his extreme starvation, blindness, and madness, causing him to project not only his Shadow onto Richard Parker, but also his very identity onto his similarly starving “brother,” then imagining the tiger killing and eating much of his “brother,” then Pi himself eating some of his ‘brother’s’ flesh–is a hell immediately preceding his discovery of the algae island paradise, the heavenly opposite extreme (biting head).

The tiger and his “brother” are projections of Pi himself, as I’ve described above, so the eating of his “brother” is symbolic autocannibalism. The tiger’s eating of the meerkats, also a projection of Pi (a meerkat and thus a more acceptable version of Richard Parker), is thus also symbolically Pi’s autocannibalism. We later learn that the island is carnivorous (page 378) once Pi has found teeth in the centres of the plants he’s peeled (page 377).

Pi has eaten algae from the island, Richard Parker has eaten many meerkats, and Pi has learned that if he and the tiger stay too long on the island, it will eat them. Since the island is obviously a figment of his delirious imagination, a wish-fulfillment of green land, full of vegetarian food for him and meek meerkats that the tiger can ingest, integrate into himself, and thus calm his wildness, then his and the tiger’s relationship with the island is also an autocannibalistic one.

In terms of my ouroboros symbolism, the island is at the exact point where the serpent’s teeth are biting into its tail, the very point of autocannibalism. Extreme heaven is meeting extreme hell. Biting the tail can symbolize self-mastery–heaven, nirvana–yet being eaten by oneself is also self-destruction–hell, samsara. This is the bizarre, paradoxical world that Pi has found himself delivered to, yet also trapped in.

After spending so many days eating and drinking, Pi has found himself returning to life (page 362). If a storm approaches the island, Pi has no fear of it “preparing to ride up the ridge and unleash bedlam and chaos” (page 363). The hell of a sea storm would stop at the green shore of Pi’s heavenly island. And just as Pi returns to life, so does Richard Parker. Naturally: the boy and the tiger are one and the same being. Richard Parker’s eating of meerkats has brought his weight up, it’s made his fur glisten again, and he’s looking healthy (page 365). Such is the effect of taming and nourishing the Shadow. Yet just as the two are reviving, they’re also in danger of dying again, so they must leave.

When Pi finds a tree that seems to have fruit (page 374), and these ‘fruits’ are what hold teeth in their centres, we find yet another literary and mythological allusion in this algae island. The tree isn’t in the centre of the forest, nor is there anything particularly remarkable about it, but in the centre of the tree’s ‘fruits’ is a knowledge of something that will force Pi to leave his island paradise. This is a Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil on his deceptively Edenic island. For Pi, the place will be a paradise lost.

His peeling off of the leaves of the plant balls he believes to be fruit is a disrobing of the teeth inside, making them naked, as Adam and Eve discovered themselves to be upon eating the forbidden fruit. And just as their discovery caused them to be expelled from their paradise and to enter the painful world, so has Pi’s discovery caused him to expel himself from his paradise and to return to the painful world.

He imagines the teeth were from some “poor lost soul” who got to the island before him (page 379), and that after weeks or months or years of loneliness and hopelessness, he or she died there. After all that, Pi imagines “the tree must have slowly wrapped itself around the body and digested it” (pages 379-380). Only the teeth have remained for Pi to find them, but they will eventually disappear, too. Since the island is a figment of Pi’s imagination, though, this imagined person is yet another projection of himself, just like his “brother” who was eaten by Richard Parker and Pi, yet another dream of autocannibalism, an unconscious wish-fulfillment that Pi would be ‘justly punished’ for his own sin of cannibalism of the cook.

Finally, he and the tiger leave the island, and after some time on the Pacific Ocean, they reach the shores of Mexico (Chapter 94, page 381). Richard Parker wanders off and leaves him “so unceremoniously,” without even a look of goodbye in the tiger’s eyes. Since Richard Parker represents Pi’s Shadow, and the tiger has eaten his fill of meerkats (those meek, mere cats, if you will, that in being ingested have tamed the Shadow’s wildness and ferocity), then Pi’s Shadow has returned to his unconscious, it’s lost in the darkness there, and the boy’s sadness stems from no longer having an animal to split off and project what he doesn’t like about himself.

IV: Part Three–Benito Juárez Infirmary, Tomatlán, Mexico

The two Japanese men who question Pi in the Mexican infirmary about why the Tsimtsum sank in the storm–Tomohiro Okamoto of the Maritime Department in the Japanese Ministry of Transport, and his assistant, Atsuro Chiba–are in the role of psychoanalysts, as I see it, being in an attitude of skepticism toward what they hear from their ‘analysand,’ if you will, Pi (pages 391-393).

Mr. Okamoto tells Pi, in all bluntness, that neither he nor Chiba believes Pi’s bizarre story (page 393). Pi’s stubborn insistence that everything he’s told them is true, including the floating bananas, is like the resistance an analysand puts up before his doubting analyst.

Still, Pi’s Japanese investigators are even more stubborn in their insistence on an alternative story, a believable one, one that won’t make the two look like fools when they present it to the Maritime Department. This forces Pi to tell them the truth.

There is a long silence, then Pi tells “another story” (page 406). Pi has to present the truth as a mere ‘other story’ so that at least in his mind, he can pretend that it isn’t the truth. Such an attitude is the only way he can bear it.

As they have been discussing the two stories, Pi in his eternal hunger has been asking the two men to give him their cookies. The Japanese men, in having traveled nonstop to this infirmary, are rather hungry, too. Hunger, of course, is a constant theme in this novel. Pi would have us believe that he’s among the blessed, who hunger and thirst after righteousness (Matthew 5:6); actually, he’s just hungry.

His mother brought some bananas to the lifeboat (page 407), rather than floating on them as an orangutan. The cook “was a brute. He dominated [Pi and his mother].” (page 408) Pi acknowledges, however, that the cook was ” a practical brute. He was good with his hands and he knew the sea. He was full of good ideas.” (page 414) Pi acknowledges that it was thanks to the cook’s resourcefulness that they were able to survive thus far. In other words, the cook’s dominance and helpfulness are comparable to those of God [!].

His point of comparison reinforces what I said earlier: all of Pi’s talk about wanting to love God is really a reaction formation (the professing of the diametrically–emphatically–opposite attitude of that which truly exists in one’s unconscious) against his repressed hatred of God. Part of Pi’s hatred of the “brute” cook is a displacement of this hatred of God that he’ll never admit to.

The cook, a provider of the one thing needful–food–was crucial to the survival of Pi and his mother, as God is supposed to be for all of us. Yet the cook amputated the sailor’s leg, allowed him to die, cut his body up into pieces, ate some of the flesh, hit Pi for failing to catch a turtle, then killed Pi’s mother for hitting him, in turn for having hit her son. He hacked off her head and threw it at him. The head and the body were thrown overboard, food for the sharks.

And ‘God’ allowed the whole thing to happen.

Whenever good things happen, theists will praise and thank God for the good luck; but when bad things happen, they don’t blame God for either causing or allowing the bad luck. The fear of committing blasphemy makes cowards and hypocrites of theists like Pi.

It is the very horrors of modern history, such as the tens of millions whom ‘God’ allowed to die in WWII, including the victims of the Holocaust, six million Jews and millions of non-Jewish victims, that are among the reasons so many people have stopped believing in God. Yet Pi still insists on believing.

If the cook is comparable to God, then Pi’s killing of the cook is comparable to deicide, and his eating of the cook’s flesh is like taking Communion. The cook’s allowing of Pi to kill him–knowing that in having killed Pi’s mother, he went too far in his brutishness–is like Jesus having allowed Himself to be crucified in spite of His divine omnipotence. Pi imagines himself, as Mel Gibson did in personally hammering a nail into Christ’s hand in his film, The Passion of the Christ, as confessing his sin in committing his ‘deicide’ on the passive, willing cook, and in so doing, he hopes that he has successfully atoned for his sin.

If eating the ‘god’ cook’s flesh is like partaking in the Eucharist, then in unconsciously associating the cook with God as Christ, Pi is hoping he isn’t eating that flesh unworthily (1 Corinthians 11:27), as mere cannibalism. So in associating, however unconsciously, the cook with God, Pi is once again using religion to mitigate his guilt.

Though the cook, in knowing he’d gone too far, allowed Pi to kill him, he never said sorry. Pi wonders, “Why do we cling to our evil ways?” (page 416) In focusing on the cook’s evil ways, which were every bit as motivated by desperation and hunger as Pi’s were, Pi is trying to deflect his own guilt onto the cook.

Finally, Pi asks the two Japanese investigators which story they prefer, which is the ‘better’ story, when neither story can be proven true or untrue (in the film, he asks Martel this question). The two men prefer the one with the animals (page 424), as does Martel (played by Rafe Spall) in the film. Indeed, in their report, the Japanese men say that Pi amazingly “survived so long at sea…in the company of an adult Bengal tiger.” (page 428) Pi thanks them for validating his…let’s face it…delusional version of what happened, saying “And so it goes with God.”

V: Conclusion

The story is meant to make us believe in God. In my case, at least, it failed to do so. If this story is to make us believe in God, we must prefer the version with the animals…the fanciful, mythological one.

That Pi could survive alone on the lifeboat for so long is certainly amazing, but it isn’t impossible. To survive with a tiger is a kind of amazing that swings the pendulum towards the impossible, almost surely necessitating a belief in God and His miraculous works.

To be sure, we like the story with the animals better, for its mythological charm and for not including the horrors of the story with the cook, Pi’s mother, and the injured Taiwanese sailor. But it isn’t a matter of which story is more likable; it’s a matter of which story, as ugly as it may be, is more plausible.

And this is the thing about whether or not to believe in God, Brahman, the Tao, or whatever: shall we go for the more pleasant, but less rational, belief, or shall we go for the more rational one, but the one that makes us feel lonely and helpless under the uncaring stars? Here is where philosophical absurdism comes in. In a meaningless universe, we nonetheless cannot help but impose meaning on it–not out of logic, but for our comfort in a painful world.

Yann Martel, Life of Pi, Edinburgh, Canongate Books, 2001

Analysis of ‘Shadow of a Doubt’

Shadow of a Doubt is a 1943 film directed by Alfred Hitchcock, his favourite of all of his films, and the one he enjoyed making the most. Written by Thornton Wilder, Sally Benson, and Alma Reville, Shadow of a Doubt was based on a story treatment by Gordon McDonell called “Uncle Charlie,” which in turn was based on the true crime story of Earle Nelson, a serial killer, rapist, and necrophile from the late 1920s known as “The Gorilla Man.”

Most of Nelson’s victims were middle-aged landladies, killed by strangulation, and many were raped after death. The writers of Hitchcock’s film changed the victims into wealthy, elderly widows, and Nelson’s charm–as a mild-mannered Christian drifter–was retained in Uncle Charlie. I find the connection between landladies and wealthy widows as victims to be interesting, as I’ll get into later.

The film stars Joseph Cotten (as Uncle Charlie) and Teresa Wright, with Macdonald Carey, Patricia Collinge, Henry Travers, Wallace Ford, and Hume Cronyn. McDonell was nominated for an Oscar for Best Story. The film received universally positive reviews upon release, and in 1991, it was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress, being deemed “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant.”

Here are some quotes from Shadow of a Doubt.

A crucial theme in this film is the sharp contrast between a man’s charming outer persona and his dark, evil inside. Note what Hitchcock himself once said as an overarching theme: “Love and good order is no defense against evil.” Uncle Charlie has such a good reputation among his own family, the Newtons, whom he’ll visit in Santa Rosa, California (in McDonell’s treatment, the small town the villain will visit is Hanford in the San Joaquin Valley), that the last thing they’d ever suspect is that he’s a serial killer.

Uncle Charlie’s sister, Emma Newton (Collinge), and her husband, Joseph (Travers), named their eldest daughter, Charlotte “Charlie” Newton (Wright) after him because he’s idealized so much, an idealization that spreads out to the entire city of Santa Rosa, a location chosen for the film as a paragon of a peaceful, small, pre-WWII American city. Such a nice place for Uncle Charlie to hide out in reinforces this idea of a good, wholesome exterior hiding a shady secret.

On top of all of this is Young Charlie, a sweet, pretty young woman sharing the name of the villain. On two occasions in the film when she and her uncle chat, they speak of themselves as being twins, rather than uncle and niece.

Her wish to have him come over to Santa Rosa, to relieve the boredom and meaninglessness of their lives, coincides with him sending a telegram to her family, saying he wishes to pay them a visit. She imagines that her wish has been mental telepathy, sent to him to make him send the telegram; a Jungian would say this meaningful coincidence, a linking of her inner mental state with the outside world, is a case of synchronicity. In any case, this coincidence is yet another linking of the two Charlies, with her nice-girl Persona and his serial-killer Shadow.

Her adoration of her handsome, charming uncle borders on incestuous desire, a kind of transference of her Electra complex from her father to her uncle. Indeed, she beams at her Uncle Charlie, with a grin from ear to ear, thinking he’s “wonderful.”

So she’s transferring her idealization from the parental imago to her uncle. The idealized parental imago is one of two poles of the self, as Heinz Kohut conceived it, a self rooted in narcissism. Since the Oedipus complex is a narcissistic trauma, and she’s transferring hers to her uncle, then her love of him is really a narcissistic projection from herself to him. When she realizes his murderous nature, her heart is broken, and now she must split off and project what’s really her Shadow self onto him, hence, “Shadow of a doubt.”

So, on a symbolic level, both Charlies can be seen as two halves of one person, the good and bad sides of Two-Face‘s coin, if you will. Uncle Charlie’s being pursued by the two detectives at the beginning of the film causes us to sympathize with him for the moment, since we don’t yet know of his crimes, and so we believe, as his niece does, in how “wonderful” he is, until that shadow of a doubt comes with her growing suspicions of him.

A paralleling of the good outer Persona vs the dark, inner Shadow can also be seen in her father, Joseph, having ongoing discussions with a neighbour, Herbie Hawkins (Cronyn), of how one might commit the perfect murder. This little bit of black comedy between them is a light subplot for the dark main one, yet it also reminds us of how the dark sides in us, however seemingly slight, are on a continuum with those who commit actual crimes. The real difference is in how the hell of the real world has a way of pushing people over the edge to commit criminal acts…an issue I’ll deal with in more detail later.

Young Charlie’s suspicions of her uncle begin upon having received the gift of a valuable emerald ring from him…one that has the initials of another owner on it. He also gets upset to find a newspaper article about the pursuit of him as a suspect in the murder of the wealthy widows, and even Young Charlie’s naming of Lehár‘s Merry Widow Waltz must be interrupted by him at dinner. Indeed, the theme of this waltz is given numerous, often dark and eerie, variations by the composer of the film-score, Dimitri Tiomkin.

I’ll now give a political interpretation of the film as an allegory, one that some readers will no doubt find controversial, but please, hear me out. While Hitchcock was no friend to fascism, as can be seen in films like The Lady Vanishes and Notorious, and while he promoted progressive ideas in a subtle fashion in his stretching of the limits of movie censorship over the years, as well as in the gay subtext in Rope, he was also a reactionary in other ways, as I’ll go into soon in Shadow of a Doubt.

Indeed, Hitchcock can in some ways be compared to George Orwell, who on the one hand, as he said in Homage to Catalonia, went to Spain in the mid-1930s to fight fascism and was impressed with the revolutionary achievements, however short-lived, of the anarchists there, yet on the other hand, he was so bitterly opposed to the ‘totalitarian’ communists (whom he caricatured in his two famous fictional allegories) that he had a snitch list of ‘crypto-communists’ that he used to thwart the careers of those on the list. Hitchcock, as a bourgeois who was making quite a name for himself (and a lot of money, no doubt) in Hollywood as of the early-1940s, when this film was made, would have had his own class interests to protect.

At the beginning of 1943, when the film was released, the Tehran Conference–with the origins of the Cold War associated with it–was far away from happening, as was the Second Red Scare of 1947. The tide turning against the Nazis in the Battle of Stalingrad was still a month away from happening, too. There seems to have been little fear of communist revolution in January 1943.

The hardships that the working class had suffered during the Great Depression, however, caused them to rise up in an unprecedented way, forcing FDR’s hand in the legislation of the National Labor Relations Act and the New Deal. Many on the political right see little if any difference between the moderate and hard left, and between propagandistic nonsense, like the ‘Holodomor,’ and the truth of the killing of the Tsar’s family, there would already have been much bourgeois fear of leftists idealizing communism.

To get back to the film, and to tie all of these historical digressions to it, there is a crucial scene in which Uncle Charlie discusses what is actually his motive for strangling the rich widows. He refers, with a scowl, to how their husbands worked hard to make all that wealth and then died, leaving all their money to their “silly wives…these useless women”, whom he doubts are even human. In a later discussion with Young Charlie, her uncle describes the world as “a hell.” Given the neoliberal reality we’ve been in for the past forty years, I’d say it’s even more of a hell now.

In these hard-working husbands, I see an allegory of the working class; in their wives, I see the ruling class who take the fruits of their workers’ labour and live in luxury after the men have died from overwork and hazardous accidents. Killing the widows, therefore, allegorizes socialist revolution, but an allegory from the point of view of the frightened bourgeoisie, who want to propagandize against such revolution and call it cruel and violent, hence the representation of the capitalist class as vulnerable, helpless women, to inspire the audience’s sympathy for them.

Young Charlie, too, is concerned–towards the beginning of the film–with the struggles of her family (there is a similar sense of her family’s struggles in McDonell’s treatment), including how her mother works like a dog. Life seems meaningless to her, just a lot of going along with everything, eating and sleeping and nothing else. There’s talking, but little real communication. She seems to sense modern-day alienation. These grey days immediately turn sunny on the arrival of her uncle (who in my allegory represents communist ideals), but she, being liberal-minded like Hitchcock, would never espouse the violent overthrow of capitalism that her uncle’s murders represent.

If my anti-capitalist interpretation seems far-fetched to you, Dear Reader, consider how odd Uncle Charlie’s motive for killing the widows sounds, taken at face value. Misogyny, directed at women merely for being rich and not working, building in a flame of hate strong enough to want to strangle several of them and risk being charged with murder? The world is a hell just because of the widows’ indulgence? Earle Nelson, on whom Uncle Charlie was based, recall, was a sex offender, with a motive straightforward enough to see, but one that for obvious reasons couldn’t be presented on the screen at the time.

That the screenwriters changed the murder victims from being, of all people, landladies to wealthy widows adds to my argument. Landlords, male or female, are capitalists, owning private property–the apartments they make money off of renting them to tenants. The screenwriters changed the victims from one kind of capitalist to another, one whose wealth, unmistakably associated with the exploitation of the poor, is all the more obvious.

A few other things about Uncle Charlie can be associated with communism. He’s come out west from the east. Now, by the east in the film, it’s meant to be the east coast of the US, of course–New Jersey, to be exact. But one can associate “the east” with Russia. There was a growing fear of communist ideas coming to the west–to Western Europe and North America, allegorically represented in the film as California.

One reason I find it useful to link Uncle Charlie’s murders with anti-capitalism, even though he is no communist, is how his story can be paralleled with that of Luigi Mangione, the man accused of shooting and killing Brian Thompson, the CEO of UnitedHealthcare. Mangione has right-leaning political sympathies, but they weren’t enough to stop his rage against an American health insurance system that gets rich off of denying coverage for people who desperately need it, and often die without it. Mangione is regarded as a kind of working-class hero (despite him being from a well-off family), and Thompson’s murder is dismissed by the masses as a case of someone who got what was coming to him.

As for Shadow of a Doubt, though, the bourgeois moviemakers would have us booing at anyone who dares to kill the wealthy. Uncle Charlie’s charm and good looks are meant to be seen as superficial and nothing more.

When Uncle Charlie gives gifts to all the family members, including Young Charlie’s emerald ring, we could see such largesse as representative of a socialist redistribution of wealth. Since this film is actually an anti-communist allegory (as I see it), though, we are reminded, through such things as the initials of the previous owner on the ring, that this redistribution is actually to be understood as a theft from the rightful owners, the capitalist class.

When Uncle Charlie cuts out of Joseph’s newspaper an article about the widow murders, and later gets mad at Young Charlie for inquiring too much about the missing article, we can see in this a representation of an anti-communist accusation of Soviet media censorship. Now, such censorship surely did happen, as with Orwell’s two polemical tales being banned in the USSR, but right-wing, anti-Soviet propaganda (such as I suspect this film to be, allegorically) was a real danger: the “Holodomor” myth, as mentioned above, was originally Nazi propaganda that has persisted to this day, and all such propaganda has led to the counterrevolution that Stalin not only warned against, but also correctly predicted the outcome of, the turning-back of social progress.

Another change from McDonell’s story treatment to the screenplay that I find interesting is that of Young Charlie’s love interest. McDonell had him as a “ne’er-do-well” that she is engaged to, someone who is assumed by all in her town to be guilty of any crime committed there, including a hold-up.

In the film, this love interest becomes one of the two detectives pursuing Uncle Charlie. He is Detective Jack Graham (Carey). Just as with the switch from landladies to wealthy widows as Uncle Charlie’s victims, the switch from a criminal ne’er-do-well to a cop as Uncle Charlie’s rival seems to confirm my anti-communist allegory. Let me explain.

Fascists are fanatical anti-communists known for using violence to achieve their ends. Now, neither Detective Graham nor his colleague, Detective Fred Saunders (Ford) show any violence in the film, but other detectives out east, when pursuing another suspect in the widow stranglings, cause the suspect, whom we’ll know to be innocent, to run into and be sliced to pieces by the propellor of an airplane. Fascists have also demonstrated a peculiar charm to inspire the sympathies of the masses, as Hitler did with his speeches about ‘saving Germany’ from the Jews and communists.

Detective Graham, smitten with Young Charlie as soon as he and Saunders arrive at her house to pretend to survey a typical American family (actually to get photos of her Uncle Charlie as a suspect in the stranglings), puts on the charm to win her heart. His actions to this end allegorically represent fascism trying to charm liberals (whom she represents) into joining the far-right.

What we actually have in this film is a kind of perverse love triangle of him, her, and Uncle Charlie (recall the incestuous, Oedipal transference I discussed above between the latter two). Ideologically, it represents how the left and right vie for the liberal centre (the petite bourgeoisie that we see in Young Charlie’s family) to join them. We’re meant to believe that she should go for the detective who represents the right.

That her initial attraction to her uncle is incestuous is meant to make us abominate the adoption of leftist ideas, however charming they may be about sympathizing with the poor. That the violence of the far right is more or less completely excised from the detectives (that propellor death mentioned merely in passing) is meant to make us believe that the right is harmless.

Graham and Saunders are very interested in getting a photo of Young Charlie’s bedroom (Since her uncle, as a guest, is sleeping there, the detectives hope to get closer to him.). Apart from the detectives’ continued pursuit of her uncle, this getting into her bedroom has obvious sexual overtones.

When Young Charlie learns that the two men are detectives and not surveyors of a typical American family, she’s furious with Graham for lying to her, and she’s even more upset with him when he claimed her “wonderful” uncle could be a murderer. Graham has to put on some extra charm to win her over to him.

My associating of the detectives with fascism, again, as far-fetched as it sounds on the surface, might begin to make sense to you, Dear Reader, when we consider this film as an anti-communist allegory. While liberals, of whom Hitchcock can be counted as one, may publicly abominate fascism, secretly they will feel drawn to it if their class interests feel in danger from crisis or an organized working class.

If there’s one thing fascists are useful for, it’s fighting communism: one need only look into Operation Paperclip, Gladio, and the underground activities of Ukrainian Nazi sympathizers during the Cold War years, among many other examples, to see my point. Their violence and subterfuge are typically hidden or downplayed by the liberal media, as has been the case with the years since the US/NATO-backed coup in 2014 that replaced democratically-elected Yanukovych with a Ukrainian government and military that includes neonazis.

Such a hiding of violence and conspiracy can be seen allegorically in the activities of Graham and Saunders. One must wonder how detectives chasing a suspect in the eastern US, as it turns out, an innocent suspect, escalates to him running into an airplane propellor and getting sliced up. How is this just an unfortunate accident? There must have been considerable aggression on the part of the detectives to have led to that bloody end.

Fearing that Young Charlie will inform on him sooner or later, her uncle makes several attempts on her life. First, he sabotages the porch steps so she’ll fall down them. Then, he leaves the family car idling in the garage–whose door is stuck, making it almost impossible to get out–so when she goes in to use the car that night, she almost dies from inhaling the exhaust fumes. Finally, on the train to leave Santa Rosa with her there, he tries to throw her off as it’s going; but in the struggle, he falls off and dies under the tracks of an oncoming train.

A funeral is given to honour Uncle Charlie, whose crimes will never be known for fear of the crushing disgrace it would do to her family, surely causing her mother Emma to die of a broken heart. Only Young Charlie and Graham, still wooing her, know the truth.

According to my allegory, the film seems to be saying that the ‘truth’ about socialism would be too hurtful for the working class to know if bluntly stated, hence the telling of that ‘truth’ in this indirect manner, to soften the pain of its revelation.

Graham and Young Charlie doubt her uncle’s characterization of the world as a hell. When one is a member of the petite bourgeoisie (as she is) or higher up, it is fairly easy to suppose that the world has more than enough good in it to offset the bad. The global proletariat–especially those in the global south, as well as so many of us experiencing the neoliberalism of the past forty years (even well-off Luigi)–tend to have a less rosy image of the world.

Analysis of ‘Howl’

I: Introduction

“Howl” is a poem by Allen Ginsberg, written in 1954-1955 and dedicated to Carl Solomon, hence it’s also known as “Howl for Carl Solomon.” It was published in Ginsberg’s 1956 collection, Howl and Other Poems.

“Howl” is considered one of the great works of American literature. Ginsberg being one of the writers of the Beat Generation, “Howl” reflects the lifestyle and preoccupations of those writers–Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs, Neal Cassady (“N.C., secret hero of these poems”; also, “holy Kerouac […] holy Burroughs holy Cassady”), etc.

The preoccupations of the Beat Generation writers included such subculture practices (as of the conservative 1950s, mind you) as drug use, homosexuality, free love, interest in non-Western religions, etc. Such practices are described with brutal, uncensored frankness in “Howl,” hence the poem was the focus of an obscenity trial in 1957.

Here is a link to the entire poem, and here is an annotated version of it (without the ‘footnote’).

The very title of the poem, one that gives vivid description to so much suffering, must be–on at least an unconscious level–an allusion to the final scene in King Lear, when the grieving king enters, carrying his freshly executed daughter, Cordelia. He calls out “Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones!” As in “Howl,” King Lear demonstrates, as I argued in my analysis of the play, that in the midst of so much suffering and loss, one can also gain something: Lear loses everything, but he also gains self-knowledge. Similarly, “the best minds of [Ginsberg’s] generation” suffered much and engaged in much self-destruction, but they also searched for forms of spiritual enlightenment, as I’ll demonstrate below. By the ‘footnote‘ section of the poem, we’ll find Ginsberg gaining that “Holy!” enlightenment.

II: Part I of the Poem

Now, “the best minds of [Ginsberg’s] generation” were those Beat Generation writers and their socially non-conforming ilk, engaging in all the wild behaviour we associate with them–doing drugs, having promiscuous sex, etc. As a result, they have been “destroyed by madness,” and have been “starving hysterical naked.”

“Naked” could be a reference to illicit sex, but it more likely refers to a lack of possessions in general, as the word is used in Hamlet, Act IV, Scene vii (in which Hamlet writes, in a letter to Claudius, “I am set naked on your kingdom.”). After all, these “best minds” are “starving hysterical naked.” Their wildness comes in large part because of their poverty, the cause of which, in turn, is an issue I’ll delve into in more detail later.

These drug addicts are going “through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix”, yet in spite of their Dionysian sinfulness, they’re also “angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection”. They seem to be offering their own idiosyncratic interpretation of Luther’s injunction to “sin boldly.”

Indeed, there is a duality permeating these pages, cataloguing on the one hand sin, obscenity, and excess, and on the other, a search for spirituality and salvation. They are in “poverty and tatters […] high […] smoking” and “contemplating jazz,” for this music was an important soundtrack to the lives of the Beats, as one can note many times reading Kerouac’s On the Road. Yet they also “bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels…”

The El is the elevated train in New York, but it’s also a Hebrew name for God. Note also that the words “Mohammedan” and “negro” were being used here before they were considered unacceptable. Ginsberg’s reference to the Muslim faith is one of many examples of the Beats taking spiritual inspiration from non-Western sources. Some Beats having hung out in Tangiers (in the International Zone in particular) can, in part, be seen as an example of this influence.

The use of “who” beginning many of the long lines of this first part of “Howl” is paralleled with the refrains of “Moloch” in Part Two, “I’m with you in Rockland” in Part Three, and “Holy” in the ‘footnote.’ “Who” reminds us that the subject of Part One, an almost interminable sentence, is Ginsberg’s beatnik friends. The refrains of the other three parts also, of course, remind us of their respective subjects, an explanation of which will come when I get to those parts below.

Special attention should be given to Ginsberg’s use of long lines, something he derived from Walt Whitman, whose non-conforming behaviour (including homosexuality) could make him a kind of Beat Generation poet of the 19th century. One could compare these long lines to the sometimes lengthy verses of the Bible, giving Whitman’s and Ginsberg’s poetry a near-sacred feel, in spite of (or perhaps because of) its sensuality (recall in this connection the sensuality of the Song of Solomon… could the dedication to Carl Solomon be linked to this Biblical association?).

Long lines are oceanic, inclusive, requiring deep breaths to take in everything before expressing everything. They are universal because the poetry of Whitman and Ginsberg is universal: these two men are bards of Brahman, seeing holiness in everything (read Ginsberg’s “footnote” to see what I mean). The two poets embrace all religious traditions, like Pi, but they also reject the limitations of any one religious tradition or dogma. These long lines, in including everything but eschewing the rigidity of traditional short and exact metres, exemplify the same paradox in poetry.

In “Blake-like tragedy”, we find another example of a spiritual non-conformist in whom Ginsberg found inspiration. I discussed William Blake‘s unconventional approach to Christianity in the “Jerusalem” section of this analysis of an ELP album.

Ginsberg was once “expelled from the academies for crazy […] obscene odes…”, that is, he was kicked out of Columbia University for writing obscenities on his dorm room window. His friends “got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,” that is, they were caught in Laredo with weed stashed in their underwear.

They “ate fire” and “drank turpentine in Paradise Alley…”, referring to the ingesting of toxic substances (drugs and alcohol) in a slum in New York City, full of run-down hotels, brothels, and dope dealers. Nonetheless, in a poem, Paradise Alley also has heavenly associations, and thus in this line we have another juxtaposition of the sinful with the spiritual.

Those readers who may have difficulty reconciling my close associating of sin with mysticism should take into account the idea of the dialectical unity of opposites, an idea I’ve symbolized with the image of the ouroboros in a number of blog articles. Two extreme opposites meet, or phase into each other, where the serpent’s head bites its tail, and all intermediate points are found in their respective places along the middle of the ouroboros’ body, coiled into a circular continuum.

Applied to “Howl,” this means that the harshest Hell phases into the highest Heaven and vice versa. One cannot understand this idea while adhering to traditional Christian dogma and its literal reading of an eternity in either Heaven or Hell. My interpretation of the ‘afterlife’ is metaphorical. In our moments of darkest despair, we often see the light and come out the other side (“It’s always darkest before the dawn.”); this is what Christ‘s Passion, harrowing of Hell, and Resurrection symbolize. Note also that those who rise to the highest points of pride tend to fall, as Satan and the rebel angels did. Finally, keep in mind the BeatitudesMatthew 5:4 and 5:11-12 in particular.

This Heaven/Hell dialectic can be seen in the four parts of “Howl.” This first part is the Hell thesis, with the second, “Moloch” part representing the Satanic cause of that Hell; the “Rockland” third part is the Purgatory sublation (though therapy in an insane asylum must be judged to be a remarkably ill-conceived purging of sin), and the “footnote” is the antithesis Heaven that stands in opposition to this present first part.

In this way, we can see “Howl” as Ginsberg’s modern Beat rendition of Dante‘s Divine Comedy. And just as Dante’s Inferno is the most famous first part of his epic poem, so is the infernal first part of “Howl” the most famous part, with its emphasis on human suffering. Similarly, Pasolini‘s Salò, with its sections divided up into Circles of Manias, Shit, and Blood–like Dante’s nine circles of Hell–is also focused on suffering, sin, and sexual perversity.

To come back to the last line discussed before my dialectical digression, and to link both discussions, this inferno part makes fitting reference, in this line, to the paradiso of Paradise Alley and the purgatorio of the “purgatoried […] torsos”. These torsos may be purged of sin through the ingesting of alcohol and drugs, or through sex (“pubic beards”, “torsos”, and “cock and endless balls”).

Just as there’s a dialectical unity of Heaven and Hell (i.e., one must go through Hell to reach Heaven, as Jesus did, the passing through the ouroboros’ bitten tail to get to its biting head), so is there also a dialectical unity of sin and sainthood (i.e., one uses drugs or sexual ecstasy to have mystical visions or spiritual ecstasy). The fires of Hell are those of desire, in samsāra; blowing out the flame leads to nirvana. The Mahayana Buddhist tradition, however, sees a unity between samsara and nirvana–the fire is the absence of fire…Heaven is Hell. The Beats, in their excesses, understand these paradoxes.

Part of those Dionysian excesses are, as mentioned above, the alcohol and drug abuse (“peyote” and “wine drunkenness over the rooftops”). Similarly, the Beats were “chained […] to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine“, that is, they were so high on the benzedrine that they were frozen from doing anything while on their endless joyride on the subway, “chained” to it, all the way from Battery to the Bronx. Note how the Bronx is “holy”: in their sinful indulgence on drugs, the beatniks attain sainthood in the Bronx.

At Fugazzi’s…Bar and Grill, at 305, 6th Ave. in New York City?…they are “listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox”. In Macbeth, “the crack of doom” is the end of the world, and a “hydrogen jukebox” suggests the hydrogen bombs that had been created, recently as of the writing of “Howl,” a bomb whose destructive power, greater than the original atomic bomb, can bring us even closer to “the crack of doom.”

Ginsberg and company, however, are getting wasted listening to music–jazz, presumably, on the jukebox. They are creating their own armageddon of drunken self-destruction. That end of the world, though, is followed by the Kingdom of God: the beatniks, in their rejection of the conservative values of the nuclear family, are getting nuclear bombed drunk; and the hellish fires of “the crack of doom,” the ouroboros’ bitten tail, will be passed through to attain the heavenly Kingdom of God, the serpent’s biting head.

The dialectic is manifested once again in how this “lost battalion of platonic conversationalists” are “jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State…” Since sorrows “come not single spies but in battalions,” it’s easy to see them leading to despair and suicide. Yet the beatniks would express platonic ideals in philosophical discussion, an Apollonian trait; of course, in true Dionysian fashion, they would also jump off of buildings to their deaths to escape the egoistic experience for that of the oneness of Brahman.

Thus, the juxtaposition of jumping suicides with platonic conversation is a case of “whole intellects disgorged […] for seven days and nights”…the seven days and nights of Biblical creation, ending in a day and night of rest–that Heaven of intellectual bliss? It’s fitting to include the Sabbath–“meat for the Synagogue”, since Ginsberg was Jewish.

Indeed, the Beats return from debauchery to spirituality in not only the Synagogue, but also “Zen New Jersey”, “suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under drunk withdrawal”. We’re reminded of the Opium Wars, the victimizing of China under Western imperialism, and maybe the jumping “off Empire State” is Ginsberg’s rejection of that very imperialism.

These hipsters “studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas”. Plotinus was a neoplatonist who believed that all of reality is based on “the One,” a basic, ineffable state beyond being and non-being, the creative source of the universe and the teleological end of all things. St. John of the Cross was a Spanish mystic and poet who wrote The Dark Night of the Soul, both a poem and a commentary on it that describe a phase of passive purification in the mystical development of one’s spirit.

What’s interesting here is how Ginsberg sandwiches, between these two writers of spiritual, philosophical matters, Edgar Allan Poe, also a great writer, but one whose death at the relatively young age forty was the self-destructive result of alcoholism, drug abuse, and/or suicide, his last moments having been in a delirious, agitated state with hallucinations.

