The extraordinarily generous and kind Glenn Russell has just posted a super review of Ivy Feckett is Looking for Love over at Goodreads, accompanied by a lovely imagining of Ivy. Give it a gander!
In the July 4, 2009, edition of the BBC World Service’s discussion programme The Forum, Nobel physics laureate Frank Wilczek, author of The Lightness of Being, gave listeners a succinct description of the nature of the universe:
Close to the core of quantum mechanics is that you learn that seeing is a very active process. There are limitations to how much you can know about an object without disturbing it. This is the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, and when you get into the really subatomic realms, that becomes even more extreme. To observe the spontaneous activity in space, in a sense you have to create it. An analogy might be, beneath the surface there is lava boiling, or magma boiling. To get it out, to bring it to the surface, you have to actively intervene. And then it comes out, and in a sense you’re creating it on the surface.
These ideas—the conception of the universe as a seething, boiling magma, and the idea that we actively participate in the creation of the world we perceive—play a significant part in the philosophy of Greek-born Francophone thinker Cornelius Castoriadis, one-time Marxist, co-founder of the group Socialisme ou Barbarie, and the so-called “philosopher of autonomy.”
Castoriadis both read and wrote on a broad range of topics—mathematics, physics, biology, the social sciences, linguistics, the arts and humanities, popular culture—and did his best to stay abreast of the latest developments in the hard sciences, so we should perhaps not be surprised to see such ideas so conscientiously applied in the construction of his philosophy. However, the encyclopaedic nature of Castoriadis’s oeuvre makes him a challenging thinker to summarise, and it is to Jeff Klooger’s immense credit that he successfully manages to do so here, ably tracing the pathways of Castoriadis’s thought and presenting them in a condensed but coherent form, choosing as his starting point Castoriadis’s theory of self-creation and pursuing its implications first for our understanding of society and history and then for our ideas about identity, the human body and psyche, the nature of Being and beings, and the meaning of meaning.
Partly on the basis of the formal implications of a wholesale rejection of determinism but also because of his detailed examinations of the diverse materiel comprising human reality and existence, Castoriadis advances a radical and provocative approach to questions about the nature of being, incorporating an unequivocal acceptance of indeterminacy as an intrinsic characteristic of “being” in the human realm. As far back as Zeno, Parmenides, and Heraclitus, philosophers have been aware of the paradoxes inherent in the application of an identity logic (A=A) to being: the logical impossibility of change, motion, and creation. Faced with the reality of change, creation ex nihilo, and impermanence, we are forced to either accept that the appearance of change is illusory, as Parmenides concluded, or else accept an indeterminacy at the heart of being (A≠A) that traditional Western logic-ontology rejects as inconsistent with its definition of being. Castoriadis’s solution is to introduce the concept of magma, a mode of being in which indeterminacy is never absent. Wilczek’s comment above thus offers a useful metaphor for thinking about being in general, as Castoriadis conceives of it. Both Being as a whole and individual beings, including human beings, are magmas, seething, boiling “masses” in which entities, ideas, and forms are constantly being created, forcing their way to the surface, and then disappearing like a burst bubble into the ether. This metaphor can be usefully applied to the quantum physical world, to the biotic world of living animals, to the human psyche, and even to history.
This does not mean that the universe is characterized by chaos. A universe in which indeterminacy was ubiquitous would lack any kind of stability or permanence, the ontological equivalent of white noise, with no discernible forms at all. Indeed, the traditional Western logic-ontology would not be conceivable were it not for the fact that beings exhibit some semblance of permanence and stability; the mistake is to assume that the appearance of such permanence and stability is the reality. Rather, at different levels of being, entities persist, are stable, and endure for periods appropriate and relative to their scale: As evolution shows, the persistence of entities and our perceptions of them as such have to be adequate for our survival needs. An inability to perceive predators as enduring, stable entities in their environment would undoubtedly place animals at a distinct disadvantage in the survival stakes. And mathematics becomes possible only because we are capable of extrapolating or abstracting from semi-permanence to create concepts with the appearance of permanence.
