Amongst the presents I got for Christmas this year was a copy of Alan Moore's From Hell, a graphic novel based on the story or legend of that seminal serial killer, Jack the Ripper. I found it to be a fascinating piece of work and I have, all of a sudden, conceived an interest in the Ripper case. However, I don't intend to write here about From Hell or Jack the Ripper. I mention From Hell because a certain section of it reminded me of something I've been meaning to write for a very long time. In Chapter Nine, the officer investigating the case expresses his disgust at the ghouls who have gathered at the scene of one of the murders, some of them selling souvenirs, such as walking sticks:
"It's all a load of tom, shifting a few old walking sticks off the back of some poor murdered tart. And 'er barely cold. Makes me sick."
He goes on to say:
"Mark my words, in 'undred years there'll still be cunts like 'im, wrapping these killings up in supernatural twaddle. Making a living out of murder."
The work is heavily annotated in its appendix, giving a thorough account of Moore's research and other commentary. As part of his commentary on this page, Moore writes:
Abberline's eerily precognitive comments on page 2 are my own invention. They are also, in their way, a form of shamefaced apology from one currently making part of his living wrapping up miserable little killings in supernatural twaddle. Sometimes, after all you've done for them, your characters just turn on you.
This was just one more example of an idea that I had been toying with for over a year, to wit, the inbuilt hypocrisy of the writer. I say 'inbuilt', because how could Alan Moore have possibly written about Jack the Ripper and not been, at some point or other, a hypocrite?
But perhaps I should try to clarify my point with further examples. I'm not sure when the notion first occurred to me – and maybe, in different words, it was actually years and years ago – so I won't attempt to put these examples in chronological order. However, before coming across this little detail in From Hell, I was thinking of starting this piece with a quote from Thomas Ligotti, if I could find it. As a matter of fact, I can't find it, but it was along the lines of, "There is no literary voice for depression". At the time I thought this a strange thing to say. After all, aren't a great many writers somewhat depressive, and does this not influence their writing? People are always saying this or that writer is depressing. However, I feel that I have come to understand what Ligotti means. However much a writer might wish to express depression, what he or she ends up expressing is fascination, or something else of the sort. Writing cannot reproduce the feeling of depression. As Ligotti says in another interview (or possibly the same one), "Literature is entertainment or it is nothing". If the reader is not feeling, in some way, entertained, then he or she will simply stop reading. And since depression is not entertaining as it is actually experienced, there is no literary voice for depression.
Well, that's my second example now, but I have many, many others, which I hope will display the many sides of this concept.
For instance, I remember thinking about the hypocrisy of the writer quite consciously whilst reading John Wyndham's The Day of the Triffids. I had long meant to, but I was doing it partially to prepare myself mentally for the coming armageddon. I know, it sounds ridiculous, and perhaps this motive helped to highlight for me the aspect of inbuilt hypocrisy. Because, if Mr Wyndham were really contemplating the apocalypse, would he sit down in his study and tap away leisurely at his typewriter to write a book about it, which he then published commercially, so that readers like myself could sit in the comfort of their own homes and pass away a pleasant few hours dreaming about the end of civilisation?
Perhaps the quintessential example of the inbuilt hypocrisy of writers, however, comes in the form of a jisei. A jisei is a kind of Japanese poem – often, but not always a haiku – that was written when the subject knew that he or she was going to die. It was a kind of farewell to the world, and there are many left to us from famous Japanese poets, Buddhist monks and so on.
The poem in question is by someone called Toko, who lived from 1710 to 1795:
Jisei to wa
Sunawachi mayoi
Tada Shinan.
Death poems
are mere delusion –
Death is death.
Hmmm. This begs the question, if death poems are mere delusion, or, as it says in the original, "Jisei are, basically, indecision, if you're going to die, die", then why the hell did he bother to write one? Well, because he really wanted to express the idea of how stupid and futile it is to express anything. We have here the same kind of logical contradiction to be found in a statement like, "Everything I say is a lie". Star Trek fans should be familiar with that one.
I remember once – and I've never been able to track down who this was or what it was all about – many years ago, I saw a trailer on television for a programme about someone (a scientist, I believe), who had come up with a theory that actually we don't exist. Great, I thought, if we don't exist, why are you bothering to tell us? I'm serious.
The examples of this hypocrisy are endless. How about this one, which is, inevitably, from the man himself, Morrissey, part of a song called Reader Meet Author?
You don't know a thing about their lives
They live where you wouldn't dare to drive
You shake as you think of how they sleep
But you write as if you all lie side by side
This is one hypocritical writer writing hypocritically about the hypocrisy of other writers. And I am a hypocritical writer writing hypocritically about the hypocrisy of another writer writing hypocritically about the hypocrisy of another writer.