Though St. John of the Cross hadn’t intended this meaning, “the dark night of the soul” has the modern meaning of ‘a crisis in faith,’ or ‘an extremely difficult or painful period in one’s life.’ The combining of these three writers in the above-quoted line in “Howl” suggests a dialectical thesis, negation, and sublation of them respectively: the wisdom of philosophy (Plotinus), the destructiveness of the Dionysian way (Poe), and a combination of passive mystical purification with a spiritual crisis and a painful time in life (St. John of the Cross).

Such an interpretation dovetails well with the Heaven and Hell, saintly sinner theme I’ve been discussing as running all the way through Ginsberg’s poem. The juxtaposition “bop kabbalah” continues that theme, with “bop” representing the contemporary jazz that he and his beatnik pals were grooving to while drunk or stoned, and “kabbalah” representing Jewish mysticism, a fitting form of it for Ginsberg.

This “bop kabbalah” dialectic is further developed in how “the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,” since Kansas was the Mecca of jazz and bebop for hipsters at the time; and a ‘vibrating cosmos’ suggests the oceanic waves of Brahman, or Plotinus’ One. The hipsters were also going “through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary Indian angels…”, even more of a juxtaposition of the common and the cosmic.

They’d be “seeking jazz or sex or soup”, and they would “converse about America and Eternity”. These hipsters led bohemian lives, but also wanted to know the rest of the world, so by “America” it is not meant to be only the US but also Latin America–the Mayan ruins of Mexico. To escape the evil of American capitalism, Ginsberg “took ship to Africa”. These are examples of the Beats immersing themselves in the wisdom of other cultures. The protesting of capitalism is part of the basis of the Beats’ destructive Dionysian non-conformity; hence, they “burned cigarette holes in their arms”.

Note how the Beats’ protesting of “the narcotic tobacco haze of capitalism”, having “distributed Supercommunist pamphlets” would have been done in 1950s America, at a time of welfare capitalism, higher taxes for the rich, and strong unions. Imagine the passion the Beats would have had distributing “Supercommunist pamphlets” in today’s neoliberal nightmare of a world!

They “bit detectives in the neck”, those protectors of private property and the capitalist system. Recall how Marx compared capitalists to vampires, as Malcolm X called them bloodsuckers; Ginsberg’s vampire-like Beats biting cops’ necks is indulging in amusing irony here. After all, he insists that the Beats’ non-conforming sexuality and intoxication are “committing no crime”. They “howled on their knees in the subway […] waving genitals…”

More obscenity and saintliness are merged when Ginsberg says they “let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists and screamed with joy.” This line in particular got him in trouble with the law, though in the end, “Howl” was ruled to have “redeeming social importance.” Similarly, the Beats “blew and were blown by those human seraphim”, and “balled in the morning in the evening […] scattering their semen freely…”

When a “blond and naked angel came to pierce them with a sword”, we see an allusion to The Ecstasy of St. Teresa, a fusion of sexual ecstasy with spiritual ecstasy.

Now, “the three old shrews of fate” who have taken away the Beats’ boy lovers are the Moirai. These can be seen to personify the kind of conformist, nuclear family that the Beats are rebelling against. Each shrew is one-eyed, for in her conformity, she cannot see fully. One is “of the heterosexual dollar”, a slave to the capitalist, patriarchal family, and in her complaining of her lot in life, she seems shrewish. One shrew “winks out of the womb”, since by limiting her life to that of a career mother, she also sees little. The last shrew “does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the […] threads of the craftsman’s loom”; she is Atropos, who in cutting the thread ends people’s lives, yet in limiting herself to doing traditional women’s work, she’s ending her own life, too.

The Beats “copulated ecstatic and insatiate […] and ended […] with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness”. Here again, we see Ginsberg uniting the sexual with the “ecstatic” spiritual: in “ultimate cunt”, we have a fusion of the final with the beginning of life; similarly, “come” and “gyzym” would begin life, yet here we have “the last” of it. The end is dialectically the beginning–the Alpha and the Omega, the eternal, cyclical ouroboros.

Such heterosexual Beats as “N.C.”, or Neal Cassady, “sweetened the snatches of a million girls”. He “went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars”. Indeed, a reading of On the Road will reveal how Cassady (i.e., Dean Moriarty) did exactly this.

When it says that the Beats “ate the lamb stew of the imagination”, since there’s so much juxtaposition of sensuality with spirituality in “Howl,” I suspect that “lamb” here refers at least in part to the Lamb of God. Ginsberg may have been Jewish, but as a Beat poet, he would have been interested in religious and spiritual traditions outside of his own. The ‘eating of the lamb stew of the imagination’ would thus be yet another example of “Howl” fusing the sensual and the spiritual.

The Beats were “under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,” yet another example of such fusions, as is “rocking and rolling over lofty incantations”. They “threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time,” indicating a preference of the transcendent over the mundane; yet they’ve also engaged in suicidal acts, indicating the despair that bars one from entry to Heaven. Such suicidal acts include “cut[ting] their wrists three times successfully unsuccessfully,” as well as having “jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened”.

Some Beats were “burned alive in their innocent flannel suits”, an apparent allusion to The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, by Sloan Wilson, another Beat book. One Beat, Bill Cannastra, was with those “who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window”: Cannastra died drunkenly trying to exit a moving subway car.

Some “danced on broken wineglasses barefoot”. Some went “journeying to each other’s hotrod Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incantation”. Again, we see a merging of the sensual (“wineglasses,” “jazz,” “hotrod”) and the spiritual (i.e., the Christian imagery of “Golgotha”), as well as a fusion of salvation (Christ’s crucifixion at Golgotha, the place of the skull) and condemnation (“jail”).

The Beats hoped, in their travels, “to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity”. They were often in Denver, as Kerouac and Cassady were (represented by Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty, respectively) in On the Road. All of the drinking and partying therein is Dionysian mysticism, if properly understood.

For in spite of how antithetical this drunken partying may seem to the spiritual life, the Beats also “fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation”. The cathedrals were “hopeless” because there’s no salvation in conventional, orthodox religion.

So instead, they “retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys […] or Harvard to Narcissus…” Alternative forms of spirituality may have been Buddhism (consider Kerouac and The Dharma Bums), or the dialectical opposite of spirituality, indulgence in drugs or pederasty, or a generally narcissistic attitude. In any case, the “hopeless cathedrals” would never have sufficed for the Beats.

Just as there’s a fine line between Heaven and Hell as described in “Howl,” so is there a fine line between genius and madness here. Ginsberg has celebrated the inspired creative genius of Kerouac, Cassady, Burroughs…himself in this very poem…and others. Ginsberg has demonstrated many of the acts of madness of the Beats. Now we must examine the attempts ‘to cure’ madness.

Now, what must be emphasized here is that it’s not so much about curing mental illness as it is about taking non-conforming individuals and making them conform. Recall that at this time, the mid-20th century, homosexuality was considered a form of mental illness. The proposed cures for these ‘pathologies’ were such things as lobotomy, “Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong…”

Recall that “Howl” is dedicated to Carl Solomon, who voluntarily institutionalized himself, “presented [himself] on the granite steps of the madhouse…” Solomon, mental institutions (what Ginsberg calls “Rockland”), and pingpong will return in Part Three of this poem.

The psychotherapy in these mental institutions will include such fashionably Freudian ideas as the Oedipus complex, as we can see in Ginsberg’s line about “mother finally ******”. The ultimate narcissistic fantasy, about sexual union with the mother, Lacan‘s objet petit a, has to have a four-letter word censored, for a change in this poem, since it’s a gratification too great for even Ginsberg to discuss directly: “ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe…”

Still, while mired not only in madness but, worse, also in the prisons of psychiatry–those cuckoo nests–these incarcerated Beats can still experience the divine. They have “dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time and Space […] trapped the archangel of the soul […] jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus…”

This connection with the divine is achieved through the use of language, a kind of talking cure, entry into the cultural/linguistic world of Lacan‘s Symbolic, as expressed in Ginsberg’s poetry and the prose of Beats like Kerouac and Burroughs. They’ll use “elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness […] to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose…”

The Beats are thus a combination of “the madman bum and angel beat in Time,” a marriage of Heaven and Hell (recall the “Blake-like tragedy” above), the best and the worst, “speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame,…” They “blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabachthani saxophone cry…” In this, we see how the Beats combine jazz sax partying with suffering, despair, Lamb-of-God salvation and love.

“Howl” describes the individual experiences of men like Cannastra, Cassady, Kerouac, Solomon, and Ginsberg as if all the Beats had experienced them collectively, since in their solidarity of non-conformity, they felt the Dionysian unity, Plotinus’ One, Brahman’s nirvana. Ginsberg will feel that solidarity with Solomon in Part Three, but first,…

III: Part II of the Poem

Note how Moloch is described as a “sphinx of cement and aluminum” who “bashed open [the Beats’] skulls and ate up their brains and imagination”. Moloch, an ancient Canaanite god depicted in the Bible and understood to have been one requiring child sacrifice, is a Satanic figure in “Howl,” the Devil responsible for the Inferno of Ginsberg’s Divine Comedy here. But what does this Satanic figure in turn represent?

The “sphinx of cement and aluminum” that is also “Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars” is modern-day industrial capitalism. Children are sacrificed to this Moloch, this Mammon of money, by having their skulls bashed open and their brains and imagination eaten. In our education systems, children’s energy, individuality, and creativity are all stifled and replaced with obedience and conformity, that energy redirected towards making money for the Man, never for the people, for whom it’s “unobtainable.”

The “Solitude” of Moloch is alienation, the lack of togetherness among people, which has been replaced by cold-blooded competition. This had led to “Children screaming under the stairways!”

In this second part–instead of the preceding part’s long lines ending in commas, which suggested an ongoing problem seemingly without end, the hopelessness of eternal infernal punishment–we have lines ending in exclamation points, to express the rage Ginsberg feels against an economic system to which we all feel we’ve had to sell our souls. Small wonder the non-conforming Beat writers were going mad in a drunken, Dionysian frenzy.

Moloch is an “incomprehensible prison!” It’s a “soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!” Ginsberg recognizes, as so many right-wing libertarians fail to do (or are dishonest about not recognizing), that capitalism very much requires a state and a Congress to make laws that protect private property. Government only does socialist stuff when it’s a workers’ state, not the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie, as the US has always been.

These “buildings [of] judgment” that are “the vast stone of war” are symbols of the modern, industrial world. The capitalist government has far too little funding for the poor, for education, for healthcare or for affordable housing, but it has plenty of money for the military. The Moloch government is “stunned” because it’s confused over who should have access to this tax revenue.

The evil industry of capitalism “is pure machinery!” It’s “blood is running money!” Since capitalism in our modern world spills into imperialism, as Lenin pointed out, then it’s easy to see how money can be linked with blood, death, and human suffering in war. Moloch’s “fingers are ten armies!” These are the armies of the Americans who, already in the 1950s, were occupying South Korea, making their women into prostitutes for the enjoyment of the GIs, and making their men fight their brothers and sisters in the north. Moloch’s “ear is a smoking bomb”, like those dropped all over North Korea.

The specifically modern, industrial nature of the capitalism that Ginsberg is excoriating here is found in such lines as this: “Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the longs streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!”

These skyscrapers will be office buildings, places of business, the nerve centres of capitalism. Just as Moloch and Mammon are false gods, so are the “endless Jehovahs” a heathenizing of the Biblical God by pluralizing Him. The irony mustn’t have been lost on Jewish Ginsberg to know that Elohim can be the one God of the Bible as well as the many gods of paganism. Indeed, Judeo-Christianity has often been used to justify capitalism, imperialism, and settler-colonialism.

Moloch’s “love is endless oil and stone!” Note the endless coveting of oil in the Middle East. This would have been evident to Ginsberg as early as 1953, when the coup d’état in Iran happened to protect British oil interests in the region. The indictment against capitalism continues in these words: “Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks!”

Note also that Moloch’s “poverty is the specter of genius!” By “genius,” we can easily read Communism, since European poverty in the mid-19th century inspired the spectre that was haunting the continent.

“Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!” Again, Ginsberg addresses the problem of alienation caused by capitalism. He also explains in this long line how one resolves the contradiction between sinning and the pursuit of salvation. One “dream[s of] Angels” in a desperate attempt to escape Moloch’s inferno. Still, that very desperation, in finding the escape so impossible, causes one to go “Crazy in Moloch!”

Conservative society’s moralistic condemnation of homosexuality, something gay Ginsberg would have been more than usually sensitive to, reduced his form of sexual expression to mere pornographic language, hence “Cocksucker in Moloch!” Recall Senator Joseph McCarthy‘s vulgar homophobia when he said, back at a time when such language would have been far more shocking, “If you want to be against McCarthy, boys, you’ve got to be either a Communist or a cocksucker.” Of course, the taboo against homosexuality was so aggravated at the time that it would have been so much more difficult for LGBT people like Ginsberg to find love, hence “Lacklove and manless in Moloch!”

“Moloch…entered [his] soul early!” It brainwashed him as a child into thinking he needed to conform to the ways of a capitalist, heterosexual society. He’d later have to work to unlearn all of that poisonous conditioning. “Moloch…frightened [him] out of [his] natural ecstasy!” He had to “abandon” Moloch.

Moloch is an industrial capitalist world of “Robot apartments!” (Imagine how much more robotic they’re becoming now, in our world of smart cities, with AI surveillance.) The “blind capitals! demonic industries!…invincible madhouses!” [to be dealt with in the next part] “granite cocks! monstrous bombs!” are those of a capitalist state, far more totalitarian than a socialist one could ever be.

“They broke their backs lifting Moloch to heaven!” Those phallic skyscrapers are “granite cocks!” Moloch is “lifting the city to Heaven”, with these skyscrapers as Towers of Babel: this tireless, slavelike construction has confused our language, making us incapable of communicating with or understanding each other, more capitalist alienation.

The pain and Hell of Moloch’s Inferno, though, is also in close proximity, as I described above, with the Heaven, the Paradiso, to which the Beats were trying to escape. Hence, “Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!” One has mystical experiences of bliss and psychotic breaks from reality at the same time. One thus also has “Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!” One has “Breakthroughs!…flips and crucifixions!…Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs!…suicides!…Mad generation!”

Though this is the Hell of Moloch, there is also “Real holy laughter…!…the holy yells!” The “Howl! Howl! Howl!” of Hell leads to holiness, that passing from the bitten tail of the ouroboros to its biting head. To reach the very best, one must pass through the absolute worst.

Still, some tried to purge the Beats through the dubious mental institutions, and this is where we must go next…

IV: Part III of the Poem

This part of “Howl” is most directly addressed to Carl Solomon, to whom, recall, the entire poem is dedicated–this ‘Song of Solomon,’ if you will. Ginsberg met Solomon in a mental hospital in 1949; he calls it “Rockland” in the poem, though it was actually Columbia Presbyterian Psychological Institute. In fact, among Solomon’s many complaints about Ginsberg and “Howl” was his vehement insistence that he was “never in Rockland” and that this third part of the poem “garbles history completely.”

As much of a fabrication as “Rockland” is, though, we can indulge Ginsberg in a little poetic license. After all, “Rockland” has a much better literary ring to it than “Columbia Presbyterian Psychological Institute,” or “New York State Psychiatric Institute,” or even “Pilgrim Psychiatric Center,” this latter being another psychiatric hospital to which Solomon was admitted.

In any case, maybe the point isn’t so much about Ginsberg being literally, physically with Solomon in the correctly-named mental institution, but rather that the poet was with Solomon in spirit, in solidarity with him, in a metaphorically therapeutic state of being, a true purging of Solomon’s sin and pain, which Ginsberg called “Rockland.” As such, this ‘mental hospital,’ as it were, is the Purgatorio that the actual hospital could never have been. The actual hospital would have just pushed conformity onto Solomon. The solidarity of Ginsberg and the other Beats, being with Solomon “in Rockland,” is the real cure.

So as I see it, the refrain “I’m with you in Rockland” means that Ginsberg was in solidarity with Solomon in his process of mental convalescence, a far better healer than the best shrinks in his actual loony bin. Ginsberg’s love and friendship, as that of all the other Beats, is a therapy to make that of his doctors and nurses seem like wretched Ratcheds in comparison. This part of “Howl” is the Purgatorio because of the Beats, not because of the therapists.

Solomon is “madder than” Ginsberg is, in both senses: more insane, and so voluntarily in a mental institution that the poet is only visiting; and angrier, because of the conformist society he was so at odds with that he chose to be put in the institution.

Solomon “imitate[s] the shade of [Ginsberg’s] mother”, who also had mental health issues, and so Ginsberg’s love for her inspired his empathy for Solomon. Similar empathy can be seen between Ginsberg, Solomon, and all the other Beats, since they were all “great writers on the same dreadful typewriter”–the Beats tended to type, rather than write, their literary works. Recall the caustic words of Truman Capote about the Beats: It “isn’t writing at all–it’s typing.”

Recall how the first part of “Howl” had its lines ending in commas, making it one interminable sentence with only breaths to break it up. The second part had its thoughts ending in a plethora of exclamation marks…endless screaming about the agonies that Satanic Moloch was inflicting on all the Beats. In this third part, however, there are neither commas nor exclamation marks. No periods, parentheses, or dashes, either. There’s no punctuation at all, unless you count the apostrophe in “I’m”. This lack of an indication of pauses suggests a kind of rapid-fire speaking, a frantic dumping-out of words, a therapeutic release of feelings that have been pent up for far too long. Such expression is a true purging of pain.

Now, in direct contrast to this verbal purging, this Symbolic expression of the undifferentiated, ineffable Real, Solomon suffered from the staff of the mental hospitals and their bogus therapy. The “nurses [are] the harpies of the Bronx”. He would “scream in a straitjacket that [he was] losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss.” I assume that a pingpong table was provided in Solomon’s hospital, in an abortive attempt to allow the patients to enjoy themselves.

He would “bang on the catatonic piano”, trying and failing to express himself artistically on instruments presumably also provided by the hospital. The immobility of catatonia, a perfect metaphor for the lifelessness of the patients, results in discords ‘banged on the piano’ instead of flowing, expressive music.

One’s innocent soul “should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse […] where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body”. This, of course, is a reference to the particularly egregious practice of electroshock treatments for the mentally ill. Ginsberg felt that shock therapy robbed Solomon of his soul. This practice is critiqued in Ken Kesey‘s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Solomon would “accuse [his] doctors of insanity”, given such truly psychopathic practices as described in the previous paragraph. Indeed, this Purgatorio of Ginsberg’s poem, set in a mental institution, is ironic in how the opposite of purgatory occurs here, where a restoration to mental health is expected, while the friendship and solidarity Ginsberg has with Solomon is the real cure.

Ginsberg and Solomon, both Jews, would “plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha”, the American political establishment of the 1950s that was right-wing and, ironically, Christian. American imperialism crushes revolutionaries just as Roman imperialism crucified Christ. The Rockland “comrades [will be] all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale.”

The American government, whose FBI and CIA were monitoring men like Ginsberg in the 1950s for their subversive activities, “coughs all night and won’t let [them] sleep”.

Their “souls’ airplanes” will “drop angelic bombs”, and the “imaginary walls” of the hospital will “collapse”. The “skinny legions” thus can “run outside […] O victory forget your underwear we’re free”. As I said above, the true healing from mental illness will come outside of the mental institutions, not inside them. Without underwear, the freed inmates will be naked, allowed to be their true selves, with no need to cover up who they really are.

Solomon thus will go “on the highway across America in tears to the door of [Ginsberg’s] cottage”. This cottage will be the locale of restoration to mental health that the loony bins could never be. His cottage will be the real purgatory, cleansing all the Beats of their sins and readying them for Heaven, for Ginsberg’s Paradiso, which is…

V: Footnote to Howl

Allegedly, Ginsberg stated in the Dedication that he took the title for the poem from Kerouac. I still believe, however, that the title for “Howl” was inspired, whether in the conscious or unconscious of Ginsberg or Kerouac, by Lear’s repeated cry of “Howl!” over Cordelia’s death.

I insist on this allusion in part because of how the “footnote” begins, with its uttering of “Holy!” fifteen times. On the one hand, “Holy!” can be heard as a pun on “Howl!” On the other hand, “Holy!” is the dialectical opposite of “Howl!” It is yet another instance of the Heaven/Hell dialectic that permeates the entire poem.

This repetition of “Holy!” implies the repetition of the title, just as Lear repeated the word four times.

Like the second part, the ‘footnote’ ends each statement with an exclamation point. The second part, with its Satanic Moloch, is like the Centre of Hell in its Ninth Circle, as depicted by Dante in his Inferno. This area is the worst part of Hell, where Satan is trapped waist-deep in ice, his three faces’ mouths feasting on Brutus, Cassius, and Judas Iscariot.

My point is that the same punctuation is used in the very worst and best places in “Howl.” Here is where the bitten tail of the ouroboros, where Satan’s mouths are feasting, leads immediately to the serpent’s biting head of Heaven, Ginsberg’s Paradiso. The exclamation points represent screams of horror in the “Moloch” part, and screams of joy in this “Holy!” footnote.

“Everything is holy!” to Ginsberg. “The world is holy! The soul is holy!” As a convert to Buddhism, following such Mahayana forms as Tibetan Buddhism, Ginsberg would have understood the unity of samsara and nirvana. So while all life is suffering, or the duhkha of samsara, it’s all manifestations of Buddha-consciousness, too, or “Holy!” Once again, Heaven and Hell are unified.

Even the ‘sinful’ or dirty parts of the body are holy: “The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!” Furthermore, “everybody’s holy! everywhere is holy!”

“The bum’s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is holy as you my soul are holy!” People from the lowest ranks of society to the highest orders of angels are of equal worth, the greatest worth…holy!

The typewriter may have been “dreadful” back in the third part of “Howl,” but here it’s holy, as “the poem is holy”. Of course, the Beats are holy, including Ginsberg himself, Solomon, Kerouac, Burroughs, and Cassady, “the unknown buggered and suffering beggars holy the hideous human angels!”

Ginsberg must also acknowledge the sanctity of his “mother in the insane asylum!” He similarly praises the sanctity of “the groaning saxophone!…the bop apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana hipsters peace peyote pipes and drums!”

While he condemned the skyscrapers of Moloch in the second part, here he sees them as holy, as well as the solitude of alienation he called evil earlier. The “mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!” are also holy. What is painful is also divine. Heaven and Hell are one. So the “lone juggernaut,” a Hindu god whose worship was once believed in the West to involve religious fanatics throwing themselves before its idol’s chariot, to be crushed under its wheels, is actually holy and good.

“Holy the vast lamb of the middleclass!” The petite bourgeoisie of 1950s American would still have been predominantly Christian, of the Lamb of God, and thus disapproving of Ginsberg’s homosexuality, but he deems them holy nonetheless, as he does “the crazy shepherds of rebellion!” And since Jesus was “the good Shepherd,” we can see in these “shepherds of rebellion” another paradox of conformist Christian with rebellious Beats.

He praises as holy many cities of the world, including New York, San Francisco, Paris, Tangiers, Moscow, and Istanbul, reinforcing the sense of a pantheistic universe.

Ginsberg, as a gay activist and socialist, was somewhat disenchanted with, for example, the social conservatism he saw in Cuba and its persecution of homosexuals in the mid-1960s, as well as with China, who turned against him as a “troublemaker,” and with Czechoslovakia’s arresting him for drug use. Because of these kinds of disappointments (these above examples having happened long after the writing and publication of “Howl,” of course, but still illustrative of the general kind of disillusion he must have already felt toward the, for him, insufficiently progressive Third International), he spoke of a “fifth International” as holy.

Note also “holy the Angel in Moloch!” Once again, we see the dialectic of Heaven and Hell, of angels and devils, and of nirvana and samsara. Similarly, the sea and the desert are holy, visions and hallucinations are holy, miracles and the abyss are holy, and “forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith!…suffering! magnanimity!” are holy.

Finally, the “intelligent kindness of the soul!” is holy.

VI: Conclusion

What makes “Howl” a great work of literature, like any great literature, is its embrace of the All. The dialectical unity of opposites is a kind of shorthand for expressing the universal in its infinite complexity. Such merisms as “the heavens and the earth” or “good and evil” are unions of opposites as a quick way of including everything between them, like the eternity of the cyclical ouroboros. The unified Heaven and Hell of “Howl” thus include everything between them, too.

Howling is holy, and vice versa.

Analysis of ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’

I: Introduction

A Streetcar Named Desire is a 1947 play by Tennessee Williams, premiered on December 3rd of that year. It’s considered one of the greatest plays of the 20th century, and is Williams’s most popular, being among his most performed and adapted in many forms, including notably the 1951 film.

The original cast of ASND was made up of almost all the same actors as in the film version, except for Blanche DuBois having been playing by Jessica Tandy onstage, and by Vivien Leigh in the film.

Here’s a link to the entire play.

II: Famous Actors for the Roles

Apart from Tandy and Leigh, other notable actresses who have played Blanche are Tallulah Bankhead (for whom Williams actually wrote the character, though she hadn’t played the role until 1956, because she was felt to be too strong for it), Ann-Margret, Cate Blanchett, Blythe Danner, Uta Hagen, and Rachel Weisz. Every actress Williams saw performing the role he loved, feeling that each of them brought something different to Blanche.

Apart from the most famous portrayal by Marlon Brando, Stanley Kowalski has been played notably by Anthony Quinn, Treat Williams, Alec Baldwin, Rip Torn, Aidan Quinn, and Christopher Walken.

Apart from Kim Walker, Stella–Blanche’s younger sister and Stanley’s wife–has been played by Beverly D’Angelo and Diane Lane.

Karl Malden played Harold “Mitch” Mitchell in the original stage production and in the 1951 film.

III: Themes

A central theme of ASND is narcissism, with the whole spectrum of pride/vanity to humility/shame expressed at many different points at the extremes and in between them. Blanche is vain, insufferably so to Stanley, who has a fierce pride of his own. Stella is much more submissive, forgiving of her husband’s brutality, giving in to his demand to put Blanche in a mental institution, and believing his denials of a rape of her sister that he’s obviously guilty of. Mitch is most gentlemanly to ladies, but when he learns of Blanche’s waywardness, he loses his sensitivity almost immediately.

Blanche’s narcissism is of the covert variety, expressed in a passive-aggressive form, her often seeming to play the victim. Her narcissism is a defence against psychological fragmentation, a defence that apish Stanley will break through, causing her to have a nervous breakdown at the play’s end. Her very name, meaning ‘white,’ suggests her narcissistic False Self of sweetness, purity, and ladylike sense of culture, but it also hides her True Self of promiscuity, snobbishness, and ethnic bigotry (i.e., against the Polish).

Stanley is her diametrical opposite, making hardly the slightest attempt to hide his harshness (or so it would seem). His wish to break through all of Blanche’s masks and disguises and reveal the truth in no way redeems him of his cruelty. He is perceived as an ape, and rightly so, for he rids us of all doubt by the end of the play.

So along with the spectrum between narcissism/pride/vanity and humility/shame, there’s also a spectrum between social artifice/fakery and brutal honesty in ASND. In the case of this latter spectrum, it should be obvious which character personifies social artifice, and which brutal honesty. A character like Mitch falls somewhere in between the extremes, as we’ll see later on.

IV: Scene One

A verse by Hart Crane (the fifth from “The Broken Tower”), which is put before the beginning of Williams’s play, seems to express Blanche’s situation when she arrives in New Orleans. She’s looking for a building on a street called “Elysian Fields,” whose heavenly associations are ironic given what a hell-hole she finds her new home to be.

She is a Southern belle used to a life of dainty clothes, perfume, comfort, and culture in Belle Reve (“sweet dream,” loosely translated), the old home she’s lost to creditors, forcing her to live with Stella and Stanley, or else face homelessness. Living in such a shockingly poor home will be a crushing humiliation for Blanche.

To get to Elysian Fields, she’s taken a streetcar named Desire, then transferred to one called “Cemeteries” (Williams, page 3). The streetcar named Desire was inspired by an actual streetcar with the same name, which ran a half-block away from Williams’s apartment on Toulouse Street in the New Orleans’s French Quarter, where he wrote the play.

The names of the streetcars, as well as the name of Stella’s and Stanley’s home, have been chosen as more than just names of places in the real world, though. Desire leads to cemeteries…rather like, the wages of sin is death…and death leads to an afterlife that may seem like heaven, but is actually hell. It should be easy for anyone who has read or watched a performance of ASND to see how these names are points on the trajectory of Blanche’s life, just as the verse from Crane’s poem reflects her life.

She has led a life of desire–from her marriage to a husband who, it turns out, had homosexual feelings he acted on, then killed himself after knowing her shocked reaction to this acting-on them (recall that Williams himself was gay, and therefore his sexuality rubbed off in some of his plays), to her own promiscuity, which included a sexual relationship with one of her teen students. This inappropriate relationship led to the bad karma of her being fired as a high school teacher. We see how desire has led to the cemeteries of her husband and her job.

And now she has to live in the hellish ‘heaven’ of her sister’s shabby home, to be shared with a man whose bestial nature will be soon apparent to her.

When Blanche sees her sister for the first time in a long time, she addresses her as “Stella for Star!” (page 6). Since this is the literal meaning of her younger sister’s name, Blanche’s imagined poetic pointing-out of that meaning demonstrates her literary pretensions early on in the play.

Though she affects refinement, her own vulgarity and ignorance also come out early in the play as she and Stella discuss Stanley, whom Blanche not only refers to as one of those “Polacks,” but also imagines as being “something like Irish,” but “not so–highbrow?” (page 9) His friends are “a mixed lot,” according to Stella, and are therefore “heterogeneous–types” to Blanche, which suggests a quite racial categorizing of them; after all, there’s Pablo (Nick Dennis in the original production and the 1951 film).

After Blanche has sorrowfully told Stella about the loss of Belle Reve, being so ashamed of its loss that she imagines her sister’s questioning about it to be a judgement on her for losing it (pages 11 and 12), she meets Stanley. It’s so fitting that Brando exemplified Stanislavski‘s Method Acting in the role of Stanley, his name almost sounding like a pun on Stanislavski, since there’s no affectation whatsoever to be seen in Kowalsky; while Blanche’s character seems to require the technique of the classical acting style, with its “saw[ing of] the air too much with [one’s] hand,” and its “tear[ing of] a passion to tatters.”

A cat screeches near the window, startling sensitive Blanche. In the film, Brando’s Stanley imitates the cat’s screeching, a kind of foreshadowing of how upsetting he’ll soon be to her. In fact, he is upsetting to her already by the end of this first scene, when he brings up her marriage (page 15). Bringing this up triggers painful memories for her that will be brought up in full later.

When I referred to Blanche as narcissistic and fake, neither of these faults necessitate our lack of empathy for her. She’s suffered terribly, and she’s about to suffer even worse by the end of the play, thanks to Stanley’s merciless cruelty. Her narcissism and maintaining of illusions are the only things that are keeping her from falling apart completely.

V: Scene Two

When Stanley learns from Stella of Blanche’s loss of Belle Reve, he starts worrying that his wife has been cheated of the family property, for the “Napoleonic Code” (which, contrary to what Williams believed, did not exist in Louisiana at the time) states that what belongs to the wife belongs to the husband and vice versa (though Stanley doesn’t seem too concerned with the vice versa). If Blanche has lost the family property, then so has Stella…and so has Stanley.

The point is that Stanley is a very domineering husband, and he believes he has the right to extend the patriarchal dominance of his home onto Stella’s sister. He doesn’t even like his wife’s leaving him “a cold plate on ice” for dinner while she and Blanche go out to eat, then to a show, so he and his friends can play poker in his home without any women disturbing them (page 16).

His utter lack of respect for a woman’s rights is on full display when he starts pulling out Blanche’s dresses from her wardrobe trunk in search of any documents to tell him what happened to Belle Reve. He imagines Blanche’s fancy-looking clothes are all expensive, too much so for a teacher’s salary, so he says he’ll have an acquaintance in a jewelry store do an appraisal of her “diamonds,” “pearls and gold bracelets” (pages 18-19). Stella insists that the “diamonds” are just rhinestones. Stanley still thinks he has the right to Stella’s ‘wealth.’

Stanley’s borderline, if not outright, misogyny is to the point of bluntly telling Blanche that he has no interest in complimenting women on their looks, since in his opinion, they either already know they’re beautiful and therefore don’t need to be complimented, or they’re so vain that they “give themselves credit for more than what they’ve got.” (page 21) Blanche, in her thirties and with fading beauty, has an already fragile self-concept and therefore doesn’t need Stanley’s kind of bluntness.

He doesn’t take it as well as he dishes it out, though. When she responds to his bluntness by calling him “a little bit on the primitive side,” and says she could tell no more about him than that he’s a man her sister married, he throws a brief tantrum (pages 21-22). In his brutal honesty, he should not be confused with men like Alceste the misanthrope, who sincerely hated social hypocrisy in spite of his continuing attraction to the flirtatious coquette Célimène, who had eyes for him as well as for other men. Stanley, on the other hand, is simply an ape.

His brutish demanding that Blanche show him legal papers connected with the DuBois plantation leads to him grabbing love letters from her husband. Stanley’s insensitivity to her husband’s letters is a touch that insults them, meaning she’ll need to burn them (page 23). He has again triggered painful memories about a husband with the opposite personality of Stanley’s, a sensitive poet, not a growling gorilla.

Her saying she’d not have him touch her letters “because of their–intimate nature…” (page 23) is a foreshadowing of the horrible thing that Stanley will do to her at the play’s–pardon the expression–climax. She surrenders to his looking through her legal papers, just as she’ll surrender to him in a more physical way later.

It’s interesting how his use of legality to persecute her parallels his use of physicality to persecute her. Feminists would have a field day analyzing these parallels, as I’m sure they already have. In this connection, I also find it interesting how the Napoleonic Code didn’t exist in Louisiana at the time of the story: Stanley’s imagined authority over Stella and Blanche is as fake as Blanche’s pretensions to culture and high breeding. As I said above, he has no business pretending to be any more honest than she does.

VI: Scene Three

Stanley, Mitch, Pablo, and Steve (Rudy Bond in the original production and the 1951 film) are playing poker while Stella and Blanche are out. Poker night is an all-boys club in which women are persona non grata, of course. It’s bad enough when people in high positions of political, economic, and religious power and authority use sex roles and the patriarchal family to divide the sexes and keep women down; when working-class men reinforce these divisions and discriminatory attitudes, it makes proletarian solidarity all the more difficult to cultivate.

Another example of this lack of solidarity, but from a racial angle, is Pablo suggesting going to get some chop suey from the “Chinaman’s” (page 27), this being a term which, by the time of the writing of the play, must have already begun to acquire derogatory overtones in the US. Pablo, as an Hispanic and therefore surely someone familiar with being on the receiving end of ethnic slurs (Stanley will have called him a “greaseball” by the end of the play, and I suspect it won’t be the first time), should have at least some sensitivity to how inappropriate “Chinaman” sounds, as should Stanley, as a Polish-American who is infuriated with Blanche saying “Polack.”

Of the poker players, Mitch is the only unmarried one (page 28), and he has a sick mother at home, so he worries about her and must leave the poker game. His duty to her gives off the impression that he’s a ‘mama’s boy,’ and that he’s ‘sensitive.’ Blanche will soon pick up on his “superior” manner (page 30), and see in him the hope of a husband. Stanley shows his contempt for Mitch’s devotion to his mother by saying the guys will “fix [him] a sugar-tit.” (page 28)

Mitch is pleased to meet Blanche when she and Stella have returned and he has stepped away from the poker game for the moment, so he is playing the role of the gentleman while the other boys continue with their all-boys-club card game. Stanley, predictably, feels the most invaded by the feminine presence.

He assures Blanche that none of the men are interested in standing up when she enters the room. He’d have her and Stella go up to Steve’s place and sit with Eunice, Steve’s wife (Peg Hillias in the original stage production and the 1951 film), whom he treats with a shabbiness comparable to how Stanley treats Stella and Blanche. Though it’s nearly two-thirty in the morning, Stanley sees the poker game as not finishing any time soon, and he spanks Stella on the thigh…or is it the ass?…to discourage her and Blanche from staying; this only angers her.