At the psychological and social levels, magmas and our involvement in self-creation are again central to Castoriadis’s ideas. Castoriadis draws on the not-uncontroversial work of the biologists Humberto Maturana and Francisco Varela, in particular their concept of autopoiesis, to explain the human capacity for self-creation and autonomy. Castoriadis’s background as a psychoanalyst left him with a Freudian conception of the human psyche that we might today regard as somewhat quaint; a seething, undirected collection of urges and drives, the wilder impulses generated by the lustful, aggressive, self-seeking id managed and controlled only by the conscious mind, the superego, the socialized, self-disciplined part of the psyche. In the traditional Freudian framework, the containment and control of urges constitute the source of our neuroses, our dreams, and our fantasies, but also our creativity. Such a framework fits in well with Castoriadis’s overall ontology, albeit a framework that no longer holds up so well in light of what we know now about cognitive development, particularly in children. Nonetheless, there are obvious overlaps in their conception of the human mind. Here’s neuroscientist Rodolfo Llinás discussing human creativity:
The neural processes underlying that which we call creativity have nothing to do with rationality. That is to say, if we look at how the brain generates creativity, we will see that it is not a rational process at all; creativity is not born out of reason.
Let us think again of our motor tapes in the basal ganglia. I should like to suggest to you that these nuclei do not always wait for a tape to be called up by the thalamo-cortical system, the self . . . In fact, the activity in the basal ganglia is running all the time, playing motor patterns and snippets of motor patterns amongst and between themselves-and because of the odd, re-entrant inhibitory connectivity amongst and between these nuclei, they seem to acts as a continuous, random, motor pattern noise generator. Here and there, a pattern or portion of a pattern escapes, without its apparent emotional counterpart, into the context of the thalamo-cortical system.
In other words, the constant firing and sparking of creativity goes on even while our conscious mind is otherwise engaged. When the “spotlight” of the conscious mind dims or goes out, when we sleep or drift into semi-consciousness, we can access those noises, that bubbling of ideas that is always there beneath the surface. While this might not be the creation ex nihilo that Castoriadis has in mind, it keeps intact his idea of the human psyche as magma. In any case, the deficiencies in Castoriadis’s Freudianism do not significantly undermine his case for indeterminacy or for the role of autonomy in human affairs, and Klooger prudently devotes only a limited amount of space to this aspect of Castoriadis’s thought. Of greater significance is the “imaginary,” an aspect of the human condition, and of society and history, that traditional thought has always ignored, neglected, or failed to understand or appreciate. Acknowledging the importance of the imaginary, and of the imagination, means acknowledging true creation as an essential part of the human condition; creation, that is, as the emergence of forms that are in no way determined by what preceded them.
For Castoriadis, society is, in its essence, a process of self-creation. Societies bring themselves into being by the creation of “social imaginary significations,” which they embody and around which they organize themselves. This is true of all societies but, says Castoriaidis, only those societies that recognize themselves as self-creating, who understand that their institutions and structures are not given from on high by the gods or pre-ordained by Nature but created by humans, can be characterized as autonomous. Its members have the capacity not just to reflect on, question, and challenge the legitimacy of their institutions; they can also go about actively formulating and trying to construct their own alternatives.
Such a demystification of society took place in ancient Greece, Castoriadis argues, where a transformation in consciousness gave rise to the birth of philosophy and the democratic polis. It also occurred later, in the modern West, beginning around the 12th century in autonomous city-states but attaining its peak in modernity proper, when what Castoriadis calls “the project of autonomy” engaged in a radical critique of the existing organization of society and pursued the goals of individual and collective self-determination.
Castoriadis has been criticised for the supposedly ethnocentric underpinnings of this theory, for privileging Western culture and Enlightenment thought over alternative conceptions of philosophy and society, but as Klooger points out, identifying the project of autonomy with particular societies does not necessarily entail equating it to the concrete cultural and institutional expressions of it within those societies. Moreover, and as Klooger acknowledges, Greece was not alone in undergoing such transformative experiences. Karl Jaspers identified several “axial civilizations” (including Greece) that underwent revolutions in understanding at around the same time:
What is new about this age, in all three of these worlds [i.e., China, India, and the Occident], is that man becomes aware of being as a whole, of himself and his limitations. He experiences the terrible nature of the world and his own impotence. He asks radical questions. Face to face with the void, he strives for liberation and redemption. By consciously recognizing his limits, he sets himself the highest goals. He experiences unconditionality in the depth of selfhood and in the clarity of transcendence.