Phew!
And it's not only the writers who are hypocritical. What about the readers? Aren't they basically in the same boat? They want the writers to give them something real, or something that feels real, but they don't want to know how this is done. And if they suddenly find themselves to be the writer's subject matter, and the result is not flattering, well, suddenly what the writer does is beyond the pale.
In this connection, I was recently sent a copy of a book in which I have an essay. That book is Horror Quarterly. My essay was on Japanese horror, and dealt in part with the questions of voyeurism and sadism in art. Here is a quote therefrom:
One day a friend of mine, who has since disappeared into the depths of the comic-book world, turned to me and said, "If you're not the audience, and you're not the cameraman, and you're not the assailant, you must be the victim." I have never been able to forget it. Shakespeare wrote grandly that all the world is a stage. Ladies and gentlemen, I tell you that the world is, in fact, nothing more than a vast snuff film. We are all of us, to a greater or lesser extent, assailants, and there's one thing else that's sure, we none of us get through this life without also being victims. Sadistic art, exploitation, fake snuff films – if these things sicken us then it must be because they confront us with this obscene and horrifying truth.
I suppose what I'm trying to get at by quoting myself here is that maybe this hypocrisy goes beyond writing and writers, and is a fundamental part of what it means to be human. To make my point clearer, let me ask the question, how could a writer avoid hypocrisy? Presumably the writer is trying to capture something real – a kind of raw experience of the basic meaningless universe in all its glory. Or, if they're more morally inclined, well, they might be searching for a different kind of truth, but, nonetheless, something 'real'. And this is what I do, too. However, just as light dispells darkness wherever it goes, so does language dispell meaninglessness. It cannot help but be a projection onto reality. If someone says, "Life is meaningless" they have created the kind of logical contradiction mentioned above. Meaning is inherent in language, and the effort of expression is nothing if not an attempt to create a meaning, even if that created meaning is that "life is meaningless". It seems to me that, contrary to what many people seem to think, it is not a meaningful life that is hard or impossible to come by, but a meaningless life. The writer strives for that meaningless reality – and the credibility that comes with it – again and again; again and again she fails. She ends up with mere meaning – in other words, hypocrisy. It's inbuilt.
This begs the question, is that meaningless reality anywhere out there at all?
Ultimately, of course, I don't have the answer. However, I will leave you with a few thoughts in connection with my own hypocritical writing. I find that the writing process is, for me, one in which synchronicity plays a large part. Call me a flakey crackpot if you will – and I probably am, so who cares? – but that's the truth of the matter. And in keeping with that truth, I have found this idea of the hypocrisy of writers worming its way into the novel on which I am currently working, Domesday Afternoon. Everything I'm living seems to go into the mix, as if I'm some sort of synchronicity blender. Anyway, here's an excerpt from a recent passage in the novel:
Sincerity. Reality. How far off these destinations still seem. If I could be single and alone, without mirrors, but maybe, after all, the human mind will always erect the mirrors of self-examination that keep us from being real and sincere. Sometimes, indeed, it seems to me that to write at all is to be a hypocrite. And to write, in the end, is no different than to think.
I tried to address this to no one, but I must confess that something looms and casts a shadow on these pages, so that, even in my greatest loneliness, I cannot help but address… address… someone or something. You, whoever you are, or perhaps myself, or God, or some combination of these three. In any case, I address.
So, it seems, the inbuilt hypocrisy of the writer is the closest I have come to proving the existence of God.
(Irony engine disengaged.)
“However much a writer might wish to express depression, what he or she ends up expressing is fascination, or something else of the sort. Writing cannot reproduce the feeling of depression.”It was the sense of despair in Japanese Eye that resonated with me, attracted me, in the first place. I remember listening to an interview with Burroughs where he said something to the effect that he saw himself as a Cartographer of Psychological States, that it was his goal to reproduce these states in the minds of his readers, and that if he didn’t achieve this, if a writer didn’t achieve this, then he hadn’t achieved anything at all. Why depression specifically? That statement seems to suggest that it is not possible for readers to empathise with the writer.
“Maybe it’s just me, but I find that aethetic remove to be woven into the fabric of existence itself.”In other words, I don’t think empathisin with the writer contradicts this. The empathy is, to me, part of the element of ‘meaning’, part of the aesthetics of the piece.