Gentlemanly Mitch, however, will repeatedly insist, “Poker shouldn’t be played in a house with women” (pages 36 and 37). Stanley is annoyed that Mitch, more interested in Blanche than the game, won’t come back to it. He’s particularly angry when Blanche turns on the radio (page 35). He rushes over and smashes it.

Stella, furious, calls Stanley an animal and tells his friends to go home immediately. He goes wild at her ending his sacred card game and goes after her. His friends try to calm him down, but it’s no good.

Both husband and wife go offstage, and we know that he hits her (page 35). Both she and Blanche scream. Stella is taken upstairs to Steve’s and Eunice’s place while Stanley’s friends try again to calm him down by pouring shower water on him, but he just gets angrier, curses at them, and hits them. They all leave with their poker winnings (page 37).

With Stella gone, Stanley finally realizes he’s screwed up. Now we have the famous moment when he screams out “Stella!” repeatedly. Without her, he’s no longer the dominant male, but he’s been reduced to a weepy little boy.

Perhaps his weepiness in part has triggered her maternal instinct, but in any case, she goes back to him and forgives him, a shocking thing for Blanche, Eunice, and any reasonable person to see. Stella is letting him manipulate her with that helpless little boy routine, a classic page out of the narcissist’s playbook.

Eunice would get the law on him for hitting his wife and making such noise so late at night. Just as the men demonstrated by trying to calm him down, there is no social acceptance of violence against women, though that doesn’t mean men never get away with it.

Blanche comes out, horrified that her sister, with child, went back to the man who hit her. Mitch is there to talk with Blanche, since he’s still interested in pursuing her. What should be a bad omen for her is how, in spite of how Mitch is still acting the gentleman, he trivializes this moment of domestic violence.

VII: Scene Four

The next morning, Blanche wants to talk Stella out of remaining in her relationship with Stanley after having seen how bestial he is capable of being. As with Mitch, Stella trivializes what happened the night before, which of course is all the more disturbing.

Stella thinks that Stanley’s having felt ashamed of himself for his barbaric behaviour is enough to forgive him, when she knows full well that he’ll do such things again, and soon.

Stella was as much of a Southern belle as Blanche, but the former being taken off the pedestal didn’t upset her the way the latter was forcibly removed from it. Blanche cannot conceive how Stella is willing to tolerate living with such a man as Stanley.

Part of the difference in the two women’s attitudes is how Blanche, unlike Stella, still believes in romantic notions of gallantry, illusions to protect her–it would seem–from the brutality of reality. When Stella speaks of how Stanley, on their wedding night, went around their home with one of her slippers smashing all the light-bulbs with it, instead of being terrified, as Blanche would have been, Stella admits to having been thrilled by his wildness (pages 41-42).

Blanche feels there’s a desperate need to get herself and Stella away from Stanley. She remembers a wealthy oilman named Shep Huntleigh, who she imagines could use his money to get her and Stella away from that brute of a husband. She imagines she’ll get Western Union through the telephone operator to contact Shep and tell him that she and Stella are in a desperate situation and need his help (pages 43-44). This urgent attempt to get Western Union and contact Shep will be repeated in Scene Ten (page 95), at the climax of the play, when Blanche is sure that Stanley, alone with her at home while Stella is in the hospital to have her baby, won’t have anyone there to hold his leash.

This Shep Huntleigh represents, in another way, the diametrical opposite of Stanley. He’s not only wealthy, but he’s also a gentleman, Blanche’s gallant, romantic ideal. According to Heinz Kohut‘s conception of the bipolar self, the two poles that give a person a stable sense of self are ones based on someone to idealize (in childhood, the idealized parental imago) and someone to mirror the grandiose self. When both of these needs are met, one can live with a healthy, restrained, and moderate sense of narcissism. If one of the poles fails, or is thwarted, the other can compensate. If both fail, one is at best in an extremely fragile position (as Blanche is, already at the beginning of the play), and at worst, one experiences psychological fragmentation and a psychotic break with reality (as happens to Blanche at the end of the play).

Blanche is hoping that a courtship with Mitch will lead not only to a husband who can ‘make an honest woman of her,’ so she can put her promiscuous past and reputation behind her, but also to a satisfying of her narcissistic need for someone to mirror back her grandiose self to her. His gentlemanly routine of putting her up on a pedestal will satisfy that need.

When Mitch learns, through Stanley’s merciless probing into her past, of her promiscuity when she lived in Laurel (living in The Flamingo, a hotel known for prostitution, her sexual relationship with one of her underage students), and he refuses to marry her, she uses her idealization of Shep Huntleigh, a kind of Oedipal transference of the idealized parental imago, to keep her fragile self hanging on. Of course, Stanley tears that compensatory fantasy apart, and she goes mad in the end.

The psychiatrist (played by Richard Garrick in the original stage production and the 1951 movie)–who, with the matron (Ann Dere), comes to take Blanche to the mental hospital at the end of the play–temporarily destroys her ever-so-faint hopes to be taken away by Shep; but he wisely humours her, putting on the gentlemanly act to make her cooperate, and revives for the moment her hope to have the idealizing pole satisfied.

Anyway, Blanche continues trying to convince her sister that Stanley is not worth keeping. When Stella speaks of the “things that happen between a man and a woman in the dark,” making such things as Stanley hitting her “seem–unimportant” (page 46), we’re reminded of how “thrilled” she was at his smashing of the light-bulbs. A nasty man is often exciting to a woman, where a nice guy finishes last. As the Chinese say, “男人不壞,女人不愛” (“If men aren’t bad, women won’t love them.”) Bad boys are sexy, and in this observation come so many of women’s problems with men. Recall, in this connection, how good-looking young Brando was in the 1951 film, with his muscle tone and his shirt off. I’ll bet the girls were swooning with ecstasy at the sight of him on the screen.

Blanche responds to what Stella says by pointing out what I said above about the title of the play–that it’s not just inspired by the name of a streetcar near where Williams was writing his play. Stella is talking about her “brutal desire,” a streetcar that brought Blanche to this Godforsaken home of Stella’s and Stanley’s. A streetcar named Desire, then one named Cemeteries…Blanche imagines that Stella’s desire will lead to her death at Stanley’s hands.

As Blanche goes on condemning him as “common,” he’s approaching home and overhearing her words. He is fuming inside as she speaks of how his wife should be with a better man than “an animal,” someone “subhuman” and “bestial” (page 47).

Since Blanche has been bad-mouthing him so much to his wife, he’ll get his revenge on her by learning the gossip about how “common” she is, making all of her pretensions to art and culture seem utterly hypocritical.

VIII: Scene Five

Stella and Blanche can hear Steve and Eunice fighting upstairs, the latter accusing the former of fooling around with some “blonde,” which Steve denies (page 49). The fight escalates, she throws something at him, then he hits her, and she wants to get the police (page 50). She runs off, and he goes after her. We sense that domestic violence in the ‘heavenly’ Elysian Fields is not limited to Stella and Stanley.

Stanley comes by, and Blanche–in her usual ‘ladylike’ voice–taunts him by saying he must be an Aries, since he’s so “forceful and dynamic,” and he loves “to bang things around” (page 51). Naturally, he’s annoyed at these words. Stella tells her that Stanley was born just after Christmas, making him a Capricorn. Blanche comments, “the Goat!”, annoying him all the more.

When she mentions that her birthday is the following month, in mid-September, making her a Virgo, which is the Virgin, Stanley–already knowing a few things about her scandalous reputation in Laurel–has an opportunity to insult her back. He mentions a man named Shaw, a name common enough that she can pretend this is not someone she knows in particular, a man she apparently met in Laurel, at a hotel named the Flamingo, the place where prostitution goes on (as I mentioned above), so naturally, Blanche denies any association with it.

When Stanley leaves, though, Blanche asks Stella, in a state of great anxiety, if she’s heard any dirty gossip about her (page 52). Stella denies having heard anything nasty about Blanche. Around this time, Steve and Eunice have returned in each others’ arms, fully reconciled; their making-up parallels the making-up of Stanley and Stella that happened so soon before.

Blanche explains to Stella the reason for her bad reputation in Laurel. The loss of Belle Reve, on top of her husband’s suicide and the scandal surrounding her sexual relationship with her teen student, put her into a situation so desperate that she had “to be seductive,” to “put on soft colours” (page 53). She’s needed to do this with men “in order to pay for–one night’s shelter!”

She’s found that “men don’t…even admit your existence unless they are making love to you. And you’ve got to have your existence admitted by someone, if you’re going to have someone’s protection.” So she’s got to “put a–paper lantern over the light”, something she habitually does so people won’t see her aging and fading beauty, something she’s terrified of, just as she’s terrified of the light revealing the truth of her scandalous behaviour, something she’s feen forced into because of her losses…but the cruel, judgemental world will never be understanding to her about that.

And Stanley is the epitome of that cruel and judgemental world, not that he’s any better, of course.

She senses that Stanley wants to throw her out of his and Stella’s home, so she doesn’t want to be a burden to her sister, something she promises she won’t be in the most hysterical of words. Stella is shocked by how emotional Blanche is getting. Blanche is placing all of her hopes on Mitch, with whom she is having a date at seven that very night (page 54).

In anticipation of Stella learning, through Stanley, about Blanche’s reputation in Laurel as a ‘woman of loose morals,’ she frantically insists that on dates with Mitch, he’s gotten only “a good night kiss” from her (page 55). She wants his respect, yet she’s terrified of losing him, hence she’s so sensitive about her age. She wants him to think of her as “prim and proper.”

Of course, Mitch wants her to think of him as a gentleman. He has his social mask, and she has hers, symbolized by that paper lantern over the light, to hide the aging on her face.

Stanley returns, and he leaves with Stella, with Steve and Eunice accompanying them. Blanche is alone in the apartment.

Just before Mitch is to show up for his date with her that night, Blanche sees a handsome young man (played by Wright King in the 1951 film), who appears at the door. He says he’s “collecting for the Evening Star,” a newspaper. She jokes about him as a star taking up collections because she finds him so attractive, but he is so innocent and sweet (just the way she likes her boys), he doesn’t understand her joke.

I suspect that she, in her fragile, unstable mental state, is imagining this boy’s presence. He can easily be seen as reminding her of not only the boy she had the affair with, but also her husband back when she first knew him, when the couple were both very young. Her student/lover presumably reminded her of her husband, too.

The boy collecting money is so perfect to her. He’s polite, he calls her “ma’am,” and he’d never treat her like a whore. He’s shying away as she makes her advances to him.

Finally, she gives him a kiss on the mouth (page 57), but not wanting to go any further, as with Mitch, she sends the boy off. And fittingly, just after he disappears, Mitch arrives for their date.

IX: Scene Six

At 2:00 a.m. of the same night of their date, Mitch notes that Blanche is getting tired. After he drops her off at home, it seems that he’ll take “that streetcar named Desire” back home, for we can see just how much they desire each other. Still, he’s sad because he thinks he hasn’t entertained her much tonight.

Though she still wants him to think of her as a lady who isn’t cheap, she still likes tempting him. She’d have him come into Stella’s and Stanley’s place, since the husband and wife aren’t back home yet. She also wants to give Mitch a drink, and she even asks him, “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?” She also says in French that it’s a shame he doesn’t understand the question, but of course she’s happy he doesn’t (page 61). They actually go into the bedroom, her carrying the drinks.

A little later, she has him pick her up to see how light she is. Still, she’d have him let her go and be a gentleman while her sister and Stanley are still away (page 63). She fears Stanley exposing her bad reputation in Laurel, but he can’t resist continuing her coquettishness.

Almost immediately after Mitch’s picking her up and putting her back down, she brings up how much she doesn’t like Stanley, with her worries that he may have told Mitch some bad things about her (page 64). It’s interesting to see this juxtaposition of her teasing of Mitch with her fears of him learning of her ‘loose’ ways in Laurel. It’s as if her unconscious death drive, her Jungian Shadow, is deliberately sabotaging her date.

She gets nervous when Mitch asks her age (page 65). He asks because of his mother, who has wanted to know more about her. After all, his mother will probably die in a few months, and she wants to make sure her son is settled (page 66).

Next, the conversation turns toward Blanche’s old husband, a sad topic for her. The two married when very young. He was “different.” He had “a nervousness, a softness and tenderness which wasn’t like a man’s,” but not at all “effeminate-looking” (page 66). He needed her help.

Eventually, she found him with another man.

They pretended that nothing had happened, then the three of them went to Moon Lake Casino to be drunk and dance, to the music of the Varsouviana in particular. Then her husband broke away from her, ran outside, put a revolver in his mouth, and shot himself.

He ran out and killed himself because, on the dance floor, she’d told him he disgusted her (page 67). So she blames herself for his suicide.

Now, in the 1951 film version, all references to homosexuality in the play–however indirect–were censored for obvious reasons. Instead, the husband is portrayed as simply weak, overly sensitive, weepy, and a poet–all the gay stereotypes without the gay. A similar excising of homosexuality in a Tennessee Williams play was done in the 1958 film adaptation of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

Empathizing with Blanche, and seeming to be similarly sensitive, Mitch reaches out to her after hearing her tragic story. She needs someone, as he needs someone. He’s seriously considering marrying her.

Except…

X: Scene Seven

In mid-September, it’s Blanche’s birthday, and Stanley has plans of ruining it for her (page 69). He’s found the dirt on her that he needs to prove that she has no business calling him ‘common.’

To add to his irritation, she is “soaking in a hot tub” on a day when the temperature is 100. He can’t stand how Stella serves cokes to “Her Majesty in the tub.” He’s convinced, “from the most reliable sources–which [he has] checked on”, that Blanche is a liar about her past (page 70).

Her singing in the bathtub, like a “canary bird,” is annoying him all the more. He can’t stand her pretense of being some kind of “lily,” all sweet and delicate, when he’s discovered that she, in his judgement, is a common whore.

The sad thing about the animosity between both of them is how it’s based on prejudicial notions of class, ethnicity, and sex. His faults, in her estimation, are because he’s a low-class “Polack.” Her faults, in his estimation, are because she’s a ‘slut.’

His real faults don’t come from his being working-class or Polish. Anyone, of any ethnicity or any social class, can be irascible, crass, rude, or violent, as Stanley is. Her real faults don’t stem from her private sexual life. Any woman, with or without literary and cultural pretensions, can fall the way Blanche has fallen, given the combination of misfortunes she’s had to suffer.

Her promiscuity should be perfectly forgivable if she can find a husband and commit to him. Her questionable relationship with her seventeen-year-old student can easily be forgotten given the same positive change in her fortunes.

What’s more, what he does to her towards the end of the play renders her sins insignificant in comparison to his. This play demonstrates the cruelty of the old double standard between the sexes more vividly than perhaps any story out there. The double standard can be expressed in the metaphorical use of words used in dog-breeding: when a man screws around, he’s a stud; when a woman does it, she’s a bitch.

This cruel double standard can help us to understand why Blanche does the prim and proper routine, why she makes mental escapes into a world of romance, poetry, and gallant gentlemen, and why she sings like a canary bird in the bathtub. It’s all a desperate attempt on her part to survive and stay sane.

Of course, if we had a society that had institutions to care for unfortunates like Blanche, she would never need to sell herself to survive. And if that society gave workers like Stanley the full fruits of their labour, and if that labour was meaningful instead of alienating, he probably wouldn’t be half the ape that he acts like.

But I digress. Back to the story.

Now, while Stanley is telling Stella about Blanche’s lies about only ever being kissed by men, as she’s told Mitch (page 70), and about quitting teaching merely because of her nerves, rather than being fired for sexual misconduct with a minor, Blanche is in the tub singing about such phony things as paper moons, cardboard seas, the Barnum and Bailey circus, honky-tonk parades, and melodies from penny arcades–things that wouldn’t be make-believe if she had a man who believed in her (pages 70-71). Just as I said above: she wouldn’t need to indulge in all the fakery if she had a man to love her…as she once had.

We can’t expect any compassion from merciless Stanley, though, of course. He’s found fault in her, and he has all the reasons he needs to hate her.

Stella tries to reason with Stanley, to get him to understand the misfortunes her sister has gone through to bring her to her current situation. She brings up Blanche’s “degenerate” husband (page 73). Stanley is deaf to all of this: he’d rather hate Blanche than pity her.

In fact, Stanley has told Mitch all about Blanche’s scandalous past, and though he’s infuriated with Stanley for blackening her reputation, he’s checked the sources of Stanley’s stories and has confirmed them. He’s been invited to Blanche’s birthday party, but he won’t show up (page 74).

Stanley has given her some extraordinary birthday gifts. He’s been most thoughtful to her.

Finally, he gets so furious with her holding up the bathroom and singing endlessly that he shouts at her to get out (page 75). She tries her best to hold herself together against his savagery. Still, she worries about what he’s told Stella about her.

XI: Scene Eight

Forty-five minutes later, the three of them are sitting at a dismal birthday dinner (page 76). Blanche is wearing an artificial smile, trying to hide her disappointment at Mitch’s absence.

She asks Stanley to tell them a joke, something to cheer them up without it being vulgar or indecent. In his disgust with her affectations about being the ‘high-class’ lady from Belle Reve, rather than the whore from the Flamingo, he says he knows no jokes “refined enough for [her] taste.” Therefore, Blanche will tell one…a joke that ends with “God damn…!” She’s as capable of rough language as he is (page 77).

When Stella gripes at him for his bad table manners and tells him to help her clear the table, he has another of his temper tantrums, throwing a plate to the floor. He refuses to let himself come anywhere near being dominated by her or Blanche.

He’s infuriated at being called a “Polack” by Blanche, and judged as “vulgar–greasy,” but he sees no injustice in his own dominance as a man over her and his wife. He twists the socialist meaning of Huey Long‘s “Every man a king” slogan, meant to indicate that all people should have access to the plenty that a king enjoys, and instead he uses it to mean that men should be the kings of their women. In this, we can see what I was saying above, that a lack of solidarity between the sexes, as well as between people of different ethnic groups, is bad for the working class.

Blanche is still worried that Stanley has told Stella some dirt he’s learned from Laurel. Stella denies hearing anything, but of course she’s heard plenty. Blanche wants to call Mitch’s home and find out why he hasn’t shown up for her birthday party. She’ll regret making the call (page 78).

Stanley has another ‘gift’ for Blanche: a ticket back to Laurel. She can hear the Varsouviana music. She runs off, coughing and gagging (page 81).

Stella reprimands Stanley for being so cruel to her sister, and he reminds Stella of how he’d pulled her down from the columns of Belle Reve, and she liked it. He’s now pulled Blanche down from those columns, too, and she hates it…therefore, he hates her.

Overwhelmed by stress, Stella is going to go into labour. He has to take her to the hospital.

XII: Scene Nine

Blanche is alone in the apartment again, and Mitch arrives, dressed in his work clothes. He has no more interest in playing the role of the gentleman for her, having confirmed what Stanley told him about her. His coldness to her, and her realization that she has lost him, just as she lost her husband, reminds her of the Varsouviana music she’d heard when he ran off and put a gun in his mouth (page 84).

Mitch doesn’t like how dark it is in the place. He wants to see her in the light, which of course she never wants to be seen in (page 86). She finds the dark comforting, something she can hide in. Just as it hides her age, the darkness also hides her sinful past–it is her Jungian Shadow.

He insists on seeing her in the light even to the point of tearing off the paper lantern from the light-bulb. He wants to see her “good and plain,” which causes her narcissistic injury, for she finds exposure to the light “insulting.”

He wants realism, but she wants “magic.” She wants to hide in romance, to be worshipped by a gentleman. She wants comforting illusions.

When he sees her in the light, he doesn’t mind that she’s older than he thought; but he’s heartbroken to know that she, of supposedly “old-fashioned” ideals, has serviced men in the Flamingo. He at first dismissed Stanley’s accusations as slander, but then he checked Stanley’s sources and he is no longer able to deny the truth about her (page 87).

Blanche tries her best to deny Mitch’s sources, claiming the stories of the men who knew of her promiscuity are slanders to get revenge on her for rejecting their advances, but Mitch won’t believe her. Knowing she can’t get him to sympathize with her, she ironically exaggerates her sin by claiming the hotel she stayed in was not called The Flamingo, but “The Tarantula,” where she supposedly brought all her victims (page 87).

Again, she tries to explain what drove her to promiscuity–the suicide of her husband, Allan, her hopes of finding a man’s protection but never getting it, and the slow fading away of her looks from aging. She still hopes she can win Mitch’s sympathy by appealing to his need for somebody, as she needs somebody, and noting how gentle he seems (page 88)…but all that matters to him is that she lied to him.

As all of this is being said, a Mexican woman outside can be heard saying, “Flowers, flowers, flowers for the dead” in Spanish…some ominous foreshadowing of Blanche’s fate, metaphorically speaking.

Blanche speaks of “blood-stained pillow slips” that need changing, symbolic of her promiscuity. She imagines that “a coloured girl [could] do it,” suggesting a projection of her sin, what makes Blanche “common,” onto blacks, onto common workers. Blanche would continue to use racial and class prejudice as an ego defence mechanism to protect her against judgement for her sins.

Still, not only does Mitch feel no sympathy for Blanche, but he also no longer feels any obligation to play the role of the gentleman for her (page 89). He takes it to the point of wanting sex from her, imagining that she’s owed it to him “all summer.”

As we can see, his gentleman routine is as much of a phony act as is her ladylike routine. So much in this play is illusion and pretense.

Since Mitch has his hands on her waist, and it’s clear that he doesn’t want to marry her, she has no intention of satisfying him like a ‘cheap’ woman. His intention is to have her whether she’ll consent or not…in other words, he’s prepared to rape her.

She screams “Fire! Fire! Fire!” to make him go away, since screaming fire is considered a much more effective way to get help against a rapist than yelling rape. When we consider what’s going to happen to Blanche in the next scene (just after the end of it, specifically), we can see that Mitch is actually a more moderate version of Stanley, or rather, that Stanley is representative of an extreme version of ‘gentlemen’ like Mitch.

XIII: Scene Ten

It’s later that same night. Blanche is dressed in her prettiest of dresses, wearing her rhinestone tiara, and in front of the dressing table mirror. Since Mitch left, she’s been drinking steadily. She imagines she has a number of “spectral admirers” around her (page 90).

As I said above, her loss of Mitch is a loss of the mirror of her grandiose self, one of the two poles that are holding her together. So the group of “spectral admirers” is there in a desperate attempt by her to avoid the psychological fragmentation that is her fate via Stanley.

She’s talking to these imagined admirers: she’s hallucinating their presence. She’s holding a hand mirror to look at herself more closely, the hand holding it trembling. The chasm between who she knows she really is and the Lacanian ideal-I she wants to see in the specular image must be so vast that she smashes the mirror down hard to crack the glass.

Stanley returns from the hospital, and he’s in an uncharacteristically good mood. He is even, for the moment, kind to Blanche. He’s happy because he’s soon to be a father and hoping for a son (page 92).

Blanche has hopes of her own, only hers are completely imaginary. Just as she’s been seeing make-believe admirers in the mirror, for the sake of her grandiose self, she’s also imagining that Mr. Shep Huntleigh, her personified ideal, will take her on a cruise of the Caribbean (page 91).

Only through an escape into fantasy can she hope to keep her bipolar self intact, with Shep at one pole (idealization), and the admirers in the mirror reflection at the other pole (grandiosity). Yet Stanley is about to smash both poles for her, to rid her of her illusions, and traumatize her so severely that her psychotic break from reality will be complete.

Still, though, for the moment, Stanley is being nice to her because of his good mood as an expectant father. He doesn’t believe a word she’s saying about a cruise with Shep, but he’s humouring her all the same, to keep the peace, hence his comment that the rhinestones on her tiara are “Tiffany diamonds” (page 91). In his humouring of her, we can see that he’s as capable of pretense as she is.

Though he’s trying to be generous with her to keep the mood pleasant, she doesn’t want to reciprocate (page 93). She’s annoyed at the continuing lack of privacy, and yearns for her “millionaire from Dallas” to restore it to her. In her swelling narcissism, she boasts of her inner beauty–“beauty of the mind and richness of the spirit and tenderness of the heart”–all of which can replace her fading physical beauty.

This boasting is causing Stanley’s patience to fade, especially when she speaks of “casting [her] pearls before swine!” (page 93) “Swine,” of course, refers not just to Stanley but also to his friend, Mitch, whom she now regards as no less common than Stanley. She lies that Mitch “returned…to beg [her] forgiveness,” which she wouldn’t give.

When Stanley reminds her about the telegram she supposedly got from Shep, and he sees she has briefly forgotten about it, he’s caught her in a lie (page 94). Now his anger comes back in full.

Stanley knows there is no Shep, and he knows that Mitch never came to her asking for forgiveness. It’s all only her “imagination…lies and conceit and tricks!” It was all narcissistic fantasy, which she’s been using to protect her bipolar self from psychological fragmentation.

He is disgusted with her phony charade, but he cannot see the pain she went through that brought her to this. He’s tearing down her fake performance, and he’s about to bring her to that state of fragmentation. But first, he’ll go into the bathroom to change into his pajamas.

Just as before, when she suggested to Stella that their escape from Stanley would be a call to Western Union to contact Shep (Scene Four, page 44), she’s at the phone, trying to do it again for real, to save herself from this beast (pages 94-95).

She hears noises from outside at night. She leaves the phone and, according to the stage directions, she goes to the kitchen. Outside, a drunkard is attacking a prostitute. This is obvious foreshadowing of what’s about to happen to her.

Stanley comes back from the bathroom, having changed into his pajamas, and he’s looking at her lewdly. Part of the problem of being labelled a ‘cheap’ or ‘easy’ woman is, of course, how she becomes prey for lecherous men. Mitch gave Blanche a try; now, Stanley wants to…only he’ll be much more insistent on it.

He hangs up the phone on her, and he’s standing in a place where he can stop her from getting away. She knows what that look in his eyes means, and she needs to protect herself, so she smashes a bottle and points the jagged end at him (page 96).

She tries to fight the good fight, “some rough-house,” but he overpowers her, of course. Now that they’re going to have “this date” (an interesting choice of words on Stanley’s part, reminding us of how her dating Mitch ended), he picks her up and takes her to the bed (page 97). She moans and yields to him in all hopelessness.

XIV: Scene Eleven

A few weeks later, Stella is home with the baby, and she’s packing Blanche’s things. Eunice also comes by.

Stanley is playing poker with Steve, Mitch, and Pablo again at the kitchen table. The atmosphere of this game is the same as the last one (page 98).

Pablo curses at Stanley in Spanish, making the latter call the former a “greaseball.” Once again, the use of ethnic slurs demonstrates the lack of solidarity among the working class.

Blanche has told Stella that Stanley raped her, but Stella refuses to believe it (page 99). Eunice agrees that Stella should never believe it, since she’d never be able to carry on with Stanley. This understanding brings us back to the theme of illusions that keep the pain away, that protect us from fragmentation.

Blanche has finished bathing and is ready to come out of the bathroom. She’s full of anxiety and insecurity, wondering if the coast is clear (i.e., no men to see her), and if she’s failed to rinse all of the soap out of her hair (page 100). Stella and Eunice try to comfort and humour her by telling her how good she looks.

Blanche is still hoping for Shep Huntleigh to call her and take her on that cruise. Again, Stella and Eunice are humouring her with this fantasy, knowing full well that it’s a psychiatrist who is about to take her away. Again, they have to keep her illusions intact, for reality will destroy her.

Blanche imagines she’s going to spend the rest of her life on the sea (page 102). She thinks she’ll die holding “the hand of some nice-looking ship’s doctor, a very young one…” How ironic that it’s actually going to be a doctor who takes her away…and not a young or handsome one.

The doctor and nurse, or matron, arrive at the door and ring the doorbell. Blanche, of course, is full of hope that it’s Shep who has come to her rescue. How disappointed she’ll be.

As Blanche looks in shock at these two unexpected and unwanted visitors, she can hear the Varsouviana again. This was the music she heard just before her husband’s suicide, which in turn led to the events that have been corroding her whole sense of self. She’s hearing the music again in her mind; it’s a trigger leading to her destruction.

She’s trying to escape from the two visitors, claiming she forgot something (page 104). The nurse goes in after her and calls out to her, her voice echoing in Blanche’s mind, a threatening echo that suggests a recurring pain, a returning trauma.

Stanley, impatient to get rid of her, asks if it’s the paper lantern she wants. He tears it off the light-bulb and gestures to give it to her. According to the stage directions, “She cries out as if the lantern was herself.” (page 105) Of course she’d see it that way: all that Blanche has been, to keep her sanity, is a covering-up of the light, a comforting dimness, her narcissistic False Self. Revealing the light’s brightness exposes her True Self and all the ugliness she perceives it to be.

This is her succumbing to psychological fragmentation.

As the nurse is restraining her, Mitch gets up and tries to hit Stanley for his cruelty to Blanche. Mitch would seem to have a modicum of gallantry after all. Stanley’s denial of guilt shows he’s as fake about his commonality as she is about hers.

It is the Doctor, however, whose gentlemanly act of removing his hat and greeting her, that calms her down, restoring her comforting illusions. Stanley’s raping of her means that he has put his filth and commonality inside her, something she cannot expel. For her, kindness comes from strangers, not from people close to her.

The 1951 film changed the ending by having Stella refuse to be with Stanley anymore, since the old Motion Picture Production Code would never tolerate his rape going unpunished. No divorce, of course, but no easy forgiveness of him, either. Among social conservatives, there can be no acceptance of such violence against women as rape, however much the law may allow guilty men to slip through its cracks.

Williams’s play, however, exposes the ugly side of society by granting no justice or satisfaction to the long-suffering marginalized: ‘fallen’ women, ‘degenerate’ gays, ‘mama’s boys,’ ‘Polacks,’ ‘Chinamen,’ and ‘greaseballs.’ Williams would not whitewash cruel reality.

XV: Conclusion

You see, the cruel irony of “depend[ing] on the kindness of strangers” is twofold for Blanche. On the one hand, those strangers who were ‘kind’ to her were the Johns who solicited prostitution from her in exchange for money so she could survive–in other words, total exploitation. On the other hand, those she’s known well have hurt her the most: her husband, whose suicide was an abandoning of her; Mitch, who abandoned her out of a refusal to forgive her for her shady past; Stanley, for obvious reasons; and even Stella, for refusing to believe her accusation of Stanley (her relationship to her oaf of a husband being more important to her than her loyalty to her sister), and for allowing Blanche to be taken to a mental institution, her final humiliation.

In a world of alienation, only strangers can be kind.

Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire, London, Penguin Books, 1947

Analysis of Anton Webern’s ‘Zwei Lieder,’ Op. 19

I: Introduction

“Zwei Lieder,” or “Two Songs,” op. 19, is a short piece for mixed choir and five instruments by Anton Webern, set to two poems by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. It was composed in 1925-1926; the five instruments are celesta, guitar, violin, clarinet, and bass clarinet, with a choir of sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses.

Webern, along with Alban Berg (who composed the opera Wozzeck), was one of the most famous pupils of Arnold Schoenberg (who composed Pierrot Lunaire), these three composers being the most famous members of the Second Viennese School, who used Schoenberg’s twelve-note compositional technique. This technique involves taking the twelve semitones and rearranging them in any order to produce a tone row, or basic set. This tone row becomes the thematic, melodic, and harmonic basis of a composition.

Because the twelve-note system eschews the major-minor system, the resulting music is atonal, and therefore it is an acquired taste, to put it mildly. One must get used to the ’emancipation of the dissonance,’ which is no longer required to be resolved quickly back to consonance, and so the music sounds ‘harsh’ to the uninitiated listener.

When it comes to Webern’s music, I usually prefer to listen to his instrumental works, such as the Symphony, op. 21 (1927-1928), the Five Movements for String Quartet, op. 5 (1909), the Piano Quintet (1907), the Concerto for Nine Instruments, op. 24 (1931-1934), and the Quartet, op. 22 (1928-1930), for clarinet, tenor saxophone, violin, and piano. However, since when it comes to my doing analyses of music here on my blog, I prefer to have programmatic content along with the music, I’ve chosen a Webern composition with a text, among his music that I don’t listen to all that often.

Therefore, I’ve chosen to analyze his “Zwei Lieder,” among his least-performed, and therefore least-known, compositions. The reason that this otherwise superb piece of music is so rarely performed is that Webern’s choice of instrumentation is, sadly, impractical from the point of view of setting up performances of it. A choir, combined with the odd assembly of five instruments I mentioned above, all to perform a piece that lasts about two minutes, will be too much trouble for most organizers of concerts to put together.

Such a piece is best performed as a recording, and here is a link to a recording of the piece. Here is a link to the first poem in the original German and in English translation (which I will not be quoting here!); and here is a link to the second poem in the original German and in French translation (which I wouldn’t be quoting here even if I had permission to!).

The text of the two poems, in the original German as well as in English and French translations, can be found also in the booklet (pages 142-143) for the Complete Works of Webern, Opp. 1-31, conducted by Pierre Boulez for Sony Classical. I’ll be using these texts as the basis of my interpretation of the poetry; the websites linked in the previous paragraph are just there for your information, Dear Reader.

II: The Music

The tone row that Webern uses for the setting of both poems is G, B-flat, F-sharp, F-natural, E-flat, A, G-sharp, C-sharp, D, B-natural, E-natural, and C-natural. The “Zwei Lieder,” op. 19, is Webern’s first work to use the same tone row all the way through the entire composition.

A tone row can be played out in four ways: the original order, inversion (upside-down), retrograde (backwards), and retrograde-inversion (both backwards and upside-down). Furthermore, the tone row can be transposed to any key other than the original set of pitches. In the case of the “Zwei Lieder,” Webern transposes the tone row by a tritone, the diabolus in musica.

Now, as Samuel Andreyev demonstrates in his musical analysis of Webern’s piece (and my analysis owes a great debt to Andreyev’s analysis of the piece), one would find it impossible to hear the tone row played out in a clear, linear fashion because Webern breaks up the tone row among the instruments and choir in a way that the ear could never follow, certainly not without reading the score as one is listening.

For a precise demonstration of how the tone row is manifested in the piece, I’ll leave that to Andreyev to explain, since I lack his technical expertise. Instead, I’ll just make some more general remarks about the music.

Instead of the traditional kind of melody, which flows and is linear, having a singing quality, Webern’s concise musical style tends toward punctualism–an isolating of the successive notes through wide leaps, unorthodox uses of duration, dynamics, and attacks that are divorced from conventional ‘expressivity’–and Klangfarbenmelodie, or an assigning of the successive notes of a melody to different instruments. Therefore, melody isn’t perceived as musical lines, but rather as musical ‘dots,’ if you will.

Because of these kinds of innovations in Webern’s music, he has been associated, in retrospect, with the postwar total serialism of composers like Boulez (i.e., his Le Marteau Sans Maître) and Karlheinz Stockhausen (i.e., his Gesang der Jünglinge). Webern’s puncualism and Klangfarbenmelodie have been seen as anticipating the 1950s serializing of not only pitch, but also all the musical parameters as listed in the previous paragraph.

III: The Text

Goethe’s poems are both sets of two four-line verses in trochaic tetrameter (a line has four feet, each of which has a stressed, then unstressed, syllable), with a rhyme scheme of ABAB CDCD. They are vignettes of the beauty of nature, of flowers in bloom or soon to be in bloom. Images or scenes of natural beauty were something Webern always loved, and I understand that even among his instrumental works, there was the inspiration of nature.

His choice of having a mixed choir sing these verses–as opposed to, say, having just one singer–what must have been the main factor in causing the logistical difficulties in having op. 19 performed, must have been of such insistent importance to him, overruling the practical problems that would have forbidden frequent performances of the piece. I’m guessing that the choral singing was meant to give the verses a sense of holiness. For Webern, nature is sacred.

These poems are inspired by Chinese literature; in fact, these two poems are part of a cycle Goethe composed, called Chinesisch-deutsche Jahres- und Tageszeiten (“Chinese-German Seasons and Times of Day”). Chinese literature, all things Chinese, actually, had been quite popular in Europe at the time of his writing, ever since Voltaire‘s time.