Or perhaps we might say, more prosaically, in the Old Testament, God is going around speaking unto everyone, whereas by the end of the Gospels not even Jesus is on speaking terms with him.
Klooger draws on the work of sociologist Shmuel Eisenstadt on axial age civilizations to explore the challenges that their history poses to Castoriadis’s concept of heteronomous societies (i.e. those societies unaware of their own self-creation) and to contrast Eisenstadt and Castoriadis’s conceptions of the history and nature of self-reflexivity. The distinction is fine, but essentially Castoriadis’s definition of self-reflexivity entails the active questioning of established truths and norms, and not just mere incredulity towards them. It was only in ancient Greece, he contends, that this challenge takes place; it was there that the two fundamental questions of philosophy—How ought we to live? and What, and how, ought we to think?—are asked for the first time.
Klooger does an excellent job of identifying the lacunae in Castoriadis’s work and spares no effort in teasing out the smallest of contradictions in what remains an impressive, coherent, and powerful intellectual edifice. Some of his objections, over terminology, for instance, may strike the reader as hair-splitting, but it’s also clear that he has laboured intensively to make sense of Castoriadis’s thought and to render it comprehensible for his readers. In his later writings, Castoriadis explored the threats posed to contemporary society by our declining awareness of its, our, self-creation and by the dominant social imaginary of our time, the unlimited expansion of rational mastery. These are topics outside the scope of Klooger’s work but provide a logical extension to it and, what’s more, are the basis for much of the rediscovery of Castoriadis’s writings in recent years, especially among social movements. Interested readers can find The Rising Tide of Insignificancy and Figures of the Thinkable available as free pdfs online. I highly recommend them.
Undergraduates who’ve paid attention in class, postgraduates under a certain age, and non-academic readers of an inquisitive bent and with an enthusiasm for philosophy will find this book invaluable as a challenging, provocative, and genuinely enjoyable introduction to a thinker whose ideas remain extraordinarily relevant and useful. Before engaging directly with Castoriadis’s own works, which can be intimidating in their intensity and vocabulary, students would do well to read Klooger’s introductory text. It is to be hoped that Brill can be persuaded to bring out a paperback edition in the near future. No one can realistically expect individuals to fork out 200 bucks for a book, and this particular one is too important to be confined to the libraries of academic institutions.
Castoriadis: Psyche, Autonomy, Society, by Jeff Klooger. 2009. 368 pp. Brill.
I’m a huge fan of the Big Bang Theory but even after watching every episode I’m fairly sure there’s no loop quantum gravity, supersymmetry, or string theory explanation for why it is that the editing of the penultimate draft of a novel should take longer than the initial writing of it. Time simultaneously contracts and expands, dilates and condenses, the arduousness of the original creation being replaced by a dulling of the senses caused by repetition and familiarity, the spontaneous eruption of a forgotten joke encountered afresh distended into an asymptotic moan of diminishing returns each time it is reread and effort is made to improve on or sharpen it. The self-confidence that overtook any initial hesitation and thereby resulted in the completion of a work to be edited gives way in the review to an orgy of “What the hell was I thinking?” doubt, a form of self-abuse manifested by crossings-out, screeds in the margins, and long, languid waves of ink across full pages where not a word can be salvaged, waves that in brief moments condemn days of agonized wankery.
I get enough of editing in my day job, so this torture I inflict on myself is purely for your benefit, you understand. If you think this next book is shite, you should see what it was like before I edited it. But even now, I’m still laughing at the craziness of it. I’ve mentioned elsewhere that an anonymous reader at Hodder & Stoughton gave my agent feedback on it, saying “This is quite the funniest dystopian comedy I’ve read in a long time.” Well, let’s hope (s)he reads a lot of dystopian comedies, otherwise we’re fucked. Sometime soon, Fowl Play will be edging its way into your eyeline like one of those mythical beasts portending death and destruction but which, when you turn your head, looks like nothing more than a miniature schnauzer. But a miniature schnauzer with one eyebrow raised. He knows what you’ve been up to, and the day when he judges you is nigh.