Well, I think that the reader can empathise, but the whole ritual of writing and reading creates an aesthetic remove, I think, from the raw material. Maybe it’s just me, but I find that aethetic remove to be woven into the fabric of existence itself. Writing emphasises this remove. Actually, I suppose there are two things that motivate me to write, one of which is a need to express my experience of reality in this world, and one is a need to express something which seems to be a part of me somehow unrelated to this world. The two things are intertwined, but also conflicting. However, I have to be aware of the limitations of writing, and of my own mind, in order to make the best of my abilities.I think the reason I say depression specifically, is that depression is a feeling of meaninglessness, or futility, and if one is writing, certainly in my case, it comes from some deep sense within that this is not futile. My rational mind tells me it’s futile, but if I really listened or believed that, then why would I write? Also, as I said, to write at all is to deal in meaning. The meaning might seem invisible, but that’s because it permeates the whole thing. It’s the very element within which the work exists.
Very interesting article. I find parallels between the innate quality of hyprocisy and the problem of free will. Just as it is impossible to be hypocrisy-free, it seems impossible to exercise true free will. The mechanics of the machinery of will – the mind – work against it, just as the mechanics of the mind work against a truly non-hypocritical state.Proof of God? I think not, but proof instead that we are too complex to ever truly know (and if we ever do happen to know, to remember from one instant to the next) whatever essence defines us. So we just do the best we can, creating shadow worlds that outline but never truly define what we are. Good enough for me, mind. 🙂
“The mechanics of the machinery of will – the mind – work against it, just as the mechanics of the mind work against a truly non-hypocritical state.”I’m quite interested in the whole idea of free will. I don’t really have any conclusions about it, although perhaps the closest I have come to a conclusion is that, like many things, it’s a matter of perception. On the one hand, when there’s a never-ending chain of cause and effect in the environment of which we are a part, to talk of free will seems meaningless. On the other hand, it also seems very important that there should be free will, morally speaking. I suppose in the end it’s impossible to say what is making the ultimate decisions in one’s life, to isolate that decision. The conscious process seems only the tip of an iceberg that can presumably be traced to some kind of subatomic level – if that’s the direction in which one explores. However, the conscious part of the process shouldn’t therefore be dismissed. But then, I’m not sure what you mean by the machinery of the mind in this case. I do think that the absolute assumption that there is no free will would probably have an adverse effect on people. Someone else said it before: “We have to believe in free will; we have no choice.” On the question of proof of God – well, I suppose I’m just about arrogant enough to think that I might come up with something that no one’s come up with before, but just about realistic enough to realise that many, many people have tried to come up with all sorts of things in the past. I wasn’t being entirely flippant, but I also think it’s impossible to prove the existence of God, which is where the intelligent design folks are onto a real loser. Even science, as I understand it, only ever really disproves things. I can no more prove that God exists than I can that I like peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Or that that’s really a face there in the cloud. I don’t even like the word ‘God’ to be honest, but sometimes I bite the bullet and use it. It’s just a very convenient word for a certain perception of existence for me. Existence itself does not change – although there are implications for certain things that are not here and now – but, well… Sometimes I get the impression that all philosophical controversies are merely linguistic. I have my own idiolect, which means my own very idiosyncratic application of the word ‘God’, and someone else might think I’m talking rubbish because they can’t see how it all works inside my own mind. Then again, that doesn’t mean I’m not talking rubbish. Then again, I never really much expect to do anything else, and tend to be amazed at the ability of other people to believe they can weild the truth.Also, perhaps linguistics are a political or moral issue, too. Perhaps.Also, though not being entirely serious about the God stuff, I’m also rather serious. It does seem to me a serious question, but I find there’s HARDLY ANYONE ON THE ENTIRE PLANET who is willing to discuss it in a serious way, without resorting to adolescent polemics, whether they believe or disbelieve.I’d like a very simple, level-headed enquiry into the idea, taking into account all kinds of human experience from all different cultures and traditions.
By the machinery of the mind, I really mean the interaction of the conscious and the unconscious. I believe that we make no concious decison that is not in some way influenced by our unconcious – and our unconscious, even if we make enormous effects of self-awareness, by its very nature remains opaque to us.This is probably why, when it comes to religious thought, I am attracted to Buddhism and other Eastern philosophies with their underlying concepts of a universal and extra-human consciousness rather than to God per se. I am also being drawn into Jung’s quasi-mystical-psychological world. But I feely admit there is no ‘right’ answer here.I very much like reading your thoughts, which are refreshingly open and free from dogma.
Yeah, I suppose I have similar influences in terms of the Buddhist thing, although I find Taoism a little less… asexual than Buddhism. I’m also very interested in the idea of the group unconscious.It’s funny, I found some of my thoughts on free will and predestination echoed by Forrest Gump the other day – that maybe, just maybe, both exist at the same time. What can I say? Great minds, obviously, think alike.
john cairns writes:All Cretans are liars, said the Cretan – but I forget which