The first poem describes narcissus flowers blooming in a garden in rows. The first verse gives us a vivid sense not just of the flowers’ beauty, but also of their ‘innocence,’ ‘purity,’ and ‘modesty.’ Since when is a narcissus modest, I wonder?

Indeed, one thing to keep in mind when interpreting poetry, or literature in general, is that things often aren’t as they seem. We may be reading a beautiful description of nature, but what the imagery is meant to represent may not be all that beautiful…once we have looked beneath the surface.

The narcissus flowers are as white as lilies; they have the purity of candles. Candles may give light, which is inherently a good thing, but the light comes from fire, the fire of the passions, which are anything but pure. Goethe’s word for pure is reine, the same word Heinrich Heine used in “Du bist wie eine Blume” (“You are like a flower”), “So hold und schön und rein” (“So lovely, fair, and pure”), a poem about a woman whose ‘purity’ broke Heine’s heart. ‘Purity’ isn’t necessarily a good thing.

Goethe would have been perfectly aware of the Echo and Narcissus myth, in which the latter broke the former’s heart, and the latter was punished for his vanity by being made to fall in love with the image of his own reflection in a pond, meaning that the handsome youth, in a sense, broke his own heart. In his grief over never being able to have what he saw, Narcissus died and turned into the flower of Goethe’s poem.

Now, obviously neither Webern nor especially Goethe would have known anything about narcissism in the modern psychiatric sense that people today would know of it. The seeds of the personality type, however–the vanity, haughtiness, and pitiless rejection of others–would have been intuited in the mythic character of Narcissus, intuited especially by a poet of Goethe’s stature. So on at least an unconscious level, Goethe must have used the flower as a symbol of sinful pride; Webern must have picked up on this idea–again, at least unconsciously, and reflected it somehow in his music.

Similarly, while Webern would never have consciously thought of the music he’d arranged for the poems as ‘harsh,’ he certainly knew, from the conservative public’s reaction to his atonal works (and those of his modernist contemporaries, like Schoenberg and Berg), that they were perceived that way. And even though his “Zwei Lieder” use softer sonorities, their atonality, dissonance, and wide melodic leaps are all clear signs of musical tension, deliberately used. Therefore this tension, set to these poems, suggests a sensitivity in his mind to Goethe’s expression of an undercurrent of tension in otherwise surface idyllic verses.

Now, I’m about to do a kind of ‘retrospective’ interpretation of these verses, applying a modern meaning to writing that’s showed no knowledge of contemporary ideas. Some of my readers, such as one who commented on my analysis of the Echo and Narcissus myth (link above), would balk at my ‘projecting of modern ways of seeing’ onto old texts, insisting instead that whatever the original meaning there was of the old text is the only ‘correct’ way of thinking about it.

I beg to differ. Just because the writing is old doesn’t mean the interpretation has to be old. The arts are not STEM fields: they don’t have only one correct answer, like 2 + 2 = 4, and an infinitude of incorrect answers. Artists often are reticent about what they’ve created because they want to allow us to find our own meaning in their works. Insisting that the work means only what the artist had originally intended takes all the fun and joy out of experiencing the work.

Another justification I have for interpreting the meaning of a work of literature, film, or piece of music, drawing on elements that came into being long after the work was created, is to give the work a new meaning and relevance for us now, so we can relate to it in our own way and therefore enjoy it far more. Insisting that the work’s ‘ancient meaning’ is its only meaning makes the work dead to us now.

Besides, some themes and ideas are so universal that they apply to all times of history, including those times when people knew nothing of the modern concepts. Just because narcissism wasn’t known as a personality disorder in, for example, ancient Greece, doesn’t mean that narcissists didn’t exist back then, let alone cause pain and suffering to the Echoes of their day.

With this understanding in mind, I can begin to do my interpretation of these verses. We should also keep in mind when Webern set the poems to music: in the mid-1920s, when certain…politically tempestuous…things were going on in Europe, in Germany and Austria in particular. As of the piece’s composition, Hitler would have been released from prison after having served just over eight months of his sentence for the crime of high treason after the failed Beer Hall Putsch. The Nazi Party may not have achieved their immediate goal of taking over the German government, but they did gain national attention and their first propaganda victory, which surely would have gotten Webern’s attention.

As an Austrian patriot, Webern did, for a while at least, have some sympathy for Nazism. By the time the Nazis had come to power in the early 1930s, though, he was growing in opposition to them. He even gave a public speech in 1933, publicly denouncing the Nazis for calling his music, as well as that of Schoenberg and Berg, “cultural Bolshevism” and “degenerate music.” (He was lucky the Nazis didn’t arrest him for this.)

He was certainly never an antisemite. His musical mentor, Schoenberg, was a Jew. He resigned from a position as chorus master for the Mödling Men’s Choral Society in 1926 (the year he finished his “Zwei Lieder”) over his controversial hiring of a Jewish singer, Greta Wilheim, to replace a sick one. So his attitude towards Nazism was complicated.

I’ll now relate these political issues to how I imagine Webern could have read Goethe’s poems. To think that Goethe would have intended the interpretation I’m about to make would be absurd, and I admit I’m stretching things when I make speculations about Webern interpreting them in the way I’m about to describe. But in making this interpretation, I’m hoping not only to make the poems relevant for our time, but also to show that there’s more to them than just a pretty painting of nature in words–there’s a deeper meaning.

These narcissus flowers, white and pure, like stars, are as pretty as lilies. They bow with a modest demeanour. Since, as I noted above, the associations one makes of this flower with vain Narcissus are so obvious, then the flowers appearing so modest must be mere affectation on their part.

The white flowers have a yellow centre with a red rim circling it, glowing love, as the first verse points out. This red around the yellow middle is thus the loving heart of the flowers. This love, affection, and affinity of the flowers is thus a personifying of them…and an idealizing of them.

This idealizing of the narcissus flowers is significant, for as is associated with such flowers, narcissism is all about an idealizing of the self. As is indicated in the second verse, these early narcissus flowers have bloomed in the garden in rows. They are a group symbolizing beautiful and idealized, but also vain, self-important people. They are thus representative of group narcissism.

Now Freud, who discussed how groups of people living in the same community may look down on those outside their circle with contempt, was writing about this issue as an example of group psychology in 1922, which was just a few years before Webern composed his “Zwei Lieder.” I’m not suggesting that Webern read Freud’s work and was influenced by it in setting the poems to music. What I am saying is that we’ve all–at any point in history, even back to Goethe and earlier–sensed the arrogance of the in-group toward outsiders. Parochial, chauvinistic attitudes have existed since time immemorial.

So, is Webern’s choral setting of the poems meant to suggest a holy beauty in these flowers, or a ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude? Webern surely would have been aware of the hyperinflation of Germany in the early 1920s and its effect on the German psyche. This pain is the kind of thing that can drive people to have nationalistic feelings, to looking for a leader who will ‘save the nation’ from its ruin. As we know, some Germans looked to Hitler in the hopes of such a saviour.

I suspect that Webern could have read such a meaning in the poem’s hope that the narcissus flowers know for whom they’re waiting. As they stand in their rows waiting for their idealized leader, they are described in the original German as “so spaliert erwarten,” or “so trellised in expectation.” They’re being held up, as if by a trellis, which implies that they’re “stand[ing] at attention,” as the translation in my CD booklet (page 143) has it.

Narcissism involves an idealizing of another–an idealized parental imago who may mirror back one’s grandiosity, as Heinz Hohut described the relationship, or an idealized political figure–who reflects back one’s own narcissism. This is the true meaning of Narcissus falling in love with his reflection in the pond: the ideal is oneself, yet it’s also out there, another, as Lacan spoke of the ideal-I in the mirror stage. One sees oneself in the idealized other, and hopes to attain that ideal oneself.

So the narcissus flowers, standing at attention in their neatly-arrayed rows in the garden…a kind of Garden of Eden in its idealization?…are like the SA standing at attention before Hitler, whom they wait for, in hopeful expectation, ‘to save’ their nation, while looking down with scorn and contempt for foreign nations and other ethnic groups.

Webern could have made these associations in his mind–consciously or unconsciously–as he read Goethe’s poem, and written the music the way he did in accordance with such a meaning–with the dissonance, atonality, and wide melodic leaps to express his own inner conflicts (should he, in his Austrian patriotism, support fascism, or oppose its antisemitism and rejection of his art?) about the political direction he saw Europe going in at the time.

As for Goethe’s intention, he could have imagined the narcissus flowers standing in an orderly group awaiting a leader of a more general sort, but one who has the same demagogic qualities. This ‘follow the leader’ mentality has always existed, of course, so his poem has a universal relatability in this regard.

Now, the second poem describes sheep leaving a meadow, revealing a pure green of grass. There’s that word, “reines,” or “pure” again: recall what I said above about both the positive and negative feelings that can come from the use of this word.

So, who are the sheep? Are they those who are timid and easily led, as the word is commonly used today to describe people who blindly believe all the nonsense in the mainstream media and follow mainstream politics uncritically? Such a meaning could be too contemporary and too English to be fitting in a reading of such an old, German poem.

Or are the sheep the followers of the Church? Certainly Goethe, as a freethinker, wasn’t fond of the more dogmatic aspects of the Church, and so he probably wouldn’t have thought much of the simple-minded, unthinking flock. The sheep’s leaving the meadow, to reveal the purity of the green, could be indicating an improved world once we’ve been rid of the uncritical believers.

Or are the sheep those who truly abide by the spirit of what it means to be a Christian, as opposed to the mere conformist churchgoers? Not those who say “Lord, Lord,” but those who do good works without regard of reward (Matthew 7:21)? Their leaving the meadow could reveal a grass whose purity is of a more ironic sort.

In any case, the sheep’s absence will result in the glorious blooming of the flowers. This blooming is described as a “paradise” (recall my reference to the Garden of Eden in its idealization). Again, is Webern’s use of a choir to sing these verses in earnest, or is it ironic? And whichever answer may be correct, for which is it in earnest, and for which is it ironic…for the sheep, or for the paradise?

Note that there are parallel themes going on in both poems. There’s an idealizing of the beauty of the flowers, with an ironic undercurrent. By the end of each second verse, there’s a hope or expectation of good which may end up being its opposite.

Hope, in the second verse, spreads a light mist in front of us, implying that what we see is no longer clear because of that hope. What will be true and what we want to be true are often very different from each other.

Similarly, a parting of the clouds should give us clear, sunny skies (‘the fire of the sun’), and therefore clear vision. Just as one hopes that the leader the narcissus flowers are waiting for will be a good one, so does one hope that one’s unobstructed vision will reveal happiness and the fulfillment of one’s wishes.

IV: Conclusion

Among all of the German and Austrian nationalists, like Webern, there was a growing feeling that fascism might fulfill their wishes and give them happiness by restoring glory to their countries. While he felt that national pride and hoped that leaders like Hitler would fulfill those wishes, his continued friendship with Jews, going all the way to the Anschluss and beyond, would have been a source of great conflict for him, not to mention a potential danger.

He surely would have felt that conflict as early as the mid-1920s, when he composed the “Zwei Lieder,” for Hitler had made no secret of his antisemitism, of course, just as he was putting his nationalism on broad display. I believe the second poem’s expression of hope as a mist obscuring one’s vision put Webern’s conflict into words.

Similarly, as I said above, the atonality, dissonance, and wide melodic leaps at least unconsciously expressed his psychological conflict about the growth of European fascism in the 1920s. This musical expression of that conflict extends to the transposition of the tone row by the tritone interval…known significantly as the ‘devil in music.’

So Goethe’s poems teach us that we need to be careful as we look through the mists of hope, as well as to know who we are waiting for. Will we get that happiness, or will we get horror? Are we waiting for a hero, or a villain? In Webern’s case, he got shot and killed by an American soldier in the end, after having been disillusioned by fascism’s bloody failure. Be careful what you hope for…and for whom you are waiting.

Analysis of ‘It,’ Part VII (Final Part)

Here are links to Parts I, II, III, IV, V, and VI, if you haven’t read them yet.

XXIX: Out

This chapter begins with another description of the rainstorm outside, and how things have developed as of 9:00 to 10:00 AM (pages 1411-1415). As with the last such description, it’s all one continuous paragraph (this time, for about four and a half pages) except for the last sentence, in which Andrew Keene, grandson of Norbert, isn’t sure if he can believe what he’s seen: the destruction of the Standpipe, something that up until then “had stood for his whole life.” (page 1415)

As I said last time, this uninterrupted flow of words, in its mass of formlessness, represents the undifferentiated trauma of Lacan’s Real. We may be reading words here, but their presentation, without any breaks except for the last sentence, suggests a lack of order, a kind of word salad, symbolizing the inability to verbalize.

Wind-speeds are at an average of fifty-five miles an hour, with gusts of up to seventy (page 1411). Though the water department initially ruled out a flooding of downtown Derry, it’s now not only possible but imminent, and for the first time since the summer of 1958, when the kid Losers went into the sewers.

Howard Gardener has a brief image of Hitler and Judas Iscariot, two of the great villains of history, handing out ice-skates; the water is now almost at the top of the Canal’s cement walls. Adding to the apocalyptic theme, Harold will tell his wife later that he thinks the end of the world is coming (page 1412).

By page 1413, the Standpipe already has a pronounced lean, like the tower of Pisa. As I said above, Andrew Keene has watched its whole destruction in disbelief (pages 1412-1415), though he’s been smoking so much Colombia Red that at first he thinks he’s been hallucinating.

Meanwhile, down in the tunnels, adult Bill and Richie are still going after It (page 1416). It wants them to let It go, but they’re very close now.

The Spider offers Bill and Richie long lives of two, three, five hundred years if they’ll let It go (page 1417). It will make the two men gods of the Earth–one is reminded of Satan tempting Jesus in the wilderness (Matthew 4:8-9).

Bill and Richie start hitting the Spider with their right fists and with not only all their might, but also with “the force of the Other,” this being Gan, as I’ve mentioned in earlier parts of this analysis, but that force is also that Lacanian Other of social togetherness as against the dyadic, one-on-one narcissism that uses only one other as an extension of oneself. This is the Other of solidarity: it’s “the force of memory and desire” [recall their lovemaking with Bev when they were kids, and how I said it symbolized their solidarity]… “the force of love and unforgotten childhood.” (page 1417)

The section is titled The Kill, for this is where Bill finally kills It by plunging his hand into the Spider and crushing Its heart (page 1418). To do Shadow work properly, you have to go down deep into the darkness, and get to the heart of the matter.

After the Spider dies, Bill hears the Voice of the Other, telling him he “did real good.”, even though the Turtle, it would seem, is dead (page 1419). Gan, the real God of Stephen King’s cosmology, is very much alive.

In the next section, Derry 10:00-10:15 AM, we confront the destruction of downtown Derry. The statue of Paul Bunyan has exploded (page 1420). Recall how it was associated with Pennywise when adult Richie was terrorized by It; fittingly, it’s destroyed around the time that Bill has killed the Spider.

And at 10:02 AM, again, when Bill has killed It, downtown Derry collapses (page 1421). When Bill regroups with Bev, Ben, and Richie, they get Audra, and they’re trying to find their way out (in the section fittingly titled Out, pages 1429-1435); they are aware of a growing light that shouldn’t be there in the Canal under the city (page 1431).

This is what happens when one does Shadow work: one goes deep into the darkness, into the heart of the matter, and one makes the darkness light. One integrates dark and light. What is unconscious is made conscious. This is what the collapsing of downtown Derry symbolizes.

The Losers realize that the street has caved in, for they recognize pieces of the Aladdin movie theatre down there with them (page 1432). This mixing of parts of upper, surface Derry with the underground symbolizes that integration of the conscious with the unconscious, a uniting of the dark with the light. Indeed, it seems to Bill that most of downtown Derry is in the Canal and being carried down the Kenduskeag River (page 1433).

The Losers climb up to the surface of the city, carrying catatonic Audra (page 1434). A small crowd applauds them when they’ve emerged (page 1435). The applause is fitting, even if the crowd doesn’t know what the Losers have just done, for they deserve it nonetheless–they’re the heroes of Derry. The Losers have become the Winners. The mark of that small door, they’ve noticed, is gone (page 1428). The cuts on their hands–from their childhood pledge to return to Derry if It returned (dealt with in the section titled Out/Dusk, August 10th 1958, pages 1440-1444)–are gone. The ordeal is finally over.

Bill, Ben, Bev, and Richie reach the corner of Upper Main and Point Street; there they see a kid in a red rainslicker sailing a paper boat along water running in the gutter (pages 1438-1439). Bill thinks it’s the boy with the skateboard he met before. He tells the boy that everything is all right now, and to be careful on his skateboard. Since the kid’s rainslicker is red instead of yellow, and since Pennywise is gone, perhaps all he needs to worry about now is the Big Bad Wolf.

Of course, not everything is all right. Bill still has to deal with what’s happened to Audra. I’ve discussed in Part II [see the chapter, “Bill Denbrough Beats the Devil (I)”] how he does this. The point is that it will involve once again the novel’s theme of facing one’s fears.

XXX: Derry: The Last Interlude

Just as there is duality in so many other forms as I’ve described them in It–namely, the dialectical unity of opposites–there is also duality in the ending of the novel in the form of two epilogues, this last interlude and the actual epilogue after it.

Things are disappearing, as Mike notes in his journaling, starting June 4th, 1985. Bill’s stutter is disappearing (page 1447). The fading away of his speech impediment symbolizes how his resuming of the regular spoken use of language marks his leaving the trauma of the Real and his re-entry into the Symbolic, into society, a healing union with other people. He just has to achieve the same thing for catatonic Audra, who won’t say a thing.

Richie has disappeared: he’s flown back to California. Their memories of what happened are also slowly disappearing (page 1448). Just little details are being forgotten for now. Bill thinks the forgetting is going to spread, but Mike thinks that that may be for the best.

It’s a bad thing to repress trauma, so it’s there, bothering you without you being able to figure out what it is so you can do something about it. It’s also a bad thing, though, to ruminate endlessly over past pain. Since they have killed It once and for all, it’s probably best for them to let it go. In bad remembering and bad forgetting, we have another duality in It.

At the same time, though, there’s also good remembering and forgetting–in this case, their friends. Bill thinks that maybe he’ll stay in touch with Mike, for a while, but the forgetting will put that to an end. Ben later hugs Mike and asks if he’ll write to Ben and Bev…again, Mike will write for a while, for as with Bill, Mike knows he’s forgetting things, too (page 1451).

After a month or a year, his notebook will be all he has to remember what happened in Derry. Forgetting is filling Mike with panic, but it also offers him relief. This, again, is an example of the good/bad duality in the novel. Because It is finally and truly dead, no one needs to stand guard for Its reappearance twenty-seven years later.

Fifty percent of Derry is still underwater, the apocalyptic consequence of having destroyed It (page 1452). How does one rebuiild a city whose downtown has collapsed in a kind of Great Flood?

The forgetting is continuing. Mike has forgotten Stan’s last name (page 1454). Richie has forgotten it, too–was it Underwood? No, that isn’t a Jewish name…no, it was Uris, they finally remember.

Mike has almost forgotten Stan and Eddie. Did the latter have asthma, or a chronic migraine (page 1455)? He phones Bill and asks: Bill remembers the asthma and the aspirator, which Mike recalls only when Bill has mentioned it (page 1456). Mike has also forgotten Eddie’s surname; Bill thinks it was something like Kerkorian, but of course that’s wrong.

Yet another thing is disappearing: the names and addresses of Mike’s friends in his book (page 1457). He could rewrite and rewrite everything, but he suspects that the rewrites will all fade away, so why bother?

He has a nightmare that makes him wake up in a panic, and he can’t breathe. He also can’t remember the dream (page 1458). Such is the nature of repressed trauma. All this stuff is forgotten, but it’s still in one’s head. Still in his hospital bed, Mike has a vision of that male nurse with the needle…or of Henry and his switchblade.

Bill is the only one Mike remembers clearly now. Bill has an “idea” of what he can do about Audra, but it’s so crazy that he doesn’t want to tell Mike what it is (page 1457).

XXXI: Epilogue: Bill Denbrough Beats the Devil (II)

His crazy idea, of course, is to take catatonic Audra on Silver, his old bike, and ride with her out into the danger of the traffic, to snap her out of it. This racing on his bike, risking a crash and serious injury, if not death, is him trying to beat the Devil, as he did as a kid when racing to the drugstore to get Eddie’s medicine.

It’s an insane, desperate act, but as with his friend, Eddie, it’s an act of selflessness, for if Audra dies with Bill in a crash, it probably won’t matter, for in her catatonia, she’s already in a state of living death…Lacan’s Real, with no differentiation between life and death, and no ability to verbalize her trauma, to leave the Real and enter the Symbolic.

To leave the Real, one must have a sense of differentiation. Bill is getting a sense of that for himself before he imposes differentiation on Audra. He goes from naked in Mike’s bedroom (Bill and Audra have been staying in Mike’s house until he is released from the hospital) to fully dressed (pages 1461-1462). He goes from inside to outside, taking Silver out of the garage and onto the driveway (page 1463); he’s been thinking about leaving Derry, too, from inside the city to outside (pages 1463-1464).

In his imagination, Bill sees Derry as it was when he was a kid, a differentiation between the past and the present, between his childhood and his adulthood, for those memories–including the intact Paul Bunyan statue–are in stark contrast with the destroyed Derry of the present (page 1464).

He needs Audra to experience differentiation, too, between life and death, specifically, and by putting both of them right on the brink between the two, he hopes she’ll sense that differentiation and snap out of it. The danger of this, of course, is augmented by the fact that he’s way too old to be doing stunts on his old bike.

Naturally, he’s also full of conflict over whether he should be doing this–surely, he can’t!–and yet if he doesn’t at least try it, she’ll stay in her catatonia for the rest of her life. It, as I’ve observed in the previous parts, is all about facing one’s fears, for doing so is how the beat the Devil.

As he’s riding, in imitation of the Lone Ranger, Bill shouts out “Hi-yo Silver, AWAYYYYYYY!” (page 1468), as he used to do as a kid. Like the Lone Ranger, he is being a hero for Audra as he was for Eddie, yet paradoxically, he could also be about to kill her. We see the good/bad duality once again.

There’s also been his contemplation of leaving Derry, and whether or not he should look back (page 1469). It’s best not to look back: after all, Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt for looking back at burning Sodom and Gomorrah. This must be why the Losers are forgetting everything–we mustn’t look back. Audra has to be snapped out of her catatonia, even to the point of risking death, because that catatonia is her, in a psychological sense, ceaselessly looking back on what traumatized her in the Spider’s lair. That trauma is turning her into a pillar of salt, so to speak.

As Bill is racing on his bike, people are shouting at him to be careful (page 1470). He comes extremely close to some crash barriers by a slipstream. Then he hears Audra’s voice: “Bill?” (page 1471). She’s asking him where they are, and what they’re doing. She’s using language; she’s re-entered the Symbolic and left the Real. She’s snapped out of it!

Now Bill can do his Lone Ranger routine with perfect confidence. His idea worked! He is a true hero! He’s beat the Devil!

In fact, he too has fully re-entered the Symbolic, for he realizes that his stutter is all gone (page 1472), and it seems that it’s gone for good.

As for his childhood memories, their beliefs and desires, and his dreams, Bill will write about them all one day (page 1473), for as I’ve said in the other parts of this analysis, writing is good therapy.

XXXII: Conclusion

So, the whole point of It is to face one’s fears, to confront the Shadow, and to make the dark light–that is, to integrate, reconcile, and unify such opposites as the dark and the light, good and evil (i.e., by confronting the evil, one finds the good), the self with the other, etc. In a fragmented world where we find ourselves not only cut off from each other, but also cut off from other parts of ourselves, integration and unification are necessary for us to be reacquainted with the intuitive idea that all is one, where inner peace is finally found, where one discovers one’s true self.

Discovering our true selves isn’t a simple matter of discarding our false selves, though; the Persona and the Self must be integrated, too, for the Persona is a part of the totality of the Self. This is why Bill had to speak in a voice other than his own to recite the couplet without stuttering and thus weaken It. Eddie had to let himself be duped by the ‘efficacy’ of his aspirator to help defeat It, too, since les non-dupes errent.

Integrating all of the opposites to reach that all-is-one unity in the Self is no form of sentimentality. It’s difficult, dangerous, and scary work, as the Losers learned inside those sewers. To reach heaven, the ouroboros‘ biting head (see Part VI, in XXVII: Under the City, for an elaboration of my interpretation of the symbolism of the ouroboros), one must first pass through the serpent’s bitten tail…hell. Such a crossing over of extremes, reconciling them, is what It is all about.

Stephen King, It, New York, Pocket Books, 1986

Analysis of ‘It,’ Part VI

Here are Parts I, II, III, IV, and V, if you haven’t read them yet.

XXVI: The Circle Closes

In this chapter, we return to the involvement of Tom Rogan and Audra in the story. In fact, the first two sections of this chapter are named Tom and Audra (pages 1278 and 1283). Both of these characters are having nightmares.

Tom’s dream is fascinating in how he’s seeing everything through the eyes of a similar psychopath, teen Henry. First, he sees himself pressing the button on the switchblade and stabbing Butch Bowers in the neck. Then, he sees himself in the sewers with Victor and Belch, chasing the Losers (page 1279).

It’s fitting that Tom should see himself as Henry, not just because both are abusive, but also because both were abused…by their fathers. One crucial difference, though, is that–as despicable as Tom is–he wouldn’t kill: he didn’t kill, and wouldn’t have killed, his father as Henry did, so seeing himself about to commit patricide is more than disturbing for him.

We recall the many patterns and parallels of abusive relationships in the novel: Al/Tom vs Beverly, Eddie vs his mom/Myra, Butch vs Henry, Eddie Corcoran vs his father, and Henry’s gang vs the Losers. What’s important in emphasizing the parallels between Tom and Henry is how both were abused by their fathers, so both learned that one ‘solves’ relationship problems through power and control in the form of abuse. To reinforce the parallel between Tom’s and Henry’s fathers, both fathers have alliterative names–Ralph Rogan, and Butch Bowers (page 1278).

Just as Tom imagined, from what he’d learned about getting “whoppins” if his younger brother and sisters–put in his charge from a young age–ever did wrong, he now imagines that the kids he’s chasing in the sewers need “a whoppin” (pages 1278-1279).

Tom’s fear of his father, just like teen Henry’s fear of his, is enough to make his killing of Ralph unthinkable…just as coward Henry’s would have been, had Henry not lived in the Trauma-town of Derry. So with Tom’s entrance into Trauma-town, now he is having the same unconscious murderous phantasies as every other resident there. His nightmare is actually wish-fulfillment.

Chasing the Losers in the sewers is also wish-fulfillment for Tom, since little Bev is one of the people being chased. All of these parallels of abusers and abused, especially when embodied in people within the city limits of Derry, reflect how It personifies not just the violent aspects of the Shadow, but of the Collective Shadow in general.

Tom deems the sewers to be a smelly purgatory (page 1279), which they are, since as representations of the unconscious mind, they can purge one of one’s trauma (i.e., through Jungian Shadow work and Active Imagination), provided that one navigates these passages correctly and has the courage to face It head on, as the young Losers, under Bill’s leadership, are trying to do.

Tom, like Henry, does not have the strength of character to be able to face his dark sides, so even dreaming about doing so is too much for him (page 1280). Just as Al, who recall had just been chasing after Bev out of suspicions that she’d been messing around with boys, so is Tom now chasing her out of suspicions that she’s fooling around with one of them, Bill, and has been sneaking (phallic) smokes. It’s easier to project aggression and wield control over her than to control himself, therefore it’s easy to equate Tom with Henry.

Tom wakes up, and for a moment he isn’t sure if he’s awake or still dreaming (page 1281), since he thinks he’s seeing one of Pennywise’s balloons. He also gets the feeling that this has been more than just a nightmare: after all, the unconscious is a world of a much deeper and higher truth–this is why surrealism is called what it is called.

Like Henry, Tom is also hearing voices (page 1282). He’s hearing a voice from a balloon tied to the knob of the bathroom door. The voice is telling him to give Beverly and the other Losers “a whoppin“. Hypnotized by the voice no less than Henry has been, Tom obeys Its commands and gets dressed (page 1283).

As I said above, Audra is also having bad dreams. Like Tom, she feels as though she’s in some strange place, and in a different body.

That would be the body of little Beverly in the sewers, being chased by Henry, Victor, and Belch.

Bill is with her, which is fitting, since Audra has been pursuing Bill to Derry. Recall that, when Bill is about to make love with Beverly, he notes how Audra looks like her, so what we have in these shared dreams and experiences are examples of synchronicity.

In Audra’s dream, she-as-Bev is holding his hand, reminding us of his adulterous lovemaking with her, as well as Bev’s cheating on Tom, with whose cuckoldry we of course have no sympathy. We do feel bad for Audra, though, especially when we consider what’s soon to happen to her.

Them all experiencing the sewers, whether in dream or as a distant, repressed memory, or the soon-to-be-experienced second confrontation with It as adults, is an experience of the sewers as the collective unconscious, where all minds merge. Audra feels the terror of the experience (page 1284) because it’s the terror of the Shadow.

The terror is so vivid that she hears the voice of Pennywise telling her that they all float down there after she wakes up and finds herself in bed in a hotel room in the Derry area (pages 1284-1286). She calls the Derry Town House to contact Bill, and the annoyed clerk wonders why so many calls for Bill have to happen that night (page 1287). Bill isn’t in his room because he has to deal with Eddie, as we’ll soon see; but Audra’s getting suspicions that her husband is with another woman (which of course he is–pages 1287-1288). And we can see again just how synchronistic events are getting.

As she’s trying to calm down and reassure herself that, after a bad dream, her suspicions are just over-reactions, she sees the bathroom light go on, and she hears that voice say, “We all float down here, Audra” (page 1288). The TV turns on, and she sees Pennywise.

Terrified, she races out of her room and out of the hotel to the parking lot, the only thing on her mind being finding Bill in the Derry Town House (page 1289). She finds her rented Datsun, not knowing the significance of it being parked nose-to-nose with the LTD wagon Tom Rogan is using (pages 1289-1290). He’s been in the car, having been goaded by It to go there no less than she’s been.

She feels his hand on her shoulder, it forcing her to turn around. He recognizes her as an actress in the movies, then he kidnaps her and takes her to the very sewers she’s just been dreaming of.

We can see why this chapter is named “The Circle Closes.” So many separate strands are being brought together here. Not just the return of the adult Losers to Derry to be reunited with Mike, not just the three uninvited guests of Tom, Audra, and Henry being added to the mix, but there’s also the back-and-forth between the late 1950s and the mid-1980s and the parallelism of these moments. Finally, there’s a kind of merging of the past and present and of inside and outside of Derry, through the unconscious world of dreams…and therefore a fusion of conscious and unconscious.

Fully understood, It narrates the story of a universe where all is one. Different people, even those living far away from each other, are united in one consciousness. The past and present are one. Good and evil are juxtaposed, and therefore one. Wildly differing actions are united through the non-causal, but meaningful coincidences of synchronicity. And the meeting place of all of these separate strands is the collective unconscious, the Collective Shadow, as symbolized by the hellish, smelly, filthy, dark sewer system under Derry.

In the section, Eddie’s Room, beginning on page 1290, Bev and Bill get dressed after receiving the call and go to Eddie’s room. Eddie’s arm is broken again, after the fight with Henry–again, we see the present paralleling the past.

They can’t tell the police about dead Henry, for Eddie will be charged with murder in a town that looks the other way whenever real evil happens (pages 1292-1292). There’s no proof of Eddie killing in self-defense, for Henry’s knife is gone.

They call Richie and Ben, who will arrive right away (page 1293). They try calling Mike, who of course isn’t at home, so they try the library, too. Instead of Mike answering the phone, the Chief of Police answers, and he tells Beverly that Mike is at the Derry Home Hospital, having been “assaulted and badly wounded a short time ago” (page 1294). Since she doesn’t want to tell the cop who she is and what she knows of the assault, he starts to suspect her, being someone who is oddly calling the library so late at night (page 1295).

With Beverly’s stress over the cop’s suspicions, we come to another major theme coalescing here from the experiences of many of the characters: guilt, and accompanying guilt, the fear of being caught in the guilty act. We’ve already dealt with Bill’s guilt over the murder of Georgie, which as I explained in previous parts is based on unconscious wish-fulfillment. Now, there’s Bill’s guilt over cheating on Audra with Bev…and Audra’s on her way, with suspicions of him!

There’s the guilt that Eddie’s mom tried to impose on him for hanging out with friends she didn’t want him to be with. There’s the guilt Al was imposing on little Bev (via his abuse of her) for hanging out with boys.

There’s also the guilt of having really done things (regardless of whether or not they really should be deemed bad) that others disapprove of. Bill was really cheating on Audra. Bev has really cheated on Tom with Bill. Little Bev really had sexual relations with all of the kid Losers, just as her dad feared.

Audra is trying to find the husband she rightly suspects of cheating on her. Tom is trying to find the wife he correctly suspects of cheating with Bill. Al chased after little Bev suspecting (correctly, as I’ve argued above) that her hymen is gone. The cop rightly suspects that Beverly knows a lot more about the circumstances of the assault on Mike than she’s letting on.

Guilt and the fear of punishment (regardless of whether or not that punishment is deserved) are manifestations of the traumatic feelings all of these characters are having, and having them all coalesce right now–with either dreams of, memories of, or plans of going very soon to the sewers–is significant because of how the sewers symbolize the unconscious, that place where everything merges into one.

Of course, there’s also the guilt of the actual antagonists of the novel: Pennywise, Al Marsh, Tom, Henry and his gang, Eddie Cocoran’s abusive father, Eddie Kaspbrak’s mom, the homophobic killers of Adrian Mellon, etc.–not that any of them feel much of any remorse for their actions, since it’s their positions of power and/or authority that makes them feel immune to remorse. Still, guilt–whether acknowledged or not–has its home, among all the other negative, rejected feelings, in the sewers.

To get back to the phone call with the Chief of Police, Beverly is worried that Henry’s assault on Mike could kill him (pages 1295-1296). This fear is tied in with her guilt, since her not telling the cop what she knows about Henry is obstructing the investigation.

She hangs up on the cop, and looks over at Henry’s corpse, which has one eye closed and the other open (page 1296), this opened eye oozing blood from its injury. He seems “to be winking at her,” adding to her guilt, fear, and sense that It, like her father and living Henry, are all coming to get her. Of course they are: they’re all one in Pennywise.

The Losers need to know how Mike is doing, so Richie calls the hospital, but pretends to be a news reporter, so he and his friends won’t be linked to the assault on Mike and the killing of Henry (pages 1296-1297). Richie calls himself “Mr. Kerpaskian,” which the one on the other end understands to be a “Czech-Jewish” name. After hanging up and finishing his act, Richie curses “Jesus!” four times. The “Czech-Jewish” name he assumed for himself must have made him think of suicide-Stan, and therefore must have given him the feeling that all the Losers were about to destroy themselves.

With the fear of being linked to all of this violence and therefore of being arrested, they all decide immediately to go to the Barrens and face It in the sewers (page 1298). As they’re driving over there, the car radio is playing the kind of classic, mid-to-late 1950s rock ‘n’ roll that they as kids would have heard all the time: “Be-Bop-A-Lula,” Buddy Holly, and “Summertime Blues.”

The problem is that Pennywise gets involved, reminding Richie of his “All-Dead Rock Show” that he saw near the Paul Bunyan statue (page 1299). Everyone wants the radio turned off, especially Bill when he hears the voice of Georgie blaming him for being murdered by Pennywise (page 1300).

They arrive at the Barrens, and already a number of things to parallel the late 1950s experience have arrived: assaults by Henry, Eddie’s broken arm, the Fifties music, and the rain and thunder (pages 1299-1300). Ben is to lead them past the old clubhouse to the pumping station’s concrete cylinder (pages 1301-1302), though Ben can hardly be expected to remember where it is after twenty-seven years. He is leading them just as he did the last time. Bill is stuttering just as he did as a kid.