In rather feeble attempts to demonstrate their erudition and unsuccessfully prove that they have a sense of humour, members of the medical profession have in recent years been generating articles for publication in which they diagnose the purported symptoms exhibited by the protagonists of well-known works of fiction. Thus, in the American Journal of Diseases of Children, D. W. Lewis argues that Tiny Tim from Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol exhibits all the signs of Distal renal tubular acidosis (Type 1); in the Canadian Medical Association Journal, Claude Cyr argues that Tintin shows symptoms of hormone deficiency, hypogonadotropic hypogonadism, and repeated head trauma; and in the British Medical Journal, Professor Gareth Williams concludes that Squirrel Nutkin suffered from Tourette’s.
At the same time, there has been a veritable explosion of novels featuring protagonists with illnesses or diseases hitherto considered exotic or rare. The protagonist of Mark Haddon’s Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time is autistic, Clare Morrall’s central character in Astonishing Splashes of Colour suffers from synesthesia, Lionel Essrog in Jonatham Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn has Tourette’s, Lisbeth Salander in Stieg Larsson’s novels has Asperger’s syndrome, and it seems like every detective and every cop in every book and TV program is either terminally ill, already dead, hard of hearing or an awkward patronising twat. Sometimes all of the above (yes, Morse, you).
In an effort to stem the flow of this truly appalling, exploitative, unimaginative and smug sub-literary effluence, we feel it our duty to point out to any prospective authors or poets intending to embark on any similar such venture that all the diseases known to humanity have already been covered by far better writers than you. So STOP IT! NOW! (Here’s the evidence)
Agoraphobia: A Room of One’s Own, by Virginia Woolf
Claustrophobia: The Night Before Christmas, by Clement Clarke Moore
Kleptomania: Rob Roy, by Walter Scott
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: The Constant Gardener, by John le Carré
Voyeurism: King Lear, by William Shakespeare
Exhibitionism: Lord of the Flies, by William Golding
Clinical Depression: Doctor No, by Ian Fleming
Anorexia: Skinny Dip, by Carl Hiaasen
Multiple Personality Disorder: Dubliners, by James Joyce
Stuttering: Emma, by Jane Austen
Bipolar Disorder: To the Ends of the Earth, by William Golding
Nymphomania: The Water Babies, by Charles Kingsley
Satyriasis: Peter Pan, by J. M. Barrie
Dwarfism: Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott
Hypochondria: The Iliad, by Homer
Priapism: The Bone People, by Keri Hulme
Bubonic Plague: All’s Well That Ends Well, by William Shakespeare
Down Syndrome: The Ugly Duckling, by Hans Christian Andersen
Echolalia: The History of Mister Polly, by H. G. Wells
Necrophilia: The Naked and the Dead, by Norman Mailer
Catatonia: Permanent Midnight, by Jerry Stahl
Narcissistic Personality Disorder: The Dandy annual
Vertigo: Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë
Coprophilia: The House at Pooh Corner, by A. A. Milne
Male Erectile Dysfunction: The Shape of Things to Come, by H. G. Wells
Halitosis: “The Lady of Shalott,” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Swine Flu: Pygmalion, by George Bernard Shaw
Peyronie’s disease: The Turn of the Screw, by Henry James:
Syndactyly: Charlotte’s Web, by E. B. White
Haemorrhoids: The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck
Macular Degeneration: Darkness at Noon, by Arthur Koestler
Incontinence: Gone with the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell
Priapism (again): Hard Times, by Charles Dickens
Leprosy: Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe
Gonorrhea: Our Mutual Friend, by Charles Dickens
Self-Harming: Rip van Winkle, by Washington Irving
Necrotizing Fasciitis: Hitler, My Part In His Downfall, by Spike Milligan
Cystitis: Inferno, by Dante Alighieri
Obesity: The Life of Pi, by Yann Martell
and of course
Bulimia: Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel
If I’ve missed any, do let me know. Ta.