All of these parallels, just as with the previous chapter’s mid-sentence transitions back and forth between the late 1950s and the mid-1980s, are indications of the unity between the past and the present in It, how everything is one in It.

The cylinder is “almost completely buried in a wallow of blackberry bushes” (page 1302), suggesting the obscure, repressed nature of unconscious feelings; yet the iron manhole cover has been pushed off, Ben assuming that its removal has been fairly recent (page 1303). Has Pennywise removed it, to lure the Losers in?

In a sense, Pennywise did. There are fresh scratches, those of someone who has gone in recently. With matches that Richie brought from Eddie’s room, they light up the darkness. Bill sees a strap…the strap of Audra’s purse (pages 1303-1304). This is where Tom–possessed by Pennywise–has taken her.

Bill can’t believe Audra’s here–she should be in England. He imagines what he’s seeing is another one of Pennywise’s illusions…but it isn’t. He looks through the contents of her purse (page 1305), and he sees things too accurately hers to be a mere illusion. She’s really down there in the sewers!

That Bill is wondering–since Henry, Victor, and Belch are all dead (Hockstetter, too, recall)–who could have got Audra down into the sewers (page 1305), and no one concludes that it was Pennywise who got her, adds weight to my speculation that It is a metaphor rather than an actual entity in the story. They of course don’t know that Tom is the one who got her.

The Losers go down the cylinder, Bill praying to God that Audra is all right (page 1306). Going back to the guilt/fear-of-reprisals motif discussed above, he is worrying that Audra’s abduction could be punishment for his adultery with Beverly, or even his fooling around with her when they were kids.

Bill starts having vivid memories of the underground place once he feels the cold water down below–the feel and the smell, the sense of claustrophobia…and yet, he forgets one of the most important memories…how did they get out?

XXVII: Under the City

Since we’re going into the sewers for the final confrontation with It, and the sewers symbolize the unconscious, where the secrets of everything live, and where all is one, it is fitting finally to have a glimpse of things from Its perspective.

Derry, that is, up above in the sunlight, is representative of the conscious mind–always trying to look good in public, cheerful and pleasant, what Jung would have called the Persona. Derry also hides its slimy underbelly, fittingly, in the sewers, just as the Persona tries to hide the Shadow.

But now that we’re down in those sewers, what is dark is coming to light–thanks to those matches that Richie took from Eddie’s room, to the extent that they’re of much use.

As It, in August 1958, comes to realize that there’s something new about–namely, those potentially threatening kids–It contemplates Its place in the universe, and Its relationship with the Turtle (page 1307). Recall that the Turtle corresponds to God, or Ahura Mazda, the principle of light, the spirit, and goodness, however one prefers to conceptualize Maturin. Recall also that It, a giant spider, corresponds to Satan, Angra Mainyu, or the principle of darkness, the flesh, and evil.

Just as Satan’s first sin was pride, leading him to believe that he could run the universe better than God, so does It think of the Turtle as stupid and passive, never leaving its shell. It may have vomited out the entire universe at the dawn of creation, but it hasn’t done much since then. Many people–that is, those who believe God exists but aren’t religious–tend to think similarly of Him.

The Turtle withdrew into its shell, and It came to Earth, to Derry, to be the god of this world as Satan is understood to be (2 Corinthians 4:4). Here’s an interesting quote from It: “It had created a place in Its own image, and It looked upon this place with favor from the deadlights which were Its eyes” (page 1307), reminding us of Genesis 1:26 and Genesis 1:31. Such a quote suggests a Gnostic interpretation of the God of Creation, a Satanic Demiurge creating the physical world, as opposed to Maturin’s spiritual world, one hidden in its shell.

It finds there to be, in the imagination of these kids coming into the sewers to confront It, both good and bad qualities. For It, their imagination is good in how their fear gives them a good taste when It eats them. Their imagination can be bad, however, when it is used against It, as it was used when Beverly fired the silver projectiles at It, hurting It and causing It to feel fear, a new experience that It doesn’t like. So in this, we see yet another example of the good/bad duality in the novel.

It doesn’t like change. It wants a reliable, cyclical world in which It wakes, eats, and sleeps in a state of hibernation for twenty-seven years before repeating the cycle. In bravely facing It and proving that It can be hurt, the kids have broken the routine.

This breaking of Its cyclical routine, of introducing change and the new element that It can be hurt, defeated, and even killed, has brought to Its attention the notion of an Other. No, It is not the centre of the universe, where everything else, like the Turtle, is stupid, timidly hiding, and exists only in terms of its relationship with It.

This “Other” that It is so worried about (page 1309) sounds a lot like Lacan’s notion of the Other, as opposed to an other that exists only as a narcissistic, metaphorical mirror of oneself, rather than a distinct entity in its own right. Such independent entities are what is so threatening to it, for as existing outside of It, they can take away Its power and control. The hurt that It has felt from the silver projectile is narcissistic injury. It is afraid of not being alone (page 1309), because not being alone means sharing the world with others, a break from the narcissistic world of a dyadic relationship in which the ‘other’ is really oneself reflected to oneself like the image in a mirror.

This is all significant when seen in light of how I interpreted the murder of Georgie. Recall how I said that the tearing-off of Georgie’s arm is a symbolic castration, the little boy’s traumatic need to leave the dyadic mother-to-son relationship and enter the larger society, to go from other to Other (see Part I, section III).

It is fitting that the first killing in the novel, George, should be thematically linked with its last killing, the destroying of It. It, as I’ve always said, personifies trauma, and the Oedipus complex, properly understood, is the ultimate, universal, narcissistic trauma in which a child has to give up his or her perceived ‘ownership‘ of the desired parent, to accept sharing him or her (and by extension, all people) with others.

Though It has lived since the beginning of the universe, vomited out by the Turtle (which is, as the creator of the universe, its ‘mother,’ in effect), It has the personality of a child–selfish, grasping, impetuous, and violent if he doesn’t get his way. By feeding off of children’s fears, It is projecting Its inadequacies onto them.

Georgie is a sweetheart compared to babyish It.

It hopes to defeat the kids by having them see “the deadlights of Its eyes” (page 1309, King’s emphasis), by having them “cast […] one by one into the macroverse“.

In Stephen King’s cosmology, the macroverse is the home of It and Maturin, probably created by Gan, a much higher and more powerful being than the other two–‘God’ in a far truer sense that I conceived Maturin of being (which was really just to contrast the Turtle with Satanic It, in the dualist sense), and the Other that It fears (see above). Gan emerged from primordial Chaos and is a character in King’s Dark Tower series, so a deeper discussion of Gan is outside the scope of this already gargantuan article. Gan may have created Maturin and It, though, so I’ll leave it at that.

The point is, from the strictly limited perspective of this novel, casting the Losers out into the macroverse–that is, outside of the mainstream universe that the Turtle puked out, our everyday reality being a part of it–is symbolically a throwing of the kids outside of anything they could possibly understand, verbalize, or mentally process. The macroverse, for the Losers, is just another manifestation of Lacan’s traumatic, ineffable Real.

Note that It, the personification of trauma and the embodiment of the Shadow, lurking in those dark sewers, is comprised of the deadlights, Its very life-essence. These are orange, ghostly lights that originated from the macroverse, and if one looks into them, one suffers insanity, if not death.

Again, the deadlights can be seen to symbolize the Real. It’s paradoxical that, in a world where darkness is considered evil and the light symbolic of goodness, that looking into these lights can cause madness or death, rather than enlightenment and bliss.

Reality is much deeper and more complex than that. As I’ve stated a number of times here, in It, in the world of the unconscious and all that is beyond our ordinary, sensory perception, all is one. Past and present are one, as seen in, for example, the jumping back and forth between the late Fifties and the mid-Eighties in those mid-sentence transitions we discussed above. The characters’ experiences are made one (e.g., Tom dreaming that he’s Henry, Audra dreaming that she’s Beverly, etc.), and good and bad juxtaposed are made one. Similarly, the light and dark can be juxtaposed and made one, in their extreme forms in the sewers.

As I’ve argued in many blog posts, the ouroboros can be used as a symbol of the dialectical relationship between opposites: the serpent’s biting head is one extreme, its bitten tail is the opposite extreme, and its coiled body represents a circular continuum where every intermediate point is found. Seeing the deadlights, especially when in the infinite black of the sewers, is a blinding light that shocks and terrifies rather than edifies you. Sometimes the light of truth is too painful to see, and the extremes of dark and light, the ouroboros’ biting place, are like Wilfred Bion‘s O as much as it is Lacan’s Real, Rudolph Otto‘s mysterium tremendum et fascinans, the numinous.

Part of the meaning behind the duality of good and bad that runs throughout this novel is how the two are dialectically linked, and the terror of seeing the deadlights is equivalent to the terror of the dark unknown in the sewers. The Losers’ running from Henry’s gang, yet also running straight into Its lair, out of the light and into the darkness, only to confront the deadlights, is part of this paradox.

Speaking of darkness and light, the kid Losers have maybe ten matches that Bill wants to save for later, since they still have dim light in the drains that they can use for now (page 1309). Since this part of the story directly deals with, in a symbolic sense, confronting the Shadow, a preference of dark over light is fitting.

They’re going in deeper water now, with such dead animals as a rat, a kitten, and what seems to be a bloated woodchuck floating around them (page 1310). Such ghastly things, combined with the darkness and the stink, symbolize how an exploration of the Shadow is, however in the end therapeutic, a perilous enterprise, which if done incorrectly and carelessly, can lead to the opposite of therapy and mental health.

And while the water they’re going through is relatively placid for the moment, it will soon roar out at them. The shapelessness of water is symbolic of the undifferentiated, indescribable nature of the Real. Again, this all adds to the uncertainty of the end of the Losers’ pursuit.

As we know, each of the Losers seems to have his (or in Bev’s case, her) special talent. Hers is marksmanship with Bill’s slingshot and the silver projectiles she’s shot at It-as-Werewolf. “Big Bill” is the leader of the group. Richie’s (potential) talent is as the self-proclaimed comedian. Mike is the town historian. Ben is the engineer. Stan can shout out bird names from his bird book to protect them. And Eddie is the one who knows which way to go, how to get found again when they’re lost (pages 1310-1311).

Again, it’s paradoxical that Eddie, the weak, germ-phobic ‘mama’s boy,’ would be the one who can lead the group through the treacherous sewers, hellish symbol of the unconscious, home of trauma, and the centre of the Shadow, but here we are. This paradox is yet another example of the good/bad duality of It, for Eddie is a mix of strength and weakness, of helplessness and helpfulness.

Eddie’s only answer to Bill’s question of which pipe to go through, however, is that it depends on where they all want to go (page 1311). Bill, in frustration, reminds Eddie that they’re trying to find It. Richie, Bev, Ben, Stan, and Mike all agree that It is near or under the Canal. This means going down the lower of the pipes to get to It.

Stan unhappily points out that this lower pipe is “a shit-pipe” (page 1312). Bill isn’t surprised to know this unpleasant fact, and neither should we be. The unconscious is a place of repressed feelings. The Shadow is all that is rejected from us. Part of that rejecting and repressing involves projection and splitting off of what we don’t like about ourselves. What better metaphor for such rejected, projected material is there than shit?

As reluctant as they all are to go through a pipe and get immersed in excrement, though, there is a strong motivation to go in that’s coming at them from behind: Henry and his gang. Here again, we have a fusion of opposites, in this case, in front with behind. They’re going forward to find It, and they’re fleeing Henry, who’s behind them. And in my interpretation, Henry-as-murderer is equivalent to It-as-murderer. The sewers are a world of non-differentiation: here, all is one.

As fetid as the smell of the sewage is, Bill is aware of an “undersmell,” the smell of some kind of animal…It. For Bill, recognizing such a smell is good news, for he knows they’re all going in the right–if rank–direction (page 1312). Again, good and bad are united.

Twenty feet inside this giant, metal rectum, they find the air to be worse than rancid–it’s outright poisonous. The bad things that other people project end up getting introjected by us, toxic smells symbolically breathed in. Such exchanged pain is the basis of all of our trauma.

Bill calls out to Eddie for guidance: the leader of the group, “Big Bill,” the one brave enough to face It, the one hungering for revenge for George, needs Eddie, the one regarded as the weakest, the most afraid, and the most averse to this paradise of germs in the shit-pipe. All is one here, including strength and weakness, large and small, bravery and fear.

All the light is gone now. It’s no longer dark…now, it’s black (page 1313). Sounds are magnified and echoing, including those of the Losers shuffling along in the pipe, and the “sewage running in controlled bursts” (page 1313). The pipe is defecating on them. Indeed, they all scream when they get doused with it at one point, “a shit-shower,” as Richie calls it (page 1314). Now, in the absolute black, Bill could use one of those matches (page 1315).

They’ve come out of the shit-pipe, and with a lit match they can look around. Patrick Hockstetter’s body is to Bill’s right. This would seem to be an omen, for Henry and his gang are coming (page 1315). The Losers hear them coming from the pipes’ echoing acoustics.

After Richie taunts Henry and his threat of “We’ll get youuuuuu–“ (page 1316, King’s emphasis) with the name “banana heels,” they all hear “a shriek of…mad fear and pain…through the pipe”. One of Henry’s gang…Victor, or Belch?…has been killed by It. Mike thinks it’s “some monster.”

The Losers continue toward the Canal, while the storm outside rages and brings “an early darkness to Derry” (page 1317). This storm has an apocalyptic quality similar to the one that destroys downtown Derry at the climax of the novel. This one has screaming winds, stuttering electric fire, and the racket of falling trees, all of which sound “like the death-cries of huge prehistoric creatures.”

Next, we have another narration from Its point of view, but in May of 1985. It knows that the adult Losers have returned, and It also senses the return of “that maddening, galling fear…that sense of Another.” (page 1317) It feels that the Losers are agents of this Other (page 1309). I mentioned above that a higher God named Gan is this Other, from the macroverse and therefore a reminder to It that there’s much more to the world than just our mainstream universe, with the Turtle (as its creator) and It as the only two major powers. And since the Turtle remains in its shell and is, in Its estimation, “stupid,” then It, as god of our world, of Derry, is the only true power.

As I explained above, these higher powers are symbols of the Oedipal triangle we all go through that pulls us out of the dyadic, narcissistic, one-on-one parent-to-child relationship of the Imaginary and into the larger culture and society of the Symbolic, represented by a third party, the other parent, the Non! du Père that forbids the original dyadic relationship of the second party, the Oedipally-desired parent, as a mirror of the self.

In King’s cosmology, It corresponds to the child, Maturin corresponds to the Oedipally-desired parent (though It gets Its narcissistic supply not from the Turtle’s love and attention, but from a sense of superiority over the Turtle’s perceived stupidity and ineffectiveness), and Gan–the Other–corresponds to the intrusive third party that forces It to acknowledge that there’s a much larger world out there than the one It has power over. The Losers, as the apparent agents of Gan, are making It feel as though It’s about to be the real loser.

It feels somewhat encouraged in how now there are only five Losers to deal with: Stan has killed himself, and Its dogsbody–Henry–has put Mike in the hospital. It plans to send a nurse to Mike to finish him off (page 1318). It remembers how, when Mike was a baby, a large crow was pecking at him until his mother hit the bird with her fist and drove it away. The trauma of the crow would stay in Mike’s unconscious until he saw the giant bird.

Its other dogsbody, Tom Rogan, has arrived in Its lair with Audra. He has also died of shock from seeing It in Its naked, undisguised form (page 1318). Audra has seen the horror of the deadlights, and she realizes that It, the giant spider, is FEMALE (page 1319).

This kids should have killed It when they had the chance, when It was hurt and therefore at Its most vulnerable. Instead, the adult Losers, older and fewer in number, will have to face It healed, renewed after Its twenty-seven-year rest (page 1320). What’s more, the adult Losers no longer have their vivid, childhood imaginations to give them power to fight It.

Now, their imaginations have been stifled by TV. They need Dr. Ruth to help them fuck, and Jerry Falwell to help them to be saved. It realizes, however, that their imaginations aren’t as weak as It thought they would be, especially when the five’s imaginations are combined.

It heartens Itself by remembering that “Big Bill,” the leader and the strongest of the group (and as “the writer,” he’s also the most imaginative of them), has been weakened by his fear for his wife and what’s happened to her. After killing and feeding on him, killing the remaining four should be all the easier.

Now we come to the adult Losers going through the pipes (page 1321). Them all being bigger now, it’s much harder going through such tight pipes. As they’re going through, they get to a part of the sewer system that’s moldered, ‘and the bodies of Victor Criss and Belch Huggins had moldered along with it. Like Peter Pan’s Wild Boys, Victor and Belch had never grown up.” (page 1323)

Since the sewers represent the unconscious and the Shadow, and the sense of danger down there is linked with trauma, then the deaths of the two teen bullies represent how trauma has a way of putting its child victims in a state of arrested development, like those Wild Boys who never grew up. Trauma responses that serve a vital survival purpose in childhood become dysfunctional in adulthood, making the adult who was traumatized as a child still, in a way, a child. This is why the adult Losers have to confront It: their adventure underground is a symbolic facing of their childhood pain in order to be freed of it.

There’s yet another mid-sentence transition, from the adult Losers in the sewers to the kid Losers there, on page 1325. Richie begins asking Bill, “Do you have any idea…” then we go to “how long they had been wandering through the tunnels under Derry…” in the narration on page 1326.

With the ending of the adult Losers section, just before Richie’s question, Bill has found Audra’s wedding ring and put it on his finger. His match has also blown out, leaving them all in darkness. Richie’s unfinished question leaves them all in an even greater darkness of uncertainty, but the finding of her ring represents a sense of hope. The darkness and unfinished question transitioning back to the late Fifties, when the kid Losers have much less of an idea that they can defeat It, diminishes their sense of hope all the more.

There is, if anything, a far greater sense of hopelessness now, since Bill knows he won’t ever find his way back out of the sewers (page 1326). He remembers how his dad once told him that “You could wander for weeks.” They are desperately relying on Eddie’s guidance. They don’t have to be killed by It. They could die of endless wandering, get lost in the wrong pipes, or get drowned in the piss and shit.

An exploration of the Shadow can be similarly treacherous. One can be, without the guidance of a Jungian analyst, lost in the darkness of one’s negative, trauma-induced thoughts, driven mad, as Jung himself almost was.

As the kids are crawling through and smelling the filth, their traumatic memories and associations are all coming to mind, as one would expect to experience while doing Shadow work. Ben remembers the mummy from the smell. Eddie imagines it’s the smell of the leper. Richie thinks the stink is that of a moldering, rotting lumberjack’s jacket, big enough to fit Paul Bunyan. Beverly thinks of the smell of her dad’s sock-drawer (which in turn might remind one of that smell she and her dad made between them–page 1047). Stan remembers the smell of clay mixed with oil, which he associates with the demonic Golem. Mike thinks of the dry smell of feathers in a dead nest (pages 1326-1327).

Recall again how these smells are symbolic of introjections from what bullies and other abusers are projecting from themselves, what the abusers hate about themselves thrown onto their victims, the shit that gives off the stink, toxic fumes from toxic people.

Eddie directs them all to where the Canal is, which he says is less than half a mile away, provided they can keep going in a straight line (page 1328).

Then they hear a scream: “–gonna get you sons of bitches. We’re gonna get youuuuuuu–“ (page 1329, King’s emphasis). Henry is still coming. They have no idea how far back he is, since the echoes give a distorted sense of distance.

About fifteen minutes later, they hear something coming toward them. Richie is so scared, he feels like a helpless three-year-old. One is reminded of adult Richie’s fortune cookie, for they all see, once Bill lights another match, “the Crawling Eye!” (page 1230).

It’s a gigantic eye filling the tunnel, with a black pupil two feet across, the iris a reddish-brown colour. The white of the eye is “laced with red veins.” It moves with tentacles, suggesting the crawling of It-as-spider. It’s looking at the kids greedily. Then, Bill’s match goes out. It’s as though the Eye can see them, but not vice versa.

This Eye is full of symbolism. This Eye stares at them just as the little eye in Richie’s fortune cookie stares at him: it’s a critical stare. The black iris is the black of the sewers, the world of the feared unknown. The russet colour of the iris suggests the red of blood from being hurt or killed (just as the red veins on the white of the eye) and the brown of shit. Henry (identified with It-as-killer) is right behind the kids, his own eyes watching for signs of them. Everything this Eye is implying is a death right there in the sewers…and even though we know the kids survive this incursion into the sewers, we also know there will be another incursion, with not all of the adult Losers surviving.

Bill feels the Eye’s tentacles touching his ankles (page 1330). He feels Its heat, the heat of passion and hate. Beverly also feels a tentacle touch her ear and painfully tighten like a noose around her. As It’s pulling her, she feels as if a strict schoolteacher were forcing her to sit wearing a dunce cap in the corner of the classroom (pages 1330-1331). In this, we can see how the terror of the Eye represents the pain of being criticized.

Eddie senses the tentacles around him but not landing on him (page 1331). He feels as if he were in a dream–a fitting feeling, given how the sewers represent the unconscious, and a giant eye with tentacles is a surreal image, the illogical, dreamlike kind that the unconscious would like to express.

His mind is screaming out to him to run home to his mamma, since he can find his way out. He’s much braver than that, though, and as we’ll learn by the end of the novel, adult Eddie is not only the Loser brave enough to face death, he’s also the one whose body will be left in the sewers, because the other adult Losers won’t be able to carry him out.

One thing we should never forget about the Shadow is that it is not all evil. It just represents aspects of ourselves that we don’t want to accept are there; sometimes they’re vices, but other times, they’re virtues. In Eddie’s case, he has strength and bravery he doesn’t even know he has.

He shouts “No!” with “a Norse-warrior sound” that one would never guess such a thin chest could ever bellow (page 1332). He does more violent shouting, he kicks at the Eye, his foot going deep into the cornea, and he shouts at the others to fight It, for “It’s just a fucking Eye!” He’s calling his friends “pussies”, he’s fighting It, and he’s “GOT A BROKEN ARM!”

Eddie, the weak one with “asthma,” is actually the strong one of the Losers. All opposites combine into oneness in the sewers. Here, weakness becomes strength, and vice versa. Eddie is so much more than the Persona his mother would have him show the world.

The other Losers start fighting the Eye, and they cause It to withdraw (page 1333). Stan can hear Henry still coming, so they have to move out (page 1334). The tunnel is going downward, and the stench is getting stronger. They have a feeling of disconnection, as they had in the house at Neibolt Street, as if they’re over the edge of the world, in nothingness, “Derry’s dark and ruined heart” (pages 1334-1335). I’m reminded of Joseph Conrad‘s Heart of Darkness, and Apocalypse Now, where there are similar depths of evil, of a sense of the end of the world.

Part of that apocalyptic evil is a sense that they’re drifting apart, isolated and alone, as Bev is feeling. She tells the others to hold hands, so they’ll all stay together, because it’s only through their solidarity that they can hope to defeat It.

They come to a widened-out part of the tunnel. The area is huge. Bill is stuttering that they must go, for Henry will reach them soon (page 1336). Then, Stan notices the giant bird coming. Since It is the bird, and Henry is understood to be coming soon, we can see again how the bully and the evil entity can be at least symbolically equated.

It attacks Eddie first. As they’re trying to fight It off, Stan tries to do what he did with his bird book the last time he had to face It alone: he’s calling out the names of birds he believes in–scarlet tanagers, vultures, New Guinea mudlark, flamingos of Brazil, and golden bald eagles (page 1338).

With a large silence indicating that the bird has disappeared into the darkness, the Losers check Eddie’s cuts. Henry shouts out that he and Belch are coming (page 1338). Bill stutters that Henry should go back while there’s still time, for It is far more dangerous than Henry could ever be. The bullies, of course, won’t go back, for as I’ve explained, and what Bill and the other Losers don’t fully comprehend, is that the murderous instinct of It and the bullies is one and the same. In the subterranean unconscious, all is one.

The Losers reach a wall, where there’s a small door with a mark on it. Bill sees it as a paper boat. Stan sees a rising bird (page 1339). Mike sees a hooded face, maybe Butch Bowers’s. Richie sees eyes behind a pair of glasses. Beverly sees a balled-up fist (Al’s, presumably). Eddie sees the leper’s face, all disease and sickness on it. Ben sees “a tattered pile of wrappings”–the mummy’s? (page 1340)

In other words, they all see their traumas.

The door isn’t locked, so Bill pushes it open, letting out “a flow of sick yellow-green light” and a powerful “zoo smell.” As the kids pass through and into Its lair, we have another mid-sentence transition to the next section, beginning with “Bill…”

We return to the adult Losers in the sewers. Bill has stopped abruptly, and he tells the others that It was where they are now. He and Richie remember that It was in the form of the Eye, so we see how these two sections are linked, and it’s easy to know why Richie would remember the Eye (page 1341).

Bill mentions how Audra came to Derry because he told her the name of the town. Since Henry didn’t take her into the sewers, though, how could she have gotten in there? Ben assumes that It brought her down there, to rob Bill of his courage (page 1342).

Beverly correctly suspects it was Tom who brought Audra into the sewers, because Bev also mentioned that it was Derry where she had to go to when she fought him and left him.

There’s a discussion of how everyone’s lives are intertwined: Bill and Audra, Bev and Tom, Henry, etc. Richie compares this interconnectedness to a soap opera, where Bill thinks it’s better compared to the circus (page 1342). In any case, here in the sewers, all is one.

Bill seems to have an intuitive sense of object relations theory, though he gets the names mixed up. He imagines that in abusive Tom, Beverly has married Henry, when she corrects him and says that in Tom she really married her father.

Bill knows they’re getting closer because he can smell It. He remembers, down the passageway, there’s that door with the mark on it. Again, in this moment, we see a link unifying the past with the present–all of time is one. He can’t, however, remember what’s behind the door. When exploring the depths of the Shadow, one always comes across ever darker, more repressed things one cannot discover because one doesn’t want to discover them. He remembers how scared he was when he opened the little door, the flood of light that came out, and the zoo-smell…but nothing more (page 1343).

He asks the others if they remember what It really was; none of them can. Beverly remembers they used the ritual of Chüd to fight It. They hear the approach of dragging feet, and Bill lights a match.

We next switch to a section with a sample of the residents of Derry responding to a number of ‘wrong things happening’ (pages 1343-1346). They start happening at 5:00 AM, just before the sunrise.

The first of these wrong things is the clock of the Grace Baptist Church not chiming that morning, the way it has unfailingly done at each hour and each half (except one time, at the noon-hour, supposedly a deliberate omission to mourn the deaths of some children from an explosion of the Kitchener Ironworks, though it actually just didn’t chime because it didn’t–page 1344).

Every old-timer in Derry has woken up at this time, sensing that something’s wrong, but not knowing what it is. It’s a sense of the lack of something that’s supposed to have happened. Norbert Keene, who has told Mike about the Bradley Gang and told Eddie about his asthma placebo, is now looking out his window to see a darkening sky, when the weather report of the night before has called for clear skies (page 1345). It’s going to rain.

He remembers the day the Bradley Gang was gunned down. He’s scared, thinking, “Those kids…[are] monkeying around.” Does he mean the Losers Club? If so, he’s sensing a synchronicity.

Egbert Thoroughgood, who was in the Silver Dollar when Claude Heroux used his axe and gave those men so many whacks, wakes with a scream and having wet the bed after a dream about Claude. He, too, knows that something is terribly wrong. His terrifying dream (and dreams are part of the royal road to an understanding of the unconscious, as Freud observed) is connected through synchronicity to the apocalyptic events about to occur in Derry.

Dave Gardener, who found Georgie’s bloody, one-armed body on that other day of flooding, is now disturbed by the conspicuous lack of a chime from the local church clock. He sees the clouds coming in, and he’s even more worried (page 1346). He senses the danger because another Great Flood is coming.

The Derry Chief of Police, who has done his best to solve the new string of child-killings, and the one who suspects that Bev knows more about the circumstances surrounding the attack on Mike in the library than she’s let on, sees the clouds out there, and feels the same worry as Keene, Thoroughgood, and Gardener. He senses that it will do more than just “pour buckets” (page 1346, King’s emphasis).

The great, apocalyptic thunderstorm is about to come. The cop sees the huge raindrops beginning to fall. He hears the rumbling in the sky, and he is shuddering with fear.

These men all instinctively know that this won’t be just any thunderstorm, or even any old flooding. The morning has been full of omens. The lack of chiming from a church clock known to be faithful with it implies ‘the end of time,’ in a sense. Dreams and memories of horrific violence, both past and present, add to the ominous energy.

This merging of the inner and outer worlds, a fearful sense inside the mind from bad dreams, and the sense of things going wrong out there, in the physical world, is the essence of synchronicity…but not the sentimental kind we learn of in YouTube videos, of good news from the universe.

Back in the sewers, after Bill has lit a match and held it up to see, he sees an apparition of George further up the tunnel, in his yellow rainslicker (page 1347). He’s blaming Bill for allowing him to die, plaguing Bill further with guilt.

The apparition, of course, is a projection of Bill’s guilt feelings, his unconscious running wild. He feels as if his friends are abandoning him, though Richie, Beverly, and Eddie are shouting at him to fight It and kill It (page 1348).

Bill tries to fight It off, saying the couplet for his stuttering therapy. As he does, Richie remembers that Bill stutters only in his own voice; he never stutters when he pretends to be someone else (page 1349).

This stuttering when he’s himself, but not stuttering when he’s not himself, ties in with what I was saying back in Part I of this analysis, when I related the stuttering to Bill’s difficulty transitioning from Lacan’s Imaginary–a narcissistic mindset in which a child’s Oedipally-desired parent is a metaphorical mirror reflecting his ego–to the Symbolic, a sociocultural mindset expressed through language, in which one interacts with many Others who exist as entities unto themselves, not just as extensions of oneself.

Another aspect of this transition from dyadic relationships to the larger society involves engaging in that society’s fakery while acting as if it were sincere, even believing it’s sincere, something Lacan expressed in his French pun of le Non! du père and les non-dupes errent. To be able to adjust to society and gain its healthy benefits, one must ‘play the game,’ or participate in the hypocrisies and play-acting that everyone does in order to fit in. Hence, for Bill to be free of his stutter, he must speak in a voice other than his own. Entering society, which must be done through language, means speaking an actor’s lines, so to speak.

Bill must recite that couplet like an actor reciting Shakespeare’s blank verse, so to speak, so that he can immerse himself in the cultural world of the Symbolic and its use of language. As he repeats the couplet, not stuttering, he gains strength and can advance on It, making It back off (page 1350).

A little later, though, he falters, and the real Bill starts coming back, consumed with guilt. Weeping, he says sorry to George, and his stuttering returns as well (pages 1350-1351).

Outside, and as of 5:30 in the morning, it’s raining hard. Weather forecasters are apologizing for the misleading predictions of good weather from the day before, which have raised the hopes of people planning picnics and other outings only to be disappointed today. Such disappointments, though, will be the least of their worries.

Though the rain is heavy, everyone agrees there won’t be flooding; still, everyone’s uneasy about the growing storm (page 1352). There are explosions: one from a power-transformer at 5:45, then an underground explosion is felt at 6:05. A number of people are killed (page 1353).

Mike wakes up in his hospital room at 6:46 after having “an anxiety dream.” Once again, the inner and outer worlds are united through synchronicity. He slowly starts to remember how he was in the library, about to write in his notebook, when Henry appeared. Since he doesn’t know any more after the attack, he can only worry that Henry has gone after the other Losers (page 1354).

He uses the call-bell to get help. A male nurse comes in the room, Mark Lamonica, whose sister was killed back in 1958, so this is a bad omen. Mark doesn’t want to hear anything Mike has to say, another bad sign. He just wants to give Mike a shot.

Just as the shot from the syringe is symbolic of projection, the kind of projection one would get from an abuser, the unwillingness to listen to the words of the one an abuser is preying on is just as bad, for one must be able to rid oneself of the pain the abuser is putting into one. The shot will put Mike to sleep, as in “to die, to sleep, no more.” The shot is a projection of the badness inside the abuser, like the projections that Eddie and Bev receive from his mother and her father respectively.

This kind of projection is projective identification, where the recipient is manipulated into manifesting the projections, hence, Eddie’s germ-phobia and fragility, Bev’s promiscuity with the Loser boys when she was a girl, and Mike’s receiving of the Thanatos the nurse wants to inject into him.

Back in the tunnels, Bill wants everyone to be quiet (page 1355). Since Richie has lit a match, everyone looks around, expecting to see It in the form of another monster, a new surprise: perhaps Rodan, or a xenomorph from Alien.

This isn’t the problem that Bill is worried about, though. He senses that Mike is in danger back in the hospital. Ben feels it, too. Bill wants everyone to hold hands immediately.

It’s interesting how, in the sewers, symbolic of the collective unconscious and a place where all is one, the Losers can psychically feel Mike’s current state of danger, all the way from there to the hospital.

Bill shouts out, “Send him our power!” in a strange, deep voice, as if he were a shaman in a trance (page 1356, King’s emphasis). Beverly feels something leave all of their bodies and go out toward Mike. Again, the tunnels have a mystical quality rather like the Shining, which allows the Losers to send out a kind of divine energy to help Mike.

And indeed, this power gets to Mike, and in spite of being injured, weakened, and bedridden, he is able to use this power to pick up a glass and smash Mark the nurse in the face with it (page 1357), making him drop the syringe and saving Mike from getting the fatal injection.

Back in the tunnels again, Bill senses that Mike is all right. Ben has felt the power going out from them and coming back, but he doesn’t know where it went or what it did…if it even existed (page 1358).

They all continue through the tunnel, Ben recalling the thick zoo smell. They’ve reached the door they’d found when they were kids, that small door. Ben’s heart is beating faster. The place is triggering painful childhood memories for him. He feels fat again.

Since they’re all grown up, it will be hard for them to get through the door. They see that mark on it, the one that evokes different things for each of them to see, as it did when they were kids. Bev sees Tom; Bill sees Audra’s severed head, with accusing eyes to guilt-trip him the way Georgie’s apparition has done (the severed head might also remind us of Stan’s in the library fridge–page 909); Eddie sees a skull over two crossed bones, the poison symbol, Richie sees Paul Bunyan’s face; and Ben sees Henry Bowers (page 1359).

Bill pushes the door open, letting out that flood of sick yellow-green light again, as well as more of the zoo smell, “the smell of the past become the present” (page 1359). Once again, we see how all is one in this subterranean place of the unconscious, where all times are the same time.

They all crawl through, and Bill is the first of them to see It in Its original form…or, at least, the form that is the closest that their minds can come to comprehend what It really is. They see a giant spider-like thing, but to see exactly what Its form is would be to confront Lacan’s traumatic, inexpressible, indescribable Real.

So shocking a thing makes it easy for Bill to understand why Stan killed himself…and now, Bill wishes he’d done so, too (page 1360). Seeing exactly what It is…the deadlights…is something Bill would never want to see–the Real.

Ben senses that he can read Its mind (page 1361). Once again, we get an idea of how all is one down here in the sewers; there is a kind of shared consciousness where Ben can sense Its thoughts, and all of the Losers can send their psychic energy to aid Mike. Ben senses Its egg-sac, and he shudders at its implications (page 1361).

It is a She, and She is pregnant.

Stan is the only one who understood what they were all up against, and this is why he killed himself. It is a She, a pregnant She who will produce a litter of baby-Its that will continue to terrorize Derry even if the Losers manage to kill the mother.

They have to kill every single It out there. No matter how well you defeat evil, it keeps coming back. This is the offensive thing that Stan could never accept–the reality of the Real.

Bill goes forward, toward It, thinking, Got to become a child again (page 1361), recalling the same Biblical idea I discussed when Mike, writing in his notebook in his library, was thinking about how one must have the right child-like quality–faith–to confront It (pages 1159-1160) as the Losers had faced It in the late Fifties.

Now that Bill knows that It is a She, when he accuses It of killing his brother, instead of calling It a bastard, he calls It a “fuh-fuh-fucking BITCH!” (page 1362, King’s emphasis). He’s going over to It, and It is going up to him, “burying Bill in Its shadow,” a fitting way to express something symbolic of Shadow work.

“Shadow” is also fittingly juxtaposed with the fact that Ben is looking into Its eyes, and for an instant he can see “the shape behind the shape,” the orange deadlights “that mocked life” (page 1362).

And now what begins, for the second time, what is the subject of the next chapter.

XXVIII: The Ritual of Chüd

Bill’s confrontation with It-as-giant-spider was greatly influenced by The Lord of the Rings, in particular, Frodo’s predicament in the lair of Shelob, also a giant spider. The confrontation to begin at the end of the previous chapter was that of the adult Losers; the one beginning this chapter is the one with the kids in 1958.

Bill is showing incredible bravery as he crosses the room toward It (page 1364), again accusing It of killing his brother and him wanting revenge. The same language used in adult Bill’s facing of It is used here with little Bill’s confrontation: “It was rearing up over Bill…It buried Bill in Its shadow, Its legs pawing at the air.” This should be compared with King’s near-identical words on page 1362.

The point is that these repeated words suggest once again how the late Fifties experience is paralleled by the mid-Eighties one, that in this subterranean world that represents the collective unconscious, the past is at one with the present, because here, all is one–the Spider’s lair symbolizes the traumatic, undifferentiated realm of Lacan’s Real.

Again, though, just as at the end of the previous chapter, we have that juxtaposition of Bill “buried…in Its shadow” with Ben beholding that “insane light” (page 1364). We get a repeat of the language of the end of the previous chapter, too, from page 1362, again on page 1364 in this chapter: “Ben…heard Its eager mewling, looked into Its timeless, evil eyes, and saw something behind the shape”. All of this once again reinforces the idea that the past and present are one, a cyclical repetition, synchronicity.

Richie seems to anticipate knowledge of Its sex when he says to Ben, “Let’s get her, Haystack!” (page 1365). Ben is surprised to hear that It might be a She; Her? he thinks. Again, Richie’s synchronistic anticipation strengthens our understanding that in the sewers, past and present are one because in the collective unconscious, all is one.

Richie runs toward Bill and into the shadow of It, and soon after, soon enough to be a near-juxtaposition, we read of Bill looking into the orange deadlights of Its eyes. Chüd has begun, just as it has at the end of the previous chapter.

Bill is in the void, confronting It directly, even conversing with It in their minds. Both are threatening each other, trying to intimidate each other (page 1365).

It would seem absurd to think that a little boy could even attempt to intimidate the “eternal…the Eater of Worlds“, but Bill can actually do it. His youthful imagination, as I’ve said before, while tasty to It, can also be used as a weapon against It, that childlike faith that Mike has observed.

Bill begins mentally chanting the “thrusts his fists against the posts” couplet, and It fires him like the Human Cannonball across the Spider’s chamber in an attempt to make him stop. Bill reminds himself that It’s only in his head, and he’s right–It, or Pennywise, is only a metaphor, a personification of his mental state.

As he’s thrown about, past piles of human and animal bones, Bill keeps trying to recite the couplet, a few words at a time (page 1366). He is surrounded in darkness, total black. It is telling him to stop reciting the couplet, but he gets to the point of reciting it in its entirety. It is getting intimidated.

Bill wishes he could say it out loud without stuttering, instead of just reciting it in his mind. He would thus have so much more power to defeat It. As I’ve said previously, his stuttering, or difficulty using language to connect with others socially, stems from an inability to enter what Lacan called the Symbolic–the sociocultural world of language as a cure for the traumatizing, maddening world of the Real (the deadlights) that he’s experiencing in the Spider’s lair.

Still, It is desperately trying to make the boy continue to believe that Its illusion is real. It has to try to destroy Bill’s confidence, to make him believe that he has already lost the fight.

Soon, though, Bill starts to sense that there is another being among them, a huge presence that is giving him a sense of awe, something with far greater power than It (page 1367).

Bill has encountered the Turtle.

The Turtle has kind eyes. It is the principle of goodness, but it is passive, the dark yin to Its bright yang, the maddening brightness of the deadlights. The Turtle won’t actively help Bill defeat It, but he is getting a feeling, through knowing the existence of the Turtle, that there is an Other, not just the dyadic existence of It on the one side, and on the other side, all of these child victims who exist only to sate Its hunger, only to be mirror reflections of Its narcissism in Lacan’s Imaginary.

The Turtle represents a God-like third party, opening up the possibility of there being a Final Other, Gan, the real, ultimate God of Stephen King’s cosmology. The existence of these so many others means that the dyadic, narcissistic world of It can be broken down and destroyed, the Imaginary supplanted by the Symbolic…Bill just has to say the couplet, use spoken language to bring on the Other of society.

Bill begs for help from the Turtle, but he doesn’t even get a “God helps those who help themselves” kind of response. Bill must help himself, and apart from the Turtle’s advice to recite the couplet out loud (page 1368), Bill has to rely on Chüd alone.

Bill is also getting a sense that It is only bluffing in Its threats (page 1370). He has only the ritual of Chüd to fight It with…and maybe, that’s all he needs.

To recite the couplet out loud without stuttering, Bill has to use a voice other than his own, so he drops his voice a full register to make it like his father’s voice (page 1371). He shouts the couplet out loud like this, making It scream in his mind in frustration. It’s writhing and pushing him away.

Recall what I said before about entering the Symbolic not just through language, but also through a belief in the phoniness of social interaction–to be duped by that phoniness is, paradoxically, not to err…le Non! du père is les non-dupes errent. In speaking in a voice that isn’t his own, his father’s voice, Bill is engaging in the fakery of society; and so, he isn’t erring, and in entering the Symbolic thus, he can defeat It. That he uses, of all voices, his father’s, is most fitting in this connection.

He repeats his screaming of the couplet, making It scream again and feel even more intense pain (page 1371). It’s still trying to push him away, to get rid of him, but he won’t stop fighting. He knows the importance of a child’s faith, as Mike will later observe as an adult in the library. Bill affirms his belief in all of those childhood things, like the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, Captain Midnight, etc. (page 1372) Believing in such things is yet another example of being duped by ideas that society teaches children about…but Bill isn’t erring.

He’s made It scream again. The Turtle is impressed with Bill, but tells him to continue, to finish It off. He mustn’t let It get away (page 1373). The Turtle’s head withdrawn back into its shell, its voice fades away. It is in agonizing pain, begging Bill to let It go.

He touches Its web, and his hand goes numb (page 1374). Ben warns him not to touch it. It is retreating back into the darkness of Its chamber at the back. Strands of Its web are floating down. Mike warns Bill to watch out for the falling web. Bill can’t see the Spider, but he can mentally hear It mewling and crying out in pain.

He doesn’t know if It’s retreated to hide, to die, or to escape. He’s come out of the void-state, and Richie is asking him what happened. Bill knows they have to make sure It is dead (page 1375).

Up above, the spiderweb is drooping and collapsing, “losing its fearful symmetry,” an amusing nod to William Blake‘s poem, “The Tyger,” in which the duality of the Tyger’s beauty and ferocity finds a parallel in the good/bad duality pervading It.

This reference to the Blake poem is also illuminating in how it’s part of his Songs of Experience, as opposed to his Songs of Innocence. Consider what’s been happening to the Loser kids: throughout this novel, they have been going through a transition from innocence to experience. We see the Losers as kids and as adults. The traumas It has been putting them through are the crucial part of that transition.

“The Tyger” is mostly verses that are questions posed to the animal. There is a terrible mystery surrounding the Tyger. And since the spiderweb also has a “fearful symmetry,” It, too, has a terrible mystery about it; but the spiderweb is “losing its fearful symmetry,” because the Losers have entered Its lair, confronted It, scared It, and hurt It.

The novel then brings us back to the mid-80s, with adult Bill confronting It, who taunts him about his baldness (page 1377). Bill, doing the ritual of Chüd a second time, is full of vengeful thoughts again: he accuses It of killing not only his brother, but also Stan, and of trying to kill Mike. Bill plans to finish what he’d only started as a boy with the previous ritual of Chüd.

It tells him that the “stupid” Turtle is dead. It also promises that Bill will see the deadlights. He senses, though, that It is still hurt from the last time (page 1378).

In a section titled Richie, the other four adult Losers are watching Bill in his confrontation with It, paralyzed. At first, this confrontation is “an exact replay of what had happened before,” suggesting again the idea that here in the sewers, past and present are one. It has thrown Bill, and he is intent on seizing Its tongue.

Since I’ve compared the Turtle to God, we can see how Bill’s having heard that “the Turtle is dead oh God the Turtle is really dead” would cause him to feel “sickening…despair.” (page 1379) This despair is like that of anyone who has contemplated what Nietzsche meant by “God is dead,” that the Christian God can no longer be believed in.

In a world where evil, in one form or another, very much exists, to think that a powerful force of good doesn’t exist, to help us fight that evil, is terrifying. I dealt with such terrors in my analyses of films like The Exorcist and The Omen. Since the Turtle, even when alive, hasn’t helped the Losers in any substantive capacity, we can see how It is also a terrifying story with its lack of a powerful force of good. The non-intervening Turtle is more the God of the deists than the actual Christian God.

Still, the Losers won’t give up. Richie, for a change, puts one of his inane voices to good use, in this case, his Irish Cop Voice, to distract It from using Its stinger on Bill (page 1379). Richie senses pain and anger in Its head. He jumps into the void, joining Bill there, and manages to do what Bill hasn’t been able to: having hurt It, Richie grabs hold of Its tongue (page 1380). It’s thought only Bill would challenge It, and now It has to shake Richie off while he’s doing a Spanish accent.

In the next section, titled Eddie, Eddie is watching Bill, and especially Richie, confronting It (page 1384). He’s impressed that Richie has improved his act: his Irish Cop Voice really sounds like Mr. Nell, the cop who, back when the Losers were kids in the Barrens, wanted them to take down their dam.

Eddie senses the connection between Richie and the Spider, how they’re staring at each other and swirling their talking and emotions together (page 1385). Naturally, there’s a connection, a swirling together: as a symbol of trauma, the Spider is like a mirror that Richie is looking into. His voices, his humor, are a way of dealing with his trauma, as I’ve said before.

By doing his voices, Richie, like Bill, is not speaking in his own voice. Thus, like Bill, Richie is leaving Lacan’s traumatic Real and entering the sociocultural world of the Symbolic, the world of the Other (i.e., many others, not one other as an extension of oneself, as in the narcissistic Imaginary), via the social fakery of les non-dupes errent. Since It cannot bear the multiple Other, Richie is succeeding in hurting It.

Bill is slumped on the floor, his nose and ears bleeding (page 1385). Eddie is thinking that they can hurt It while It’s distracted with Richie. He hears Richie in his head, crying out for help (page 1386). Eddie take out his aspirator, ready to use it as a weapon…as odd as that must sound.

Recall how Eddie, from the time he’d learned from Mr. Keene that the medicine was just a watery placebo, nonetheless continued to use it, and blackmailed his mom into letting him be with his friends if he continued to use it. (Recall also when all the Losers, before entering the house at Neibolt Street, borrowed his aspirator–pages 1107-1108.) His use of the aspirator now, to spray it in the Spider’s eye while believing that it really works against asthma (page 1386), is another example of les non-dupes errent. He’s let himself be a dupe of the placebo’s supposed efficacy, and paradoxically, he isn’t erring in his attack on It.

As he does so, though, he hears the voice of his mother forbidding him to go near It, for fear of It giving him cancer. Eddie, however, won’t stay in the cocoon of his mother’s excessive protection; he wants out of the dyadic world of the Imaginary and into that of the Symbolic, out of the one-on-one other and into the societal Other, and being duped by the ‘efficacy’ of the placebo is his ticket there, where he’ll unerringly go.

His childlike belief in the sprayed ‘medicine’ is enough to make It scream in pain. He calls out to Bill to come back from the void. Unlike any conceptions we may have that Eddie is a weak ‘mama’s boy,’ he has proven his bravery.

He’ll have to pay the price for his bravery, though, and like Georgie, he’ll pay with his arm (page 1387). His defying of his domineering mother’s voice is his accepting of le Non! du père via les non-dupes errent, his leaving of the Imaginary to enter the Symbolic; and as with Georgie, the loss of Eddie’s arm is a symbolic castration.

Recall how, back in Part I, when I was discussing Georgie’s death, I interpreted the tearing-off of his arm as being also a symbolic castration, and that his trauma is also symbolically the result of the Oedipus complex, a universal narcissistic trauma. His leaving the house, to go out and play with his paper boat in the torrential rain, is symbolically a leaving of the protective womb of his family, of his mother (who has been at the piano, playing Für Elise, among other things–pages 4 and 7), to go out into the real world, into society, a leaving of the Imaginary to enter the Symbolic. The symbolic castration, in Lacanian terms, is a realization that one cannot be the fulfillment of one’s mother’s desire: one cannot be the phallus for her, and so one cannot hog her to oneself; one must share her with one’s father.

Anyway, the dissolution of Georgie’s Oedipus complex, linked with Eddie’s renunciation of his mother’s dominance, leading to their symbolic castrations/literal deaths, is accompanied by other parallels with Eddie’s death. Both deaths have occurred during a Deluge-like rainfall. The apocalyptic nature of the novel’s climax, with the destruction of downtown Derry, can be linked with the end of the Oedipal relationship that both George and Eddie have had with their mothers. In leaving the comfort of the dyadic relationship to go out into the uncertainties of the social world, both of them have experienced a kind of ‘paradise lost.’ Both have shown great bravery, too: Georgie in first going down into the scary cellar to get the paraffin, and Eddie in directly confronting It with his aspirator. Both have left Mom.

These parallels also reinforce the unity of the past with the present via their cyclical recurrences. With the kid Losers’ confrontation of It in the sewers, there was also torrential rain symbolically associated with the Great Flood, as well as with Lacan’s traumatic Real.

The next section describes the destruction going on outside in Derry because of the growing storm (pages 1388-1393). The winds are blowing much faster now, at 7:00 AM. All the power on the Kansas Street side of the Barrens has been killed by the explosion of the power-transformer at Tracker Brothers’. An old maple tree has fallen, flattening a Nite-Owl store and pulling down enough power lines to knock out the power in both the Old Cape and Sherburn Woods development beyond it (page 1389).

The rain is now a tropical downpour. The streets going downhill into the downtown shopping area are foaming and running with water. It’s easy to associate all of this rain, symbolically at least, with the Deluge.

People are getting killed. Raymond Fogarty, the minister who presided over George’s burial rites, has been killed by a toppling beer cooler (pages 1389). Mr. Nell, now 77, has been watching the storm, and he suffers a fatal stroke at 7:32 (page 1391).

What’s especially interesting about this whole section is that, except for the very last sentence (“And the wind continued to rise.”–page 1393), it is all one continuous, unbroken paragraph…for about five and a half pages. This general lack of paragraph breaks suggests the non-differentiation of Lacan’s Real, a traumatic place whose chaos cannot be expressed in words. The apocalyptic destruction cannot be verbalized, emotionally processed, or healed from.

The next section brings us back to the late 1950s in the tunnels, a fact made immediately apparent from the presentation of a very living little Eddie leading the kid Losers through the dark tunnels (page 1393). He has to admit, for the first time in his life, that he is lost.

Bill is really scared: he remembers what his dad told him about getting lost here. Because the blueprints have disappeared, “nobody knows where all the damned sewers and drains go, or why” (page 1394, King’s emphasis). Not even Eddie knows how to get out. Bill’s dad told him people have gotten lost down here before. “It’s happened before.” Bill’s seen the bones here.

He doesn’t even know for sure if they’ve killed It or not.

Bill is also troubled by the feeling that the bond between him and the rest of the Losers is dissolving–they’re fading away from each other (page 1395). He knows that through their solidarity, they have been able to defeat It, if not yet kill It. It’s only a spider, after all. It seems as though the human mind can cope with anything…except “(the deadlights)“.

The Other, through their friendship, seems to have made the Losers more than children (page 1396). This is the therapeutic strength of the Symbolic, to leave narcissistic dyads and enter the society of many people.

There’s no sense of that Other now, though. Instead of being in the Symbolic, being trapped in these dark, labyrinthine tunnels is to be trapped in Lacan’s traumatic, undifferentiated Real. Worse, Henry is still out there, looking for them. He could turn a corner and find them at any time. I equate him with It, as a murderer. Even if they’re not one and the same, though, and even if It, though not dead, isn’t going to reappear any time soon, Henry very well could.

Bill wanted to have his friends all come down here to help him in his personal vendetta with It. It’s his responsibility that he and his friends should not be lost down here, so it’s on him to get them all back out. His dad has told him how nearly-impossible it is to find one’s way back out, and not even Eddie can find the way out. Bill is feeling the weight of his selfishness pressing down on him.

Recall how he also feels that he and his friends are drifting apart from each other, getting alienated from each other, the worst thing to happen to kids trapped in such a dangerous, dark place. Bev, on the other hand, has the solution to their feelings of mutual estrangement: each boy is to have a turn making love to her. They are shocked to hear her unzipping and undressing right in front of them (pages 1396-1397). Her father’s told her about this kind of thing…which should tell us all something about her relationship with him.

She asks, in all insouciance, who will be the first boy to have her, then she says, “I think…”, and there’s another mid-sentence transition into the next section, back to the mid-80s in the tunnels, when adult Beverly finishes her own sentence by tearfully saying she thinks Eddie is dying (page 1397). Note how this transition links a moment–leading up to an act that would result in the beginning of life–to a moment leading to the end of a life.

The tunnels, subterranean symbols of the unconscious, are a place where all is one. This means that all opposites are united here: good and evil (the Shadow, remember, isn’t always bad), male and female (Bev’s sexual union with the boys being symbolic of this), past and present (what these mid-sentence transitions, as well all the cyclical recurrences, represent, as I’ve said before), dark and light as both representing evil (the dark as well as the deadlights), birth and death, Eros and Thanatos, etc.

Bill and Richie are arguing over whether to go after It and resume the fight, or to put a tourniquet on Eddie to control the bleeding, save him, and get him to safety. Bev, knowing Eddie’s going to die, tells the two men to go after It and kill It, for if It lives to kill again after the next quarter-century goes by, then Eddie will have died in vain (page 1398).

Bill and Richie are about to chase It, but Bill looks up and sees Audra in the spiderweb. He screams out her name as she’s dropping in starts and stops, with the web falling all around. Ben and Richie insist that Bill leave her there for the moment so they can all go after and kill It. Bill can’t help hesitating for a moment, then he goes with them after It (page 1399).

In the next section, titled Ben, he, Bill, and Richie are following Its trail of black blood (page 1399). Ben soon discovers a trail of Its eggs, about the size of ostrich eggs. He can see through them and see all of the black fetuses. Bill and Richie also stop and gape at the eggs for a moment, but Ben, planning on dealing with the problem himself, tells them to continue going after It.

Since the eggs are miscarried offspring, Ben assumes they’ll all die…but what if even one survives after Bill and Richie have killed the mother? Again, Eddie’s death would be in vain. Ben must kill them.

He stomps on the first egg with his boot (page 1400). He sees a rat-sized baby spider trying to get away, so he goes after it and crushes it with his boot, feeling it crunch and splatter.

There could be thousands, even millions, of these eggs, if It is anything like a normal spider. Having already vomited from the stomping, Ben thinks he’ll go mad having to kill so many; still, he must.

He keeps stomping on one egg after the other in the growing darkness, using the matches Richie gave him to provide him with what little light he can have. This stomping on the eggs can be seen as yet another instance of the duality of good and evil that I’ve mentioned so many times as manifesting in this novel: if we think of these babies as having the sentience and consciousness of human beings, it’s awful to massacre the innocent–hence, Ben’s nausea from doing it. How it’s good to kill them needn’t be explained.

The next, brief section tells us of Its fear, pain, and grief over Ben’s killing of Its young (page 1401). It ponders the possibility of Its not being eternal after all. It’s blind in one eye, and It feels a poisonous pain down Its throat, thanks to Eddie’s aspirator.

That such an originally intimidating monster can now be so vulnerable, so afraid because of the modest efforts of three unassuming men–one of them using his aspirator, of all things, as a weapon to poison and partially blind It, another to hurt It by merely reciting a couplet originally meant to help cure his stutter, and another awkwardly hanging onto Its tongue–shows us how weak It really is underneath that intimidating façade.

In other words, It is in this way also like Henry–intimidating on the surface, but weak and cowardly on the inside. We see here another duality made one in the sewers, the duality of weak vs strong. Similarly, the Losers–as kids and as adults–have seemed weak on the outside, but inside of each of them is a surprising strength and courage.

Nonetheless, in spite of Its fear, It knows It must fight Ben, Bill, and Richie. Its fight-or-flight response has switched back to the former, so It turns around to face them.

In the next section, titled Beverly, she can barely make out, in an enveloping darkness that’s turning to black, Audra falling another twenty feet, “then fetch up again” (pages 1401-1402). Bev remembers how she was Bill’s first love; then, feeling Eddie’s dead body with her, she remembers that all of the Losers were her first loves. She tries to remember that time in the tunnels when she gave herself to all of them, and then we come to the next section.

Another mid-sentence transition takes us back to 1958, starting with “Her thoughts broke off as she realized that Eddie” […] “comes to her first” (page 1403, King’s emphasis). Again, what links these two sections is Eddie’s death and his lovemaking with her, Eros and Thanatos; but also, we learn that little Eddie goes to Bev first because he’s scared and he wants her to comfort him as his mother would do. Adult Eddie’s body, lying dead with her, is also like a helpless child being held by his mother; Beverly is thus like an Oedipal transference for him, whether alive or dead, and since all is one down here, life (Eros) and death (Thanatos) are yet another two opposites to be dialectically united.

She instructs him to put his “thing” in her (page 1403). Again, this reference to his penis links this section to the last one in that, adult Eddie’s lost arm being a symbolic castration as I’ve described above (as with Georgie), we have another set of unified dialectical opposites (castrated vs intact). And since the Lacanian notion of symbolic castration involves the boy’s not being able to be the phallus for his mother, and Bev is his Oedipal mother transference, then we have another unity of opposites in his having his ‘mother’ vs not having her.

As with the scene of Beverly seeing Henry and Patrick Hockstetter engaging in mutual masturbation, Stephen King is really pushing the envelope here by having a sex scene with pre-teen kids. For obvious reasons, there are no pornographic details being given here; but the very idea of having such a scene is enough to raise eyebrows all on its own.

Naturally, the focus is on the psychology of the experience rather than its physicality. We sense Eddie’s fear and awkwardness, and finally his love for Beverly (pages 1403-1405).

The point of the sexual union between her and all of the other boys is not to be titillating in some sick, perverted way, but rather to cement the Losers’ sense of solidarity, to bring them all closer together in love and oneness, as a cure for that drifting apart that Bill has been fearing has been happening to all of them.

After Eddie, it’s Mike’s turn (Egad! Interracial sex…in the late 50s!) then Richie’s (page 1405), then Stan’s. Then Ben has her (page 1406).

He is, like Eddie, afraid and awkward, thinking he can’t do it. She finds that he is “too big […] and too old for her“; it makes her think of “Henry’s M-80s, something not meant for kids,” suggesting that Ben inside her is making her think of the sexual abuse I suspect Al is guilty of with her.

Her union with Ben is about the longest one described, about two and a half pages, which is fitting, since at the end of the novel, Ben and Bev will leave Derry together and become a couple. Naturally, the emotional connection between the two is strongest during sex, because deep down, they really love each other. She even says, “If you wrote the poem, show me.” (page 1407)

As they’re doing it, she starts thinking about how giggling kids will refer to sex as “It” (page 1408). She thinks, “for many of them sex must be some unrealized undefined monster.” She reflects how one laughs at what’s fearful and unknown as well as at what’s funny…like a clown, It. This unrealized, undefined monster also sounds like Lacan’s Real. Sex is heaven and hell combined, Eros and Thanatos.

When she’s finished with Ben, it’s Bill’s turn (page 1409). Of course, he’s stuttering all over the place. The lovemaking is passionate, but not the same as it was with Ben. Bill is almost calm; his eagerness is held back by his anxiety for her. They cannot talk of what they’ve been doing, not even with each other. After all, Bev has just done exactly what her father has been worried about her doing, what he’s been accusing her of. The slut-shaming she’s experienced has prodded her to do with the boys something no pre-teen girl would ever normally do, especially in the ‘innocent’ late 1950s. This is partly why I suspect Al of sexually abusing her.

When Eddie was to enter her, she thought of Al wanting to see if she was intact. Eddie rammed in hard, and it hurt, but this doesn’t come across as a broken hymen (page 1404). But now that they have all finished having her, the Losers can think about getting…

Please wait for the final part.

Stephen King, It, New York, Pocket Books, 1986

Analysis of ‘It,’ Part V

Here are Parts I, II, III, and IV, in case you haven’t read them yet.

XXI: Eddie’s Bad Break

In the library, Eddie feels a sharp pain in his arm, a memory from back when he was a kid, and Henry and his gang attacked Eddie and broke his arm (page 987). This is not to say that he immediately remembers the cause of the break, of course–the pain is the result of repressed trauma rising back up to the surface of consciousness. Remembering Henry is something he just doesn’t want to do.

The pain has been triggered by all the childhood memories that the other adult Losers are bringing up in their conversations in the library. Trauma can resurface in the form of physical pain. What’s striking here about Eddie, though, is how, as a guy who’s normally neurotic in the extreme about germs and ill health, he thinks so little about the broken arm that he’s forgotten how he got it from Henry.

A little later, Bill remembers Eddie’s mother, and how she seemed a combination of crazy, miserable, furious, and frightened (page 990). Shortly after that, Eddie’s aspirator rolls across the table by itself. Then Ben points out the balloons, which read that “ASTHMA MEDICINE GIVES YOU CANCER!” (page 991). Eddie then remembers Mr. Keene, the owner of the Center Street Drug Store; he told Mike about the Bradley Gang shootout (section XVII, from Part IV). Mr. Keene was also the one to tell Eddie, when he was a kid, that the asthma medicine he’d been giving Eddie was just a placebo (page 1000).

Sitting in the back of the drug store and having ice cream with Mr. Keene, little Eddie learns that the placebo he’s getting is “head-medicine” for an asthma that is only in his mind, because his mother has been manipulating him into believing he really has it. This placebo cures his asthma in his head, too.

Now, the placebo is another example of the duality of good and bad in It. The placebo is good in how it “makes the patient feel better,” as Mr. Keene tells Eddie (page 1001). You can “see the harm,” though, the bad in a placebo, in how it is a lie. Specifically, it perpetuates Eddie’s mother’s lie that he needs it. As an emotionally abusive mother, she’s using Eddie’s “asthma” to control him, as a form of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy.

Naturally, Eddie can’t accept the idea that his mother is deceiving him (page 1003). He’d rather believe that Mr. Keene is lying to him than that she is. What Eddie is doing here is using a defence mechanism called ‘turning around upon the subject’s own self.’ He’d rather be ‘sick’ than realize that the caregiver he, as a little kid, depends on to survive is trying to hurt him.

So again, in this defence mechanism, we see that duality of good and bad. Believing his mom’s lie about having asthma is ‘good’ because it relieves him of the anxiety of having to deal with an emotionally abusive mother, yet it’s also bad for obvious reasons.

After the drug store scene, Eddie gets bullied by Henry Bowers and his gang, this time including Victor Criss, “Moose” Sadler, and Patrick Hockstetter (page 1008). Henry wants revenge for the rockfight, naturally, and like a cowardly bully, with the help of his gang, he goes after the weakest kid, who is all alone.

Of course, Henry projects his cowardice and weakness onto Eddie by mocking his understandably tremulous words, “Leave me alone,” and waving his hands in mock terror (page 1010).

A nearby store owner named Mr. Gedreau intervenes (page 1011), trying to stop the gang from bullying Eddie, but Henry demonstrates further that he’s more than a mere bully–he’s an out-and-out psychopath. He gives the man “a good hard push,” knocking him down on the steps going up to the screen-door entrance of his store (page 1012). He sees “the light in Henry’s eyes” (which significantly reminds me of Its “deadlights“), and he threatens to call the cops; but Henry gives him a threat of his own, making to lunge at the man and making him flinch back.

Eddie sees his chance to escape and runs away, “Asthma or no asthma.” Of course, the gang chases after him. They get him, and Henry in his fury has the boy by the arm, it twists, and there’s a cracking sound, with a pain that’s “gray and huge” (page 1014). This breaking of little Eddie’s arm parallels the tearing-off of Georgie’s arm, thus reinforcing the closeness in identity between Henry and Pennywise.

The Bowers gang runs away after noting the approach of Mr. Nell (pages 1015-1017), the cop who earlier told the kids in the Barrens to get rid of their dam. Eddie is then taken to hospital. After receiving care from the doctor and nurses, Eddie sees his mother.

Significantly, he finds her eyes to be “almost predatory” (page 1021). There sees to be little difference between the Bowers gang and his mother as bullies. Her eyes also seem like those of the lecherous leper from the basement at 29 Neibolt Street, thus linking these bullies with Pennywise.

That his mother and the leper would be similar in the sexually predatory sense is in how Mrs. Kaspbrak exploits her son’s Oedipal feelings for her (later transferred onto his similarly overweight, overprotective wife, Myra, recall) so she can control him. Though such a relationship doesn’t involve actual physical incest, it is emotional incest, in that his mother uses him to fulfill emotional needs normally satisfied in a romantic relationship.

Since she’s overweight, she has obvious health problems that she won’t do the difficult work to overcome. It’s far easier for her to project health concerns onto her boy (via Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy) than to deal with her own health problems. Hence, her excessive worries about his physical well-being.

Ironically, she’s far more worried about the ‘bad’ influence of Eddie’s friends, the Losers, than about the bullies who broke his arm. So when the Losers come to the hospital to see him, she sends them all away, upsetting Eddie terribly (pages 1028-1029).

All of what Eddie’s been going through for the past twenty-four hours has been nothing less than overwhelming. Mr. Keene has planted a seed of doubt in the little boy’s mind as to what his mom’s true intentions are with the asthma medicine, mere water with an added medicine-like taste. Henry broke his arm, just after that revelation, and so before he’s even had time to process the emotional shock of it. And now, his controlling mother–reinforcing that original emotional shock–won’t let him see the small group of people he still trusts, those who can give him the real emotional soothing he so desperately needs.

This excess of shocks to his system, both in body and in mind, is the essence of trauma.

Though she acknowledges that it was Henry who broke Eddie’s arm, she stoops to victim-blaming to explain why the bully did it (he was provoked by the Losers, rather than he provoked them first, getting a rock-thrown reaction he deserved to suffer). Her attitude infuriates Eddie, making him tell her off good and proper, in spite of the weakness she’s imposed on him.

In his brief rant, he hits a nerve in her: she’s jealous of his friends out of a fear that they’ll take him away from her and leave her all alone (page 1031). Such jealousy is at the core of what the Oedipus complex represents: one narcissistically hogs another to oneself, never sharing one’s object, keeping him or her in a dyadic relationship, and other people threaten to compromise that one-on-one relationship. This is what she’s afraid of, and this is why she rejects the Losers.

She tries using tears to make him regret what he’s said (page 1031), but she’s shocked to find they are’t working the way they normally do. Eddie is standing firm in his bond with his friends.

She keeps trying to guilt-trip him with her tears, accusing him of hurting her, and calling the Losers “bad friends” (page 1033, King’s emphasis); but he won’t have her make him choose between her and them.

After more insisting from her that he give up his friends, he tells her what Mr. Keene told him. Though she maintains that Keene is lying about the medicine being just water, Eddie has accepted that it’s the truth. He has also accepted the truth that the asthma is all in his head (page 1035).

But now that it seems that Eddie’s mom is about to fall apart from the possibility of losing his love, he says that maybe Mr. Keene was joking about the medicine-as-water, and the asthma as being only in Eddie’s head (page 1036). Eddie also, with considerable shrewdness, tells her he’ll still hang out with his friends…while also still using his aspirator.

She realizes that this decision of his is a form of blackmail: he’ll go along with the asthma b.s. and let her baby him the way she does…if he can still have his friends. She has no other choice but to let him have his way. She’s been manipulating him, and now she’s being manipulated by him. It’s called karma.

Though she has to accept her son’s conditions, she never wants to see Mr. Keene again, for having put her in this situation (page 1037).

The irony of all of this is that, through the escalation of all of these problems for Eddie, he’s found a way to stop his mother from being so domineering…by continuing to use the aspirator, in spite of knowing he’s never needed it. He’ll pretend to continue being controlled by her, though both of them know he’s on to her.

The resolving of this conflict is thus another example of the good/bad duality in the novel. It’s bad that Eddie got hurt, but it’s good that he has been able to use Mr. Keene’s shocking revelation to get his mom off his back and to keep his friends. He’s been brave, standing up to his mom like that, but he’s still “scared, so scared” (page 1038, King’s emphasis).

That evening, the Losers return to the hospital to see him. Now, he can get that emotional soothing he’s so desperately needed for so long…for unlike what his mother has insisted, these are good friends.

The Losers tell Eddie about their plan to melt down a silver dollar and make it into projectiles–two silver bullet-like balls–to shoot at It in Its werewolf form, if they see the werewolf at 29 Neibolt Street. They’ll use Bill’s Bullseye slingshot to fire the balls at It, and “Beverly Oakley” has proven herself to have the marksmanship skills to hit It (page 1040).

XXII: Another One of the Missing: The Death of Patrick Hockstetter

With the ending of Eddie’s story, he reminds Beverly of when she saw It kill Patrick Hockstetter. And now she has a story of her own to tell (page 1045).

When we consider the kinds of filthy habits, filthy to the point of being disturbing, that Patrick had (killing flies, collecting them in his pencil box, and displaying them to his classmates; his abuse of animals and keeping them in an abandoned fridge in the Barrens; his murder of his baby brother; and him giving Henry Bowers a hand job after they, Belch, and Victor were lighting their farts), we can see why Beverly would first remember her abusive father and “that smell, the one they made between them” (page 1049, King’s emphasis).

This smell she and her father made between them is yet another hint that she has trauma from sexual abuse inflicted by him, abuse repressed so far inside of her unconscious that she has no explicit memories of penetration, but rather those return to consciousness in unrecognizable forms (the smell, the blood in the yonic sink-hole, etc.). She also remembers how, back then, around when Patrick died, that she was beginning to fill out, to become a woman, to have the kind of shapely figure men like, something to inflame Al‘s lust and make him all the scarier to her. Patrick’s own perversity is triggering her traumatic memories of her dad.

Speaking of smells, she also remembers the smell of the Barrens, the smell of the smoke-hole, when she went by the clubhouse to practice shooting with Bill’s Bullseye Slingshot. It’s there that, again, speaking of smells, she–an innocent, pre-teen girl in the late 1950s–saw Henry, Victor, Belch, and Patrick with their pants down, lighting farts (pages 1049-1050).

Now, the sight was a combination of hilarious, perverse, disturbing, and terrifying for her; for if those boys had caught her seeing what they were doing, “God knows what would have happened then.” (page 1049, King’s emphasis). Again, we have the good/bad duality: good (funny and entertaining), and bad (scary and disturbing). She was lucky to have the underbrush and a car to hide behind. She had to keep herself from laughing, so they wouldn’t hear her, and if she’d tried to run away, they might have seen her.

After a while of lighting farts and burning asses, Victor and Belch had to leave, so Henry and Patrick would be alone together…or so they thought (page 1059). A little later, they stopped lighting farts, and Henry was receiving a hand job from Patrick, who was also touching himself (page 1062). As shocked as Bev was to see all of this,…”Still, she couldn’t look away.”

She thought about the male anatomy her otherwise innocent eyes were seeing, and she thought about Bill’s, imagining herself touching them. Again, we have the mix of good and bad: her horror and disgust at seeing the balls of her bullies, and the thought of handling those of a boy she really likes.

Her dad would be worrying a lot about her just then.

Patrick then offers to give Henry a blow job (page 1063).

There’s no way Henry’s going to go that far with homosexual activity, so in his predictable homophobia, he hits Patrick. The ironic thing about many homophobes is how they might be willing to open their minds to gay sexual acts, if not for disapproving mainstream society. Contemplating the implications of such open-mindedness is too much of a threat to the masculinity of someone like Henry, so he won’t go any further than hand-jobs.

Now, the homosexual acts here add to the creepiness of the scene not through homosexuality per se, but through a combination of our established dislike of Henry and his bullies, the very nature of Patrick’s mental disturbances, their all being underage, and especially the whole scene being witnessed by little Beverly. King may have sensed that this scene might be misinterpreted as disapproving of homosexuality in general, and so perhaps he added the scene of Adrian Mellon’s murder–right in Chapter Two, and as what may feel like an awkward interruption of the flow of the Losers’ story–to establish, from the outset, a sympathetic attitude toward gays, to offset this disturbing scene between Henry and Patrick.

Patrick insists, correctly, that Henry enjoyed the hand job, only further infuriating and threatening the latter. Significantly, and soon before Patrick’s death, Henry threatens to kill him if he tells anyone about the hand job. Patrick doesn’t seem deterred from squealing, so Henry also threatens to tell people about the fridge in which Patrick keeps his tortured animals (page 1069).

We understand that, shortly after Henry has left, Patrick stays in the junkyard, goes to his fridge, and is killed by It in the form of leeches flying out at him. Leeches were Patrick’s greatest fear, because when he was eight, after swimming in a lake and getting leeches on himself, he was screaming as his dad had to pull them off of his stomach and legs (page 1078). Pennywise always uses children’s fears as a weapon against them, since as I’ve said all along, It personifies trauma; but as with all the other killings in Derry, I believe Pennywise’s involvement in them is symbolic.

I believe Henry made good on his threat to kill Patrick, and the leeches flying onto the equally sociopathic victim were symbolic of his trauma. Henry had every motive in the world to kill Patrick. He had no guarantee that Patrick would keep his mouth shut about their homosexual activity, and Henry wouldn’t have been able to bear being thought a ‘queer’ throughout the town, so Patrick had to be silenced as soon as possible.

I suspect that the flying leech attack was really a hallucination. Leeches sucking his blood were really stab wounds from a knife. In his mind, Patrick said, “It isn’t real, it’s just a bad dream…” (page 1079, King’s emphasis). Patrick thought he saw a guy emerge from the junkyard cars, someone who dragged him towards the Barrens, symbol of the unconscious (page 1080). Beverly, watching the whole thing, wasn’t sure at first of what she was seeing. She only saw Patrick thrashing, dancing, and screaming (page 1081). I think it was Henry attacking him with a knife, maybe having hidden in or behind the fridge.

Another thing about leeches is that, of course, they suck, just as Patrick offered to suck Henry off. As sociopathic as Patrick was, he’d have had no trouble understanding how socially taboo fellatio between men was back in the late 1950s, as innocent little Beverly would have also understood it to be; and it’s with this socially conservative attitude that we find much of the content behind finding the masturbation scene so disturbing, not homosexuality in and of itself, as I said above.

So Patrick dying by seeing leeches sucking the blood and life out of his body, rather than Henry’s phallic knife ‘raping’ him, so to speak, is symbolic of him internalizing the especially virulent homophobia of his time…hence, I regard the death by flying leeches as a hallucination instead of taking it literally.

I’d say Beverly didn’t see Henry there at all, just Patrick thrashing about, screaming, and “blundering off down the path” (page 1081) because–just as with her trauma from her father’s sexual abuse–the shock of seeing his murder as it really happened was so intense that her mind, unable to process it, denied and repressed its very existence. Just a little while ago, as she’d watched the boys light their farts, then expose their genitals to her (however unwittingly), and the remaining two boys masturbating, she was terrified of Henry catching her watching them, then chase after her and and rape her (pages 1063-1064).

So it would have been too much for her to see Henry’s phallic knife stabbing into Patrick, ‘raping’ him. Instead, she just saw Patrick thrashing about and screaming.

Beverly ran, Bill’s slingshot in her hand, down the path where Patrick had gone. She saw drops of blood (pages 1083-1084). There were two grooves in the ground (his shoes), along with all the blood, leading from the junked cars to the Barrens, symbol of the unconscious.

She shared the understanding with Patrick that there were “things…in the refrigerator” (page 1084, King’s emphasis) that killed him, the leeches, and therefore It, but I suspect that It, being a metaphorical killer (according to my interpretation), had given her and Patrick a shared hallucination, because the two are sharing a trauma.

Eventually, she found Patrick’s wallet and sneakers (page 1085), the grooves in the ground no longer continuing. The second of the sneakers had blood on the laces. Surely the blood was reminding her of the blood in the sinkhole, a yonic symbol, recall, of her having been injured by her father’s phallic penetrations, something so horrific to her that she’d have repressed the memory of it so thoroughly that she imagined seeing the bullies’ genitals was her first time ever having seen them (page 1054).

It’s fitting in this connection that Beverly would recall her father’s words about her: “Sometimes I worry a LOT.” (page 1086, King’s emphasis). She also worries a lot, having seen such sexual perversity, indecency, and bloody violence. It’s just like what she’s seen at home with her dad. And it’s so awful that she has to repress and blot the worst parts out of her mind.

Several hours later, the other Losers (except Eddie) are with Beverly where she saw Patrick open the refrigerator. It starts raining (page 1087), suggestive of the apocalyptic, Deluge-like rainfall to be associated with the beginning of the story, with George’s death, and the climax, when the adult Losers finally kill It.

This association of the rain with the apocalypse is made stronger when, as it comes down harder, the refrigerator door swings open and the Losers see a message written in blood on the inside of the door. The clown warns them to stop, or he’ll kill them (page 1088). Hail is mixing with the rain, its hardness suggestive of rocks being pelted on the kids in an…apocalyptic…rockfight.

Bill isn’t scared. He’s angry, and he wants revenge for Georgie. He screams a threat to kill It, calling It a “son of a bitch” and a “bastard.”

With Bill’s guilt feelings over the death of George, based on his unconscious wish to be rid of his little brother, as I explained above, we see a sharp contrast with the unfeeling attitude of sociopathic Patrick toward the baby brother he actually killed (pages 1069-1071).

Bill senses that It is scared of them, and he wants his friends’ help to kill It (page 1088). The others promise they’ll help him, and that they won’t chicken out.

They all hug each other. This hugging represents their indispensable solidarity. The sleet fittingly switches back to rain, a weakening of the opposition, like Henry’s gang losing the rockfight.

XXIII: The Bullseye

In Mike’s library, the adult Losers continue telling their stories about their childhood experiences with It, and according to Richie, it’s Ben’s turn. He starts by unbuttoning his shirt and revealing the H that Henry carved in Ben’s belly (page 1091). Beverly immediately thinks of the werewolf in the house on Neibolt Street. It’s fitting that she would make such an association, since as I said above, Henry is the true teenage werewolf of this story.

It’s significant that Ben’s H, just like the cuts on all their hands from the childhood promise to return to Derry if It ever returned, has reappeared on his belly only recently, after years of having vanished (page 1092). These scars are symbolic of the repressed trauma that the Losers have forgotten for so long.

Since it’s the teenage werewolf (Henry, actually) that they have all remembered, now Ben is going to recount the story of melting the silver dollars to make projectiles to hit It with, fired by Bev, the best marksman of the group. Since the werewolf represents Henry, then the silver ‘bullets’ shot at It correspond to the rocks thrown at him, and this confrontation in the house on Neibolt Street is every bit, in its own way, as apocalyptic as the rockfight.

The adult Losers all remember their own personal, unbearable forms of pain. Bill remembers how badly he needed to kill It, to avenge Georgie and–as he’d hoped as a kid–to get his parents’ love, something little Bill had felt starved of. The adults contemplate how Stan killed himself because he couldn’t bear to face his traumas again (page 1093), and Eddie, in his mind, links this inability to face trauma with his own continuation to be ‘sick,’ to use the asthma medicine, even though he’d long known his asthma wasn’t real. The continuation wasn’t just blackmail on his mother, as explained above: it was also a kind of Stockholm Syndrome, a turning around against himself, to avoid confronting the ugly reality that his mother was abusing him.

After young Ben has expertly melted the silver dollars into projectile form, he and the other kids play Monopoly while the projectiles harden in the molds (page 1100). Stan wins the game, and being Jewish, feels free to joke about the money-making stereotype (page 1103). Ben, almost broke in the game, jokingly prays to Jesus to make him Jewish, getting laughs all around.

Bev has been worried about parental disapproval over her not coming home until later, but her father, also not coming home until late after work, won’t know, and her mom is reassured that she isn’t on a date or anything (page 1102).

What we see here, in the making of the silver projectiles and preparation for a confrontation with It-as-werewolf, is not a literal fight against the supernatural, but a symbolic confrontation with their fears and traumas. Bev has to deal with her abusive father. Stan has to deal with antisemites (including Henry) and their ideas about Jews ‘having all the money,’ and he does so by making fun of the stereotype.

The day the Losers all go to the house on Neibolt Street, armed with Bill’s Bullseye slingshot and the two silver projectiles that Ben made, is a hot day in late July (page 1106), just like the hot tension they’re all feeling. They look at the house. Stan thinks the windows look like eyes, presumably judgemental ones; he touches his bird book for good luck (page 1107). “They look like dirty blind eyes.” Eyes that don’t see, yet still seem to judge, something that defies logic to his mind, and is therefore offensive to him.

Beverly imagines the house to have a stink to it, but one you don’t smell with your nose. Again, as with Stan’s observation, the threats of the house don’t make logical sense: they give off a sense of trauma, reminding both of them of their respective traumas, yet there’s also the trauma of Lacan’s Real: not to be verbalized, not to be reasoned out, just uncanny.

Speaking of what, in relation to trauma, doesn’t make sense, Eddie goes for his aspirator, which as we know, he already knows he’s never needed. Adding to the senselessness, though, Richie then asks to use it; then Stan does, and so do all the others (pages 1107-1108). Sometimes we try to soothe ourselves in totally irrational ways, we’re so scared and desperate for comfort.

The kids wonder if any of the adults in Derry can see the supernatural phenomena. They’d love to have an adult who acknowledges It with them, to protect them, since this “isn’t a job for kids.” (page 1108). Sadly, though, few if any adults would acknowledge It, because their trauma is usually too repressed for such acknowledgement to exist.

The kids all go in the house, through the cellar window (pages 1110-1111), for cellars are also symbolic of the unconscious, and the mission to destroy It is, as I’ve said before, symbolic of Shadow Work, a making of the unconscious conscious, to confront and heal repressed trauma.

Richie, as usual, to deal with his own trauma, indulges in his tasteless humour and bad imitations of accents (page 1112). By page 1117, Ben has a better idea for how they can all cope with their fear and pain: they have to stay close together. He knows that It wants them to get lost, to get separated. Indeed, all people in power, sociopaths like It, try to maintain their power by keeping all those threatening their power separated and fighting with each other, when solidarity is key and indispensable to defeating said power structures.

The Losers get a number of scares as they go through the house, including one moment when Bill stutters repeatedly at Stan to use his bird book to ward It away (page 1120). At another point, they get a scare, Ben begging Bev to use the slingshot and shoot at what he thinks is a giant cricket buzzing behind a door (page 1122). It turns out that the noisemaker is just a mooseblower.

Finally, they see the Teenage Werewolf (page 1126). Bev has a silver projectile in the slingshot, ready to shoot, and Mike and Richie yell at her to shoot It (page 1127). She fires and misses. Recall that this werewolf represents Henry, and her firing the silver balls represents the rocks they all threw at him.

More connections between the Teenage Werewolf and Henry come when It attacks Ben, Its claws digging into his torso and spilling his blood all over his pants and sneakers (page 1129), the same way Henry’s knife dug an H into Ben’s belly. The Werewolf also throws Ben into a bathtub, which parallels his fall into the Barrens after Henry cut him.

Again, Richie screams at Beverly to shoot the Werewolf with her last silver projectile, but of course she has to save this shot for a perfect opportunity. She gets that opportunity and shoots, hitting It near Its right eye (page 1130). It screams in pain.

She’s out of silver projectiles, but she holds the slingshot as if she still has one. If It can use fear to gain power over the kids, then they can do the same thing to It. Indeed, the Werewolf’s eyes are full of uncertainty and pain (page 1131). It, too, has blood pouring out if It, like Ben.

It retreats into the drain, changing Its shape so It can fit inside. Its retreat is just like Henry’s when he lost the apocalyptic rockfight. Indeed, from inside the drainpipe, the Losers can hear It echo Henry’s words: “I’ll kill you all!” Such moments as these are significant, for they help prove my point that the real terror of Derry is Henry, the real Teenage Werewolf, and that Pennywise is merely metaphorical, a personification of everyone’s trauma…even Henry’s.

XXIV: Derry: The Fourth Interlude

On the night of April 6th, 1985, as Mike is writing about the history of Derry again, he’s getting drunk (page 1143). He’s thinking about drink and the devil; he even wants to write about it. He’s having rye whiskey. He’s in such a light-headed, high-spirited attitude, he actually refers to himself as “one drunk nigger in a public library after closing”.

This drunken spirit of levity, when he’s supposed to be seriously contemplating the history of Derry and how It has affected the town, is significant in how it reinforces the novel’s theme of adults looking the other way when evil strikes. This looking the other way is also important in the story Mike is about to relate, the massacre in 1905 in the Sleepy Silver Dollar, a beer joint (page 1149).

It’s so ironic that, after just hearing a story about the Losers confronting It in the form of the werewolf and defeating It with projectiles made from melted silver dollars, we now learn of a massacre totally ignored by the patrons of a beer joint called “the Silver Dollar.”

Indeed, Claude Heroux, an axe murderer who was responsible for the massacre, was never brought on trial for what he did there (page 1149). Heroux used his axe on five men who’d worked for William Mueller, who with Hamilton Tracker and Richard Bowie (page 1150) had murdered Heroux’s friends and fellow union organizers, so Heroux wanted revenge. One of the five attacked men escaped and survived, David “Stugley” Grenier.

The murder victims had been playing poker at a table in the back of the room. One of them was Eddie King, named after Stephen King’s middle name, Edwin. Heroux came in the Silver Dollar with a woodsman’s double-bitted axe in his hand (page 1151).

First, he chopped off, at the wrist, the hand of Floyd Calderwood after having poured himself a glass of rye whiskey (page 1152)…Mike’s drink, too, recall; Calderwood would later bleed to death. Then, Heroux stuck his axe in Tinker McCutcheon’s head (page 1153); the axe then went into his back. Eddie fell out of his chair, and Heroux’s axe went deep into his gut (page 1154). Then Heroux hacked off the head of Lathrop “El Katook” Rounds. Stugley had a gun and tried shooting at Heroux; instead, Stugley escaped to the outhouse.

As I said above, what’s striking about this massacre is how all other patrons looked the other way as the killing happened. “The drinking and conversation at the bar went on.” (page 1157) Heroux was led away, and a righteous fury built up over the killings, but this was only later. Heroux was then lynched, him being passive and hardly resisting at all. But why didn’t anyone at least try to stop him at the time, other than Stugley and his gun?

Thoroughgood, the man Mike has asked about the incident, says he saw someone that night near the Silver Dollar, who looked like a clown (page 1158). Thoroughgood saw him while having a beer in a place fittingly called the Bloody Bucket. Drink and the devil.

Mike ponders the idea that it is faith that It really eats (page 1159). It’s the faith of the children It kills that It eats. This is why the adults of Derry always look the other way when It attacks. A child is more capable of an act of faith than any adult, Mike reasons. By killing the faith of children, It can maintain Its power.

The rationalization the patrons of the Silver Dollar have for not even acknowledging the killings is that they wanted to stay out of the politics of the situation–after all, Heroux wanted to avenge the killings of friends who’d wanted to organize a union, which their capitalist bosses would never want. Still, it’s only with the solidarity of the people, the kind of solidarity we’ve seen among the Losers when they confront the werewolf in the house on Neibolt Street, that we can defeat evil of any kind, whether political or supernatural.

Kids like the Losers can have this kind of solidarity that too many adults lose, a solidarity based on faith that good will ultimately prevail. One imagines that Matthew 18:3 had such an idea in mind.

The people at the bar, like the adults of Derry in general, ignored the killings as they happened, but soon enough, their rage led to a lynching, without even any consideration for due process for Heroux, as was the case with the massacre of the Bradley Gang. The victimized Derry residents themselves become cold-blooded killers. The Derry adults go from one inappropriate extreme to another. Neither extreme does anything to solve the problem of It.

And what did both extremes, in the case of Heroux, have in common? Drink and the devil. Getting drunk is a manic defence against facing the depressing–and sobering–reality that one must deal with one’s trauma head on–one must face one’s Shadow, as the faithful Loser kids did in the house on Neibolt Street.

And who is yet another adult, getting drunk on rye whiskey when he’s supposed to be focusing on writing out the history of Derry and Its terrorizing of the town? Mike, an adult Loser.

As Mike is drunkenly contemplating this adult fading-away of faith, he’s also thinking about making those phone calls to all the other adult Losers (page 1160). Will they all even remember their childhood traumas, let alone believe Mike when he tells them that It is back?

These are people who no longer believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or any of those old characters in children’s stories. Why would they still believe in Pennywise?

Pennywise, of course, still believes in the Losers, and It is ready for them (page 1160). It is ready to finish their business in Derry, and if they don’t remember, or believe, or if they even return, but can’t handle It, as the local adults can’t, Mike will be frightened.

XXV: In the Watches of the Night

Ben has finished telling his story about the silver dollar projectiles, and Mike decides the adult Losers should all leave the library, go to their respective accommodations, and get some sleep (page 1163). Their childhood memories are more or less restored.

They’re getting ready to leave, and Beverly screams, seeing blood on her hands, as do the others see on their own hands (page 1165). She wants to know if they’re all committed to defeating It, since the blood on their hands is a reminder of the cuts they had slashed on their hands as kids when they pledged to return as adults to Derry to defeat It. They all hold hands, the blood dripping from them, as they did when they were kids.

There are memories of the idea of the Ritual of Chüd and of the Turtle. The library’s typewriter stars churning out Bill’s “he thrusts his fists…” etc. Ironically, all of these things are elements leading to a defeat of their sources of trauma, elements of good, yet presented to them in a frighteningly supernatural way–bad. The duality of good and bad is appearing once again (pages 1166-1167).

Bill and Beverly leave the library together (page 1168). He’s thinking about Audra, not knowing how close she actually is to them, yet he’s also tempted to have Bev.

As she’s with him, she’s thinking about her father, and how he ‘worried about her a lot.’ (page 1169). She tells Bill of her love/hate relationship with Al, the Kleinian good and bad father all rolled into one…though as we know, that bad father was far more predominant, and only her Stockholm Syndrome/depressive position is making the good father at all visible…the good/bad duality in It appearing once again.

She has revived a memory of her confronting her pathologically jealous father, who suspected her, once again, of hanging around boys…this time, with the Losers, innocently playing tag, or something (page 1170). She went home, and Al was there, not at work.

He slapped her face hard (page 1171), then warned her if she lied, he’d beat her far worse (page 1172). She remembered a time when he’d bathed her. He knew she was in the Barrens with the Losers, but wouldn’t accept the idea that they were just innocently playing there.

He demanded she take her pants off (page 1173), so he could see if she was still “intact.” Now, him wanting to know if she was still a virgin seems to contradict my speculation that he has sexually abused her. One thing we must keep in mind, though, is that abusers are often in total denial of their abuse, and they’ll use projection and gaslighting to manipulate their victims into ‘forgetting’ that the abuse ever occurred. It’s far from impossible to believe Al has penetrated her, then manipulated her into thinking no penetration by him occurred…but by the Losers instead.

Anyone with a modicum of understanding of the concepts of psychoanalysis (nay: anyone with a modicum of common sense!) knows that a man who wants a girl to take her pants off so he can ‘inspect’ her vagina is doing so for one reason, and only for that reason. ‘Concern’ about her status as a virgin is the most transparent of rationalizations. For these reasons, I can conclude, even without any direct evidence, that Al must have sexually abused Beverly.

When “Beverly suddenly understood that she was alone in the apartment with It” (page 1173), she was alone with not only It as Pennywise, but It as a member of Al’s anatomy. She knew she had to defy him. She ran from him just as she’d run from Mrs. Kersh twenty-seven years later (page 1177), for just as Kersh represented Bev’s good and bad mother, so did Al represent her good and bad father…and she couldn’t afford to consider his good side now.

She ran from the man “who had washed her back and punched her in the gut and had done both because he worried about her, worried a lot” (page 1178), the “maleman of her life, delivering a mixed post, from that other sexual state…She saw It there.”

She ran outside, him chasing her, and she hid under a dumpster (page 1181). She had to put up with the “stink of exhaust and diesel fuel mixed with the smell of ripe meat” that gave her nausea (page 1182). One is reminded of that smell that she and her father made between them.

She had to rationalize her defiance of her father. She tried to remind herself that she loved him, that there was a good side to him (page 1184). Guilt over hating him for being this horrible man was making her remember the commandment to honour thy father and thy mother. She tried to reconcile herself to this monster by imagining that her pursuer wasn’t her real father…he was It.

This kind of thinking is the essence of traumatic bonding, Stockholm Syndrome, and a misplaced use of the depressive position. The truly terrifying thing that Beverly had to accept, but couldn’t accept, was that this was the real Al. Yes, he was that crazy. But for a helpless child like her, all she could do was turn it around against herself. It’s so much easier to displace the terror from Dad and put it on the clown, than to accept Dad as he really was.

She and Al weren’t the only ones losing it at that time–so was Henry, especially after having let Patrick touch him in the way he did (page 1185). Henry was seeing “a skeletal grinning face” in the moon. He was hearing ghost-voices from it, too. He was already the Teenage Werewolf for this story’s purposes. The voice, a merging of all the voices, was telling him to do things, and he’d know what to do next when the time came. Next, he heard a voice, not from the moon, but from the sewer, telling him to kill Beverly (page 1186). As we can see, it’s easy to link Pennywise with Henry.

All the adult Losers have left the library, so Mike is there alone, having cleaned up after their drinking (pages 1186-1187). After a while, though, he starts getting the feeling that he is not alone (pages 1190-1191). And soon enough, before Mike even needs to see his visitor in the light or hear his voice, he knows who his intruder is…Henry (page 1192).

Henry asks Mike if he ever hears voices from the moon (page 1193). Mike answers Henry by asking if he’s seen It, to which Henry replies by saying that It killed Victor and Belch.

In this moment, in spite of Henry’s repeatedly calling Mike “nigger,” and in spite of his obvious intention of murdering Mike, the two of them, in acknowledging the existence of It, of the personification of their traumas, are connecting, if only for the moment…here’s that good/bad duality again.

Of course, when Henry threatens to kill Mike and all the other Losers before It can get a chance to kill them Itself, he’s really just projecting his own murderous impulses onto this clown, this figment of everyone’s traumatized imagination. Mike himself implies that Henry and his gang were the true killers back in 1958, when he says, “Maybe you yo-yos did Its work” (page 1194).

Mike also reminds Henry that It, having killed his gang, may also go after Henry himself, perhaps in the form of Frankenstein’s monster, a werewolf, a vampire, the clown…or Henry. Hearing this really gets Henry upset.

Of course, Henry attacks Mike, and they fight (page 1194). Mike gets stabbed, and he’s bleeding to death; he tries calling for help on the phone, but though Henry has left the library, Pennywise’s voice, imitating Henry’s taunts and racial slurs, is making so much noise that Mike can’t hear anyone on the other end of the phone (pages 1199-1200).

After this scene, the novel quickly switches, mid-sentence, from Pennywise taunting adult Mike in the library to teen Henry taunting little Beverly just after she’s run away from Al and hid under the dumpster (page 1200). It’s significant that we’d switch so abruptly from Pennywise imitating adult Henry to teen Henry, since I’ve always interpreted the two, from the murderer’s perspective, to be virtually one and the same person.

We get another sense of Henry’s psychopathic disrespect for law or authority when an old lady comes by in a car to try to stop him from bullying Bev (pages 1200-1201). He runs at her car with a defiance similar to when he was bullying Eddie and broke his arm; Mr. Gedreau, recall, tried to stop Henry, and he got “a good hard push” (pages 1012). Henry was never your everyday bully.

And just as Eddie had experienced an overwhelming plethora of trauma on that day (his fake asthma, Henry breaking his arm, and his mother trying to keep him from his friends), so is Beverly being overwhelmed: like Eddie, she is being bullied and abused by a parent and Henry the psychopath.

After the old woman in the car has been scared off, Beverly kicks Henry in the balls and runs away (page 1202). This section ends as it begins, mid-sentence. Henry tells his gang that Bev has gone “down into the Barrens to be with her asshole…friends,” as adult Beverly finishes the sentence in the next section, which is her with Bill, walking together from Mike’s library at night, the two building feelings for each other.

It’s fitting how this transition shares similar themes. The sexual feelings that Bev is feeling for Bill are linked thematically with the sexual feelings her father was suggesting he had for her, as well as those feelings shared between Henry and Patrick…which she as a little girl witnessed.

Remember also in this connection the emotional incest between Eddie and his mom, which is to be connected with the physical incest implied between Bev and her father. There’s the abuse that Bev’s dad and Eddie’s mom inflicted on them, as well as the abuse Henry has inflicted on them. Even Bill’s lovemaking with Beverly is going to be a form of mistreatment. After all, he’s married.

This is not to say that Bill has completely forgotten about Audra, who recall is a lot closer to him geographically than any of them in Derry know. He totally has Audra on his mind as Bev is charming him. “Cheating. Cheating on my wife” (page 1204, King’s emphasis), Bill’s thinking. In fact, part of his guilt is causing him to see that Audra actually looks like Beverly (page 1203). Maybe this is why he chose Audra to be his wife–transference.

Guilt over Audra doesn’t mean he’s turned off being with Bev, though she’s wondering if he’s having second thoughts (page 1205). In fact, he’s so excited to be getting it on with Beverly that he’s worried he’ll ejaculate too soon, like a little kid. He’s imagining how he felt when the two of them were kids. As for her, she never has second thoughts about cheating on Tom Rogan because she hates the abusive, controlling bastard (page 1206), him also being a link between this section and the last one via Henry.

Bill and Bev make love, and when she climaxes, she suddenly remembers having made love to all of the Losers when they were kids (page 1208). So he has his sexual guilt feelings, and she’s had hers. He’s just betrayed Audra, and Beverly recalls for the first time in so many years having ‘betrayed’ her father by doing with the Losers the exact thing he’d ‘worried a lot’ that she’d do with a bunch of boys.

This realization of hers also ties this scene in with the one several scenes back, of her memory of having run away from her insanely jealous father.

Bev and Bill lie together in bed, in each other’s arms, and she falls asleep, running in a dream (page 1211). This dream of running segues, again mid-sentence, into the next section, which brings us back to her as a little girl, running from Henry and his gang and down into the Barrens to meet with the other Losers in the underground clubhouse (pages 1211-1212).

Though she’s been hoping to see Bill’s bike, Silver, and to meet with him, she finds Ben there instead. She knows Henry and his gang are close behind. She and Ben get in the underground clubhouse, him pulling the trapdoor shut (page 1213). Their closeness together here, though not a sexual one–as was the one with adult Bev and Bill–is nonetheless a parallel of that scene, since Ben has always had feelings for her as strong as Bill has had them.

Her need to feel safe with Ben from Henry also parallels adult Bev’s need to feel safe with adult Bill from It. And since I’ve been equating It with Henry throughout my analysis of this novel, the fact that adult Henry has attacked Mike in the library soon after Bill and Beverly left also strengthens these parallels.

And since the underground clubhouse in the Barrens represents the unconscious mind, adult Beverly’s dream of running segueing into child Beverly running to the clubhouse is also a seamless transition, because dreams are where the unconscious mind really lets itself out. An exploration of the unconscious mind can be therapeutic for trauma; so Bev in bed with Bill, drifting off to sleep, is symbolic of such soothing therapy. Her hiding in the clubhouse with Ben, so Henry can’t get her, is also symbolic of such healing. Getting a form of love from Ben and from Bill in this healing way is also an example of the parallels of both scenes.

Yet another link between, on the one hand, adult Bill and Bev making love, and on the other, Ben and Bev in the clubhouse ‘making love’ in an albeit non-literal sense, is her bringing up Ben’s poem (page 1217), which she calls a haiku, though it deviates a bit from the traditional syllables of five-seven-five in the three lines. At first, Ben is too embarrassed to admit that he’s the one who wrote it for her, fearing that she’d laugh at a fat boy writing romantically to her. Still, she’s touched by his poem, saying she “thought it was beautiful.”

The two of them leave the clubhouse and go up to Kansas Street, ready to run if they see Henry and his gang. She stumbles on a rock in the path and…we have another mid-sentence transition from this section to the next one, which gives us adult Henry on the seminary grounds on Kansas Street at 2:17 AM, just after his attack on Mike in the library (pages 1221-1222).

Apart from Kansas Street and the fall, what links these two sections can be described as dialectical. Instead of the prey falling (Bev), it’s the predator (Henry) who does; instead of day, it’s night. Both predator and prey have been affected by the trauma of It.

She and Ben come up from the Barrens and the clubhouse; adult Henry sees a sewer-grate, to one of the bars of which is tied a balloon (page 1222). As we know, all of these lower, underground places are symbolic of the unconscious, so all three characters are being affected by the Shadow.

Henry is gloating over how he’s hurt “the nigger” better than he got hurt by him. He starts remembering old music, like “Pipeline,” by the Chantays, and “Wipe Out,” the laugh at the beginning of which reminds Henry of Patrick Hockstetter’s, he whom Henry still thinks of as a “queerboy” (page 1223, King’s emphasis). He remembers Patrick having died, “Got greased himself,” and while he doesn’t remember having killed Patrick himself (as I have speculated–see above), his mind during this passage (pages 1222-1223) is so scatterbrained, incoherent, and unstable that one would expect him to omit that detail.

Indeed, he keeps hearing things (a “ka-spanggg sound,” page 1223) and seeing things (Victor’s head). The police go by in a car (page 1224), and he thinks they’ll catch him. He’s not sure if he’s killed Mike, for he notices that an ambulance is going to the library.

He remembers the day back in 1958, the one I just described, when he and his gang lost Bev in the Barrens, after she’d kicked him in the balls (page 1225)–this being yet another link between these two sections…and a link with the section about to come.

He knew the kids hung out in the Barrens, but he never saw a treehouse there (page 1226); nor had Belch or Victor. He remembers searching for Beverly down the Kenduskeag, having picked up a rock and thrown it far down the river…and this is the mid-sentence transition between this and the next section, which brings us back to 1958, with Henry and Victor looking for Beverly in the Barrens.

What links these two sections, beyond the earlier one being adult Henry remembering his time at the river with Victor, and the later one being the time of the memory itself, is the fact that in both sections, Henry’s psychopathic lust for revenge on all the Losers is at an equal level of virulent intensity. He’s hearing the voice from the moon (pages 1227-1228) as a teen, just as he’s hearing that voice as an adult.

Teen Henry is bleeding in the crotch of his pants from Bev’s kick in the balls (page 1226), and adult Henry is bleeding in his gut from his fight with Mike (page 1197). When teen Henry hears the voice from the moon, he feels love. It’s significant that he’s described as having a “clownish smile” (page 1228), for it suggests what I’ve been saying all along–that Henry and Pennywise are one. The latter is a metaphorical mirror of the former.

Part of Henry’s psychopathy is his malignant narcissism. The wounds I referred to in the previous paragraph are symbolic of his narcissistic rage and injury. A psychopath can usually handle physical pain very well; it’s the humiliation he got from that kick in the balls…from a girl (consider 1950s preconceptions about female strength in this connection) that is so painful and intolerable for him. The clown in the moon, being Henry’s metaphorical mirror, is his ideal-I, to which he aspires by ‘killing them all’ (page 1231).

As Henry, Victor, and Belch are waiting for Bev to make an appearance, Henry is thinking about how he found a switchblade that morning (page 1228). He got it in the mail…in a mailbox full of balloons with the faces of all the kids “who had deviled him all this summer, the kids who seemed to mock him at every turn” (page 1229).

These balloons remind us of the one adult Henry sees on the bar of the sewer-grate (page 1222). Just as he as an adult has murderous designs on the Losers, so does he as a teen have those designs on the kid Losers. Pennywise is present during all these murders, either physically or in some symbolic sense, but it’s someone else (those who shot the Bradley gang, Heroux with his axe, etc.) who do the actual killing themselves. I believe it’s actually Henry who’s killed all these kids, and Pennywise just symbolizes the collective trauma of everyone in Derry.

Henry takes the switchblade from out of a package in the mailbox and takes it into his house, where he sees his father, Butch Bowers, lying in their bedroom (page 1229). He holds the switchblade at his dad’s neck for almost five minutes, then he hears the voice from the moon. Henry likes what he hears, so he pushes the button on the knife, making the blade stick “six inches of steel…though Butch Bowers’s neck (page 1230). As we can see, if Henry is crazy and vicious enough to murder his own father, he’s also capable of killing those kids.

He certainly wants to kill all those kids–the voices in his head keep telling him to do so. He and his gang see Ben and Bev coming out the trapdoor from the underground clubhouse, then going up to Kansas Street (page 1232).

Henry knows that It lives somewhere under the city, so in his mind there must be some kind of equivalence between those Losers he hates so much and the clown in the sewers. Though we readers see the former as the protagonists and the latter as the antagonist, it makes sense, from Henry’s point of view, to equate the Losers with It, instead of himself with It.

As I’ve said above, Pennywise in many ways represents the Shadow, or those repressed parts of the personality that, because of trauma, are rejected or disowned. The Shadow isn’t, however, necessarily evil, so equating the Losers with It isn’t all that far-fetched. Henry hates those kids so much because they represent aspects of himself that he hates: weakness, awkwardness, inadequacy, and being a social outcast. Henry thinks that by killing the kids, he’ll destroy and purge himself of similar personality traits in himself that he’ll never accept.

Henry, Victor, and Belch will follow Ben and Bev, but from farther off, so they won’t be seen (page 1233). As the three are following, Henry takes out his switchblade again, and…we come to yet another mid-sentence transition from 1958 to the mid-80s, at 2:30 AM, when adult Henry pushes the button on the switchblade, making the blade pop out (page 1233).

Just as teen Henry is with Belch and Victor when they’re following Ben and Bev, so is adult Henry with his now-dead buddies…in a way. A car pulls up to take Henry to the Derry Town House, the hotel where Bill, Ben, Eddie, Beverly, and Richie are staying (page 1241), and as it turns out, the ghost of Belch is driving the car (page 1235); Henry’s memories of Victor’s death are also there for the ride (page 1239).

The car Henry is being taken in is a 1958 Plymouth Fury, a red and white car that his dad wanted to own. It’s interesting how his father’s name was Butch, while the ghost driving the car is Belch. Henry isn’t just taking a trip to where he plans to be guilty of murder; he’s also going on a guilt trip.

Just as Henry is guilty of having murdered his father when he was a teen, he as an adult is reflecting on his guilt over having abandoned Belch and Victor in the sewers, where the two died, while chasing the Losers. His acknowledging his responsibility over the deaths of his two friends is a rare moment for this normally unfeeling psychopath. The fact that his memory of having murdered his father is being linked with his friends’ deaths is intensifying his guilt all the more.

As ghost-Belch is driving Henry to the Derry Town House, the latter is trying to apologize to the former for failing to help him (pages 1237-1240) in the sewers. Belch largely doesn’t reply, though. I’d say it’s safe to assume that Henry, in his delusional state, is just imagining the car and ghost-Belch as the driver. Since the Derry Town House is the only surviving hotel in the Derry area (page 1240), he can deduce that this is probably where at least some, if not all, of the adult Losers coming back for a visit are staying, so he knows where to go to strike next and continue getting his revenge.

With his urge to right the wrongs he feels have been done to him, though, also comes the sense that he himself has done his share of wrong. Hence his ride to the hotel comes in a car that his victim of patricide wanted, driven by a friend he shafted in the sewers. Here’s the good/bad duality again: it’s ‘good’ from his point of view that he’s getting a lift to the hotel; but it’s also ‘bad’ that his trip is a guilt trip. It’s also bad that getting to hotel, to continue his murder spree, has been made easier, but it’s also good that, on at least some level, he’s beginning to understand what a bad person he is.

When he arrives at the Derry Town House, the first of the Losers that he decides to attack is Eddie, who is in Room 609, up at the top, then he’ll work his way down (page 1242). At the door, Henry rings the bell and pretends to be a bellboy with a message from Eddie’s wife (page 1243). It’s ironic that Eddie’s potential killer has a message from overprotective Myra.

Henry has his knife ready, by his cheek, as Eddie is fumbling with the chain to unlock and open the door (page 1244). Henry’s ready to plunge the knife into Eddie’s throat. The door is opened and Eddie…another mid-sentence transition occurs here, and we’re transported back to 1958, and little Stan and Richie are each eating a ‘Rocket‘ on a push-up stick.

Eddie’s running up to catch up with them, and he wants a lick on Richie’s Rocket. We can see a link between the sections in how, on the one hand, adult Eddie is expecting a message from Myra, his ‘sweet’ wife, while on the other, little Eddie is expecting a taste from Richie’s sweet food. In the end, adult Eddie is about to get a “push-up stick” of a surprising kind and little Eddie–with his broken arm–is going to join the other Losers in confronting Henry and his gang to protect their underground clubhouse.

Stan offers Eddie the rest of his Rocket, and when Richie says, “Jews don’t eat much,” this begins a discussion among the three about religion, about Judaism as contrasted with Catholicism, in particular (pages 1245-1248), and what’s odd about religions in general.

There’s a comparison between Jews being forbidden to eat the flesh of pigs (though Stan and his family eat it, anyway), and Catholics being forbidden to eat meat on Fridays (page 1246). This leads to a discussion about a bad Catholic boy who stole some of the communion bread and took it home. He threw it into the toilet bowl, and the water turned as red as blood (page 1247), the Blood of Christ, meaning what the boy had done was an act of blasphemy, and his immortal soul was now in danger of Hell.

This story is Eddie’s, and ever since hearing it, he’s never enjoyed communion. Blood in the toilet, of course, reminds us of the blood in the bathroom sinkhole in Beverly’s home. We also see in Eddie’s story that good/bad duality: Christ’s blood is good in itself, but a frighteningly unnatural thing to see in a toilet bowl.

Then Bill and Mike arrive on their bikes (page 1248). Bill is wondering if any of them has seen Ben or Beverly. They all go over to the Barrens (page 1249). They see Ben and Bev running toward them and shouting (page 1250).

Eddie is shocked at how filthy she looks, not knowing about her hiding under a dumpster so her father wouldn’t find her. There’s no way she’ll tell them about what her father was doing (recall in this connection the association between the blood in the toilet and in the sinkhole), but she has to warn them about Henry, his gang, and his new knife. In this, again, we see a connection between this section and the last one (i.e., Henry about to stab adult Eddie in his hotel room).

As they all are contemplating the danger of facing Henry again, they each think about a traumatic incident associated with It: Richie, the moving photo of George; Bev, her dad and the wildness in his eyes; Mike, the bird; Ben, the mummy; etc. (page 1251) Still, Bill insists they all go down and defend the clubhouse.

What’s interesting is that, as the kids are about to go down to the clubhouse, a thunderstorm is beginning on a day when, according to what Ben has seen in the newspaper, it was supposed to be “hot and hazy” (page 1253). This storm suggests association with the flooding rain at the beginning of the story, and the Deluge-like, destructive storm at the end. Once again, the Losers’ confrontation with Henry and his gang will be…apocalyptic.

As the kids are going down, Eddie starts getting the feeling that they’re being watched (page 1259). He looks around nervously. He…and another mid-sentence transition takes us from 1958 back to the mid-1980s, with adult Eddie opening his hotel door to see “a monster from a horror comic”–adult Henry. It’s hardly necessary to explain how this section is linked to the last one.

Eddie slams the door shut, hitting Henry’s forearm and making the knife fall to the floor (page 1255). Eddie kicks it away, so it goes under the TV. Henry uses his weight to shove the door open, making Eddie, of a much lighter build, fall back on the bed. Henry is calling him “fag” and “babyfag,” with revenge on his mind for a rockfight he still hasn’t forgotten about.

So a struggle ensues, and Eddie throws a Perrier bottle at Henry’s face, cutting into his right cheek and right eye (page 1256), then he uses the jagged edge of the bottle to cut Henry’s left hand. Later, Henry falls on the bottle, impaling himself on it.

Henry dies, and Eddie goes for the telephone for help. It’s ironic how “babyfag” has won the fight against the bully, with no help from anybody else. Once again, we’re reminded of how bullies like Henry are the real weaklings and cowards, projecting their inadequacies onto their victims, who often show surprising amounts of strength when they need to. In spite of his ‘mama’s boy’ upbringing, Eddie can kick ass.

He calls the desk clerk of the hotel and asks to be connected with Bill (page 1258). Bill answers his phone with a stammer. He tells Bill about the fight with Henry, and that he had the same knife as he’d used on that day when they, as kids, went into the sewers. Bill replies with another mid-sentence transition back to 1958, in the Barrens, with young Bill finishing the sentence, telling Eddie to get Ben (page 1259).

They can hear the thunder in the sky, and they’ve found the trapdoor to the clubhouse open, not the way Ben and Bev left it. Bill senses that Henry expects them to fight, and to be killed by him. By imagining that both Henry and It expect the Losers to stand and fight, Bill is implying he understands that Henry and It are one and the same, at least from a murderer’s point of view (page 1260).

Bill says they should all go to the pumping station, then he sees Victor, and a number of rocks are thrown all at once at the kids (page 1264). Bill gets a rock in the cheek. Henry is happy to get his revenge for the rockfight.

Bill insists that the pumping station is the way in, the way to It. Ben knows where to go, and he must take the Losers there (page 1265). The others are hesitating to go, but Henry et al are throwing rocks at them. A crack of thunder and a flash of lightning give them all a scare, Bill is running to the river, and a rock almost hits his face, but hits Ben in the ass instead. Henry gets a good laugh from that. The rain is coming down hard now.

After Mike throws a piece of scrapwood, hitting Henry on the forehead with it, all the Losers run to find the pumping station (page 1266). The Kenduskeag’s water seems higher, the rain-dark sky looks dangerously grey, and lightning is flashing again (page 1267).

With Henry’s gang chasing them, they reach the pumping station, and struggle to get the lid off (page 1269). They get inside and go down to where the sewers are, where George’s boat went almost a year before (page 1277), led by Bill, with Henry’s gang not far behind, Henry having warned them that they’ll die down there (page 1272). The Losers are also thinking about the ritual of Chüd (page 1276).

What’s interesting about the Losers’ current predicament is how they’re all running away from Henry’s gang, yet they’re also running straight into Its lair. I’ve been equating the murderous intent of Henry with that of It. What Bill is leading his friends into seems foolish on the surface, but looked at more deeply, his intentions start to make more sense, especially if you equate Henry with It the way I do.

The only way the kids will be free of their trauma, personified by Pennywise, is if they face It. Henry and his gang of bullies know themselves so slenderly that they’ll never be able to face their own traumas and therefore be freed of them. Bill is not only getting his friends into a situation where, if they’re successful, they can be freed of their trauma, but also they can wipe out at least some of their bullies.

Bill is luring Henry, Victor, and Belch into a trap, from which the latter two won’t get out alive, and from which Henry won’t get out sane. Bill is probably not even the slightest bit conscious of what this chase into the sewers will do to the Losers’ tormentors (after all, as I’ve said all along, the sewers are among those subterraneous places that symbolize the unconscious mind in this novel), but this is exactly what it will do, nonetheless.

In selfishly wanting his friends to risk their lives helping him get revenge for the murder of his little brother, the murder he feels so guilty about, Bill is also–in wiping out Henry’s gang–selflessly and heroically saving the town from a group of violent psychopaths. This is yet another example of the good/bad duality of It. Bill’s self-centered lust for revenge is leading to the greater good of all.

Please wait for Part VI.

Stephen King, It, New York, Pocket Books, 1986

Analysis of ‘It,’ Part IV

Here are links to Parts I, II, and III, if you haven’t read them yet.

XVI: Three Uninvited Guests

While on the literal level, Pennywise is of course the killer in It, on a symbolic level, It is trauma personified. Henry Bowers has been blamed for all the murders in the late 1950s, while we know he actually killed his father and Mike’s old dog, Mr. Chips. I suspect, however, that Henry and Patrick Hockstetter are psychopathic enough, at least, to have committed all the killings. Pennywise’s presence in all these proceedings, including his own manifested violence, seem merely symbolic.

In this chapter, three people are getting involved in the Losers’ mission to destroy It. Two of them, Henry and Tom Rogan, Bev’s abusive husband, seem apt to be included, since they’re both trauma-inflicting bullies. The third, however, is Audra, Bill’s wife, and she’ll wind up on the receiving end of trauma.

As I mentioned previously in section XI: Georgie’s Room and The House On Neibolt Street from Part III, Henry is associated with the werewolf because, as we see in this chapter, he as an adult inmate in a mental hospital is hearing voices from the moon; thus he’s a lunatic of a sort comparable to how the full moon causes a lycanthrope to change into a wolf. The voice of the moon is the voice of Pennywise in the forms of Victor and Belch (page 791).

Since Pennywise is trauma personified, and since It represents the Collective Shadow, then it makes sense to understand these voices to be projections of Henry’s own traumas and madness. For him to see and hear Pennywise in the moon is to confront himself in a metaphorical mirror reflection.

So when Henry hears voices taunting him about his failures in such situations as the Apocalyptic Rock Fight (to be dealt with two chapters later, after the third Derry interlude), and they tell him to go back to Derry and kill all of the Losers, what on the surface would seem to be the clown is actually a projection of Henry’s mad thoughts (page 797).

Pennywise, in the voice of Victor Criss, tells Henry to get out of the mental hospital and get revenge on the Losers for the rock fight. Vic offers to help by taking care of a guard named Koontz, named apparently after Dean Koontz, who as a fellow horror/suspense thriller writer was something of a rival to Stephen King. Pennywise appears before this guard with the head of a Doberman pinscher, terrifying the guard and killing him (pages 802-803). That King would write a killing of a man named Koontz thus sounds like a form of wish-fulfillment.

Next, we learn of how Tom Rogan has found out where Beverly is going. After escaping Tom’s clutches, Bev got help from a friend named Kay McCall. Tom manages to find out that Kay has helped Beverly, so he finds Kay and gets the information of where his wife is going, by literally beating that information out of Kay (page 809). Feeling guilty over having told Tom, who threatened to slice up her face if she didn’t, Kay tries to contact Bev in Derry by phone to warn her that he’s on his way there (page 813).

On the plane from Chicago to Derry, Tom has a copy of Bill Denbrough’s novel, The Black Rapids. He’s read and reread the note on the author at the back of the book (page 813). He knows Bill is from New England; he also knows Bill’s wife, Audra Phillips, is a noted actress, and he’s trying to remember what movies he’s seen her in.

He remembers that Audra is a redhead, and therefore she looks a lot like Beverly. Since Bev wants to go to Derry to see her old childhood friends, including Bill, and since Bill seems to have a thing for redheads, does all of this mean that, not only were Bill and Bev an item as kids, but do they now want to revive their old love?

Tom has some insight into psychology, though as a narcissist and a psychopath, he uses that insight to manipulate and control, not to help, people like Bev (page 814). He has an instinct that people do transferences of those they knew as kids onto those they know now as adults, including transferences of love.

Eddie’s made such a transference of his obese, overprotective mother onto Myra (whose overprotectiveness, surprisingly, hasn’t motivated her to join Henry, Tom, and Audra in a search for the Losers in Derry). Bev did a transference from her father onto Tom. And Bill, Tom intuits, has done a transference of Beverly onto Audra…yet this transference seems to be insufficient for Bill, so he needs Beverly again. Tom’s intuition and his wild, sociopathic jealousy are welded together here.

This jealousy of his is extensively paralleled with that of Bev’s father, who always ‘worried about her…a lot,’ that she’d fall into vice with other boys. Tom similarly doesn’t like Bev to be smoking, and he’s bringing her a carton of cigarettes…not to smoke, but to eat (page 817).

Cigarettes are phallic symbols, too. Tom’s not liking Bev smoking is unconsciously linked to the idea of her practicing fellatio on an object other than his own phallus. Making her “eat” the cigarettes is a way of ‘curing’ her of her smoking habit by a kind of ironic overkill, punishing her with the sin.

Audra argues with her bad-tempered movie producer, Fredde Firestone, about her and Bill suddenly having to leave England and go to Derry (pages 817-822). In the US, she rents a Datsun to drive into the city.

She and Tom take rooms in motels that are side by side. In fact, the LTD wagon he’s bought and the Datsun she’s rented are parked nose-to-nose (page 824), with only a raised concrete sidewalk to separate them.

Such a coincidence is the kind of synchronicity that can happen only in Derry, it seems. The inner world of Tom’s mind, jealously preoccupied with the red hair of Audra and Beverly, is coinciding with the outer-world proximity of Audra’s Datsun.

XVII: Derry: The Third Interlude

Mike is reflecting on the period of killings that included the fire in the Black Spot. He imagines the killings to have been a kind of huge human sacrifice to satisfy Pennywise, as if It were a pagan god.

These cycles of killings of every twenty-seven years or so, these mass human sacrifices, as it were, would come to an end, and It being thus satisfied, would then go to sleep for about a quarter century. Yet just as there is a cause to end the killings for the moment, there’s also a cause to begin them.

And in the case of the spate of killings from 1929 to 1930, the cause was the incident with the Bradley Gang (page 827).

As usual, whenever there’s such horror as the shootout that killed the Bradley Gang in a bloodbath, the people of Derry, for the most part, pretend to forget what happened, either claiming they were out of town that day, or napping that afternoon and not knowing what happened until they’d heard about it on the news, or straight out lying about it.

As I’ve mentioned previously, Derry is the kind of town where people, on the surface, affect sweetness, kindness, gentleness, and good manners, all the while hiding the town’s slimy underbelly. It’s far easier to engage in denial and projection than it is to be honest about one’s traumas and confront the scary stuff. And as I’ve also said previously, confronting the scary stuff is what It is all about.

Mike manages to get the true story about the Bradley Gang shootout from Norbert Keene, owner of the Center Street Drug Store from 1925 to 1975 (page 828). The gang was led by the brothers George and Al Bradley; they would rob stores across Derry throughout the late 1920s, until of course the locals got fed up with them and gunned them all down. Even Pennywise was among the shooters.

The gang had been hitting banks across the Midwest and even kidnapped a banker for ransom (page 831). They got paid thirty thousand dollars for the ransom, a lot of money back in the late 1920s, but they still killed the banker.

The Midwest was getting sick of gangs like the Bradleys always terrorizing them, so the gang went up northeast and into the Derry area. They’d been lying low in a big farmhouse they’d rented there, but they were getting bored and wanted to do some hunting. They had the guns, but not the ammo, so they went to Machen’s Sporting Goods to get it. The owner, Lal Machen, was shocked to learn just how much ammo the gang wanted to buy (page 832), but said he’d have rather made the sale than his competition in a store up in Bangor. Lal knew exactly who his customers were, of course.

The gang was supposed to pick up the ammo two days later, at two in the afternoon (page 833). When the gang left the store, Lal told as many people as possible that the Bradley Gang would be at his store at the agreed time, and he knew that if the gang wanted ammo, they were sure to get a lot of it (page 834)…but in a way they hadn’t been expecting to get it.

When the time of reckoning came, Lal told Al Bradley, sitting in a La Salle, to put his hands up and that he was surrounded (page 838). Lal started firing, hitting Al in the shoulder. The shootout was all over in about four or five minutes. George, running away, got a bullet in the back of his head (page 841).

As I said above, it’s understood by Keene that one of the gunmen who massacred the Bradley Gang was a clown (page 843). We should consider how every shooter saw Pennywise using the same gun that he was using. Keene fired a Winchester, and he saw the clown fire a Winchester. Biff Marlow used a Remington, and he saw Pennywise shoot with a Remington. Jimmy Gordon used an old Springfield, and he saw the clown use one just like his.

This use of the same guns reinforces the idea that Pennywise is not someone there in the real, physical world. He’s a dagger of the mind, so to speak, proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain. He’s a projection of the gunmen’s own aggression, a personification of their trauma, of their fight-or-flight response…here, with an emphasis on fight.

Keene imagines the man was wearing clown makeup to hide his identity, as a Klansman might do with the white hood. This sounds like an unconscious wish-fulfillment and projection of a group of murderers who wanted to remain anonymous, just as so many in Derry ‘didn’t know’ what really happened that day.

XVIII: The Apocalyptic Rockfight

It’s interesting that the rockfight between the Losers Club–all seven of them now, with Mike finally joining them–and Henry Bowers’s Gang is described as being ‘apocalyptic,’ of all things. Recall that both the flooding in Derry at the novel’s beginning, when Georgie is murdered, and at the end, when the adult Losers confront and defeat It once and for all, are associated with the Great Flood, another world-ending event.

Pennywise, or It in Its giant spider form, must be seen in Its context of the whole cosmology of King’s novels, as must the Turtle, Maturin, in the Macroverse in which the Turtle vomited out our mainstream universe. Maturin is the God, or Ahura Mazda, the principle of good in this dualistic cosmology; and It is the Devil, or Angra Mainyu, the principle of evil, in this universe.

Good and evil are at war with each other throughout sacred histories like those of Christianity, Zoroastrianism, or the mythography King has created in novels like It. At the end of these sacred histories, the war between the powers of light and darkness comes to a head, and we get the apocalyptic final confrontation, like Ragnarök–a great, epic battle.

Just as the adult Losers have their ultimate confrontation with It at the end of the novel, with a fitting Deluge and destruction of downtown Derry, so do the pre-teen Losers have their great fight–no less a battle between good and evil, in its own way–with Henry Bowers’s gang. Depicting both battles as, each in its own way, apocalyptic is fitting, even if calling the rockfight ‘apocalyptic’ sounds a tad melodramatic on the surface. For the point is that fighting It is perfectly paralleled with fighting Henry and his bullies; it’s all about confronting trauma, facing one’s fears.

Pennywise is Henry…and his bullies, his father, Bev’s father and her husband, Eddie’s mother and his wife, the racist secret society (the Maine Legion of White Decency) that killed all the blacks in the Black Spot, Adrian Mellon’s homophobic murderers, etc. Pennywise is the Collective Shadow.

After having looked around Derry to jog their memories and confront Pennywise in various forms, the adult Losers go to the library to meet up with Mike, Bill being the first to arrive. Bill is thinking about Silver in Mike’s garage, the day the kids met in the Barrens (except Mike) and told their scary stories about It, and–looking over at Mike–Bill remembers the day Mike joined the Losers, the day of the apocalyptic rockfight (pages 850-851).

A number of the Losers, when they were kids, each had his own set of reasons why he thought Henry hated him the most, these being Ben, Richie, Stan, and Bill. To be sure, Henry virulently hates all four of them, but the kid Henry hated the most was Mike (pages 854-855). This hate stemmed from how Mike’s father’s farm so fully outclassed Butch Bowers’s farm, as I’ve already mentioned.

Now, Butch was as crazy and sociopathic as his son, and he hated Mike and his father as much as Henry did. Butch is how Henry learned racism against blacks. Parents teaching their kids bigoted ideas is a form of emotional abuse; in fact, Butch rewarded Henry with his first beer (page 858) for having killed Mr. Chips, Mike’s dog, by poisoning burger meat (psychopathic Henry even sat and watched the dog die after eating the meat–page 857).

Naturally, Henry wanted his father’s love, something difficult to get from a man plagued with PTSD after fighting the Japanese in WWII. Henry was afraid of crazy Butch, just as his bully friends, Victor et al, were afraid of the vicious man, who was as abusive to them as he was to Henry. Even Butch’s wife left him after he beat her almost to death.

The point is that abuse and the trauma resulting from it are contagious. This is how that It-spider has existed throughout the sacred history of King’s cosmology. It feeds on human flesh, but finds that the fear of children makes that flesh taste better. So trauma and abuse are like the original sin that is passed from generation to generation, nourishing It the whole time. Killing It thus ends the sacred history, an apocalyptic moment like the rockfight, since It is manifested in Henry and his gang of bullies.

Hurt people hurt people. Henry hurts everyone, because he himself has been hurt so much. It feeds on everyone’s pain.

Henry, Victor, Belch, and two other bullies named Peter Gordon and Steve “Moose” Sadler are chasing Mike toward the Barrens, while on the bank of the Kenduskeag Stream, the six Losers are discussing how It is terrorizing them. They realize It lives in the sewers (pages 863-864).

Bill’s father, Zack Denbrough, told him that the whole sewer area was originally marsh. Zack explained that the machinery used to pump the sewage is old and needs to be replaced, but the city council doesn’t want to pay for new machinery whenever the issue is brought up at budget meetings. So the sewers are never fixed.

Recall that I see the underground, including of course the sewers, as a symbol of the unconscious. The sewers reek of piss and shit, the filth ejected from our bodies, which in turn is symbolic of all that we project and deny, pain that the unconscious mind wants to pretend doesn’t exist, just as the residents of Derry look the other way when It terrorizes somebody.

Replacing the old machinery with new machinery is like a psychoanalyst giving therapy to an analysand, delving into the unconscious and bringing repressed traumas out to the surface so we can recognize them as they are, not to be tricked into thinking they’re something else, hiding in plain sight in an unrecognizable form. The council’s refusal to replace the sewers’ machinery is like a patient’s resistance to his therapist’s probing into the secrets of his mind.

The rockfight happens near the Barrens, by the bank of the Kenduskeag, because this area represents the unconscious. This battle represents a struggle between different parts of the unconscious mind.

As Henry’s gang is chasing Mike, Henry admits that it was he who killed Mr. Chips, enraging Mike (page 887). He gets his revenge by hurling a chunk of coal at Henry, hitting him on the forehead (page (889). A while later, Bill seems to have a premonition, and he tells the other Losers to gather rocks as ammo (page 894). They all start gathering lots of rocks, as if they know Mike is coming, Henry’s gang close behind.

Mike reaches the Losers, and he’s standing beside Bill, panting, when Henry and his gang arrive. Henry taunts the Losers, calling Richie “four eyes,” Ben the “fatboy,” and Stan “the Jew” (page 897). Of course, Mike is referred to as “that nigger,” whom Henry wants at the moment. Bill is called a “stuttering freak” (King’s emphasis).

Mike isn’t the only one seething with rage at Henry for all the wrongs he’s caused. The rest of the Losers are sick of Henry’s crap, and they have the rocks to prove it. The rockfight begins.

Henry gets a rock from Bill on the shoulder, then one on the head (page 898). Rocks from Richie, Eddie, Stan, and Beverly also hit him, making Henry scream out in disbelief that these little kids could actually hurt him. His shouts for help from his gang make him sound like the weakling. Henry’s wimpish reaction is a reminder to all of us of just what bullies really are: they’re cowards, always picking on kids who are weaker and who can’t fight back…because bullies can’t handle people who fight back.

And so, of course, Henry and his gang of bullies lose the fight and have to retreat. A badly injured Henry threatens that he’ll kill all the Losers (page 902). We know he’ll follow up on that promise by chasing the Losers into the sewers, though the only ones who will die then are his own gang, while he himself goes insane, confesses to all the murders, and ends up in Juniper Hill Asylum.

So the chapter ends with yet another mix of good and bad: it’s bad that Mike was bullied and chased, and it’s bad that there was a fight; but it’s good that the Losers Club became the Winners Club for that day, and it’s good that the kids have found a new friend in Mike.

XIX: The Album

The rest of the adult Losers arrive in Mike’s library, and they all bring booze (page 905). We all have our ways of dealing with trauma, and isn’t the use of alcohol a common way to cope?

As we all know, Stan had his own way of dealing with trauma–escaping it through death. Mike is reminded of Stan’s suicide when he opens the library refrigerator and sees, inside it, Stan’s severed head next to Mike’s sixpack of Bud Light (page 909). Just as alcohol is an escape from trauma, so is suicide, so it’s fitting, though ghoulish, to see the two side by side.

Stan’s eyes change into those of Pennywise, who then taunts Mike. Then Mike has his own flashback…

A few days after the rockfight, Mike meets up with the other six Losers in the Barrens again. He learns that, with Ben’s guidance, they’re making an ‘underground treehouse,’ since with an actual treehouse, there’s the fear of falling out and hurting oneself (page 914).

Another good reason to have an underground treehouse is as an effective hiding spot for when Henry and his gang come along, as will indeed happen later in the story. Having this underground hideout in the Barrens, symbolic of the unconscious, will be a good safe space for the Losers in a symbolic sense, too, for here, the Losers can soothe each other’s unconscious traumas and validate each other. Mike is already feeling better with his new friends.

Indeed, the kids start talking about their scary experiences of It (page 917), and now Mike can feel safe about talking about the clown, too (page 918). He can also talk about the big bird (page 921), as well as mention some old photos his dad has in an album. The Losers are relieved to know that Mike doesn’t think they’re all crazy with their clown stories. Mike’s bird story makes Stan’s story about the Standpipe, and his shouting out the names of birds to stop the horror, feel valid.

For Mike, the presence of that giant bird in his dreams and unconscious is a shadow in his mind’s darker corners…the Shadow. (page 922).

Some time has passed since these discussions about It, at least a week, and the underground clubhouse is almost finished (page 926). Mike brings his father’s photograph album to the clubhouse. Inside the album are old pictures and clippings about Derry. He’s brought the album because he’s sure he’s seen the clown in it before, and he wants the other Losers to see It.

Since only Mike and Richie are at the clubhouse for the moment, with Ben down at work in the hole, Mike wants to wait for all the others to get there before looking at the pictures and seeing Pennywise in them. Richie is reluctant to look into any photo albums at all, since he’s had that disturbing experience with Bill looking into the photo album with Georgie’s pictures (page 928).

George’s and Mike’s photo albums are symbolic of all the traumatic memories the people of Derry have suffered–moments frozen in time, motionless photographs, yet thanks to the pain those moments inflict, the memories have lives of their own, hence the pictures move, like short films.

When Bill and Eddie have arrived, and Ben’s come out of the hole, Bill notices Mike’s album (page 936). Mike says he’ll show them all photos of the clown when Stan and Beverly arrive, making Bill and Richie nervous because of Georgie’s photos. More work is done on the hole until Stan and Bev come back.

Since the underground clubhouse, like the Barrens, sewers, and cellars, are all symbolic of the unconscious, and traumatic feelings are associated with the album photos, both working in the hole and looking in the album are symbolic of doing the inner work to make the unconscious conscious–they’re two sides of the same coin, so to speak. It’s rewarding, healing work, but it’s also scary.

Mike says that some of the pictures his dad has put in the album go back a hundred years (page 936). So having photos with Pennywise, the personification of Derry’s collective, accumulated traumas, is a representation of not only the personal Shadow of Mike’s father, but of Derry’s collective Shadow.

Mike’s dad collects this old stuff because it was there before the Hanlon family came to Derry, rather like coming into a theatre in the middle of a movie and wanting to know how it starts, according to an analogy Mike and Bill make (page 937). Of course, coming into Derry late and not knowing the town’s early years is like how all of us not only don’t know the inner workings of our personal unconscious, but also don’t know the collective unconscious–the archived, as it were, accumulation of old experiences shared by all of humanity going back to the dawn of Homo sapiens.

Mike wants to show the Losers the clown in the photo album so they can all get to the bottom of what It is and what It is trying to do to all of them…just like digging the hole in the underground clubhouse, fixing it up down there, is also the Losers’ getting to the bottom of their traumas, in a symbolic sense.

As they’re looking through the album, thumbing through the pages, Bill flips out, warning them not to touch the pages and using a fist to gesture at the album for fear of cutting up his fingers again. Everyone gets a scare from his reaction, but Richie of course understands because he was there when they were looking through George’s album (page 937).

They look at one of the first pages, which Mike thinks is from the early to mid-seventeen-hundreds (page 938). The picture is a woodcut that Mike’s father put under a protective plastic cover, which relieves Bill. It shows a juggler on a muddy street. He has a huge grin on his face, with no makeup, though Bill’s sure it’s the clown’s face.

Mike flips some more pages and finds a picture from 1856 (page 939), a colour picture, like a cartoon, showing drunks in front of a saloon. A fat politician is also seen holding a pitcher of beer. Women are seen looking at the drunks disapprovingly. A caption at the bottom says, “POLITICS IN DERRY IS THIRSTY WORK, SEZ SENATOR GARNER!” (page 940).

This image of drunks in Derry ties in with the beginning of the chapter, with the adult Losers coming into Mike’s library, all of them bringing booze. The use of alcohol to drink away one’s fears was as common a way to deal with Derry’s traumas then as it is now. It’s all about escaping the pain, rather than facing it.

The clown is seen in the picture, just as he was seen in the previous one. So many years had gone by, from around the 1750s to 1856, yet Pennywise is there, in both pictures.

Then Mike shows them a picture from 1891. The clown can be seen to the left (pages 940-941). Then they see a photograph from 1933. Pennywise is seen drinking champagne from a lady’s high-heeled shoe. The clown seems to want to encourage drinking as a way of avoiding one’s pain.

Next, a newspaper article from 1945, about the surrender of Japan. A parade celebrating the American victory is seen in the photo…with Pennywise in the background. To Bill, however, there doesn’t seem to be any victory. The matrix of dots that make up the grainy photo suddenly disappear, and the picture starts to move (page 942). He’s terrified.

He points out the supernatural occurrence to the others, and they all see it. It’s just like what Bill and Richie saw of Georgie’s pictures. Then Ben notes that there are sounds emanating from the photo: the band playing a marching tune, the cheering of the crowd in the parade, popping noises…firecrackers (page 942).

As I said above, these moments of the past may have seemed frozen in time, but trauma–as personified by Pennywise–brings them back to life, making them move and make sounds.

It’s interesting that Pennywise is appearing in photos from years when he was supposed to be dormant. In part, he’s appearing in the pictures now, in 1958, because he isn’t dormant, and he wants to scare the kids. But his appearance in photos from his dormant years also reflects how trauma resides in the unconscious and stays there, in spite of not coming out into recognizable, conscious view. He appears in the photos because unconscious material appears in consciousness, hiding in plain sight.

As the parade is seen moving away in the photo, Pennywise comes forward, climbs up a lamppost, and looks straight at the kids up close, his nose pushing against the protective plastic covering (page 944) Mike’s dad put over the pictures. I’m reminded of the fly in Bill’s unopened fortune cookie, pushing in it and making it bulge out (page 685). Those unconscious traumas are trying to come out and be known, but our protective coverings (defence mechanisms like repression, denial, projection, etc.) try to keep them inside and hidden…hence, the bulges.

Pennywise threatens to drive all the kids mad and kill them. He presents himself as the Teenage Werewolf, to give Richie a scare, as the leper, to give Eddie a scare, as the mummy, to give Ben a scare, and as the dead boys in the Standpipe, to scare Stan. We presumably would have seen more (i.e., the bloody sinkhole, Georgie, and the giant bird), but Stan, unable to bear any more, grabs the photo album and slams it shut (page 945).

Stan objects to the whole thing, saying “No” over and over again. Bill thinks his denials are more worrisome than the existence of the clown, that Pennywise wants everyone to deny Its existence, so It needn’t fear any attempts to kill It, as Bill is aiming for.

Certainly killing It is of the utmost importance, on the literal level, to save Derry from future killings, and on the symbolic level, to cure the Losers of their traumas. Bill’s personal reasons for wanting to kill It, however, seem a lot more selfish.

Bill insists on changing Stan’s nos into yeses, even shaking him as he tries to change them; and Ben, Richie, Mike, Bev, and Eddie all add their own yeses into the mix to persuade Stan, whose nos are a foreshadowing of his eventual suicide, his inability to face his traumas, what he thinks has offended him (pages 557-558), has outraged his sense of what is rational, explicable, and what can be put into words…Lacan’s undifferentiated, traumatic Real.

Stan eventually relents and says yes, to appease Bill and the others, though deep down, he still wants to say no (page 946). And though Bill would like to believe that his wish to kill It is selfless, for the sake of all the Losers and for everyone in Derry, deep down, he knows he wants to kill It as a personal vendetta against the killer of his little brother, and that he’s using his friends, even risking their lives, to help him assuage his guilt over Georgie’s death.

And these private thoughts are making Bill feel all the guiltier.

XX: The Smoke-Hole

Because of the pain in his eyes from his contact lenses, Richie has switched back to glasses (page 948). All the adult Losers in the library are continuing their alcoholic drinking (page 949), though they aren’t getting drunk.

Suddenly, the burning in Richie’s eyes gets to be too great to bear, even with glasses replacing contact lenses (page 950). He now knows what’s causing this pain. He remembers the incident, when they were all kids, and they were doing an old Native American ceremony Ben had read about, involving sitting in an enclosed, smoke-filled area and trying to endure the smoke as long as they could. Richie and Mike lasted the longest, but the smoke had hurt Richie’s eyes then, and he remembers the pain now. Memories of Derry have triggered the pain in his unconscious (pages 951-952).

The purpose of sitting in and enduring the smoke-filled, enclosed area, a smoke-hole, is to have visions. The Losers hope that a vision in the smoke will help them find a way to defeat It (pages 958-959). The kids decide to make their underground clubhouse into a smoke-hole.

Since, as I’ve said above, any underground area–the sewer, the cellars, the Losers’ clubhouse, etc.–is symbolic of the unconscious, the use of a smoke-hole to get mystical visions is an attempt, symbolically, to make conscious contact with the unconscious, what Jung would have called Active Imagination. One conjures up images from the unconscious to gain insights into psychic truth.

Now, gaining this insight can be dangerous–one can go mad without someone, outside of the foray into the unconscious, as a guide to pull one out if one goes too far inside. The kids consider having someone stay outside of the smoke-hole in case those inside, coughing and choking from the smoke, need help to get out. They want Beverly to be the one outside, because she’s a girl. She’s furious with them for their sexist, over-protective traditionalism (page 963).

Because she insists on being included, they decide instead to use matches, one of them burnt, for drawing straws (page 964). She ends up stuck with the last match, but miraculously, it isn’t burnt. It seems to be a divine sign that all seven of them are to go into the smoke-hole (page 966).

We can see, in this experience they’re about to have, a dialectical combination of good and bad, that theme I’ve said is a recurring one throughout the novel. It’s good to have the vision and gain the insight from it on how to defeat Pennywise, but it’s bad to put oneself–especially when one is just a child–through such an ordeal, one that could kill you. But any mystical experience is a kind of paradoxical meeting of the extremes of heaven and hell–like Jesus’ passion, death, harrowing of hell, resurrection, and ascension to heaven.

One by one, the kids–finding the smoke too difficult to bear–leave the smoke-hole, and Mike and Richie are the only remaining two (page 972). Again, the intensity of the smoke is unbearable–at its worst–but these two are the ones to receive the vision.

They see a world from long ago, before the dawn of man (page 977). There’s even an allusion to John 1:1, to give us a sense that this really must be the beginning of time: “(the word in the beginning was the word the world the) (page 978, King’s emphasis). Mike feels a vibration, a steady, low one, the kind of thing that makes us think of the foundation of all matter, of all creation. The vibration is growing and growing.

Richie thinks they’re about to see the coming of It (page 979). He sees a huge, electric object in the sky; he thinks it’s a spaceship, but it isn’t, even though it must have come through space to get to Earth. There are explosions. He’s convinced he’s seeing It.

The other kids pull Mike and Richie out of the smoke-hole (page 980). They ask the two boys what they saw. What’s interesting about their description of what they saw is how they describe it in evil terms, yet they don’t understand what they saw, and their descriptions imply divine things, in spite of how devilish they think it all was.

It was the beginning of time, yet Mike says it was “like the end of the world” (page 985). Richie thinks he saw It come (page 984), but the “spaceship,” in spite of his denial that it was God, was “like the Ark of the Covenant…that was supposed to have the Spirit of God inside…” (page 985).

In other words, the Turtle, as I see it. Those explosions must have been the Turtle vomiting out the universe.

Part V is coming soon.

Stephen King, It, New York, Pocket Books, 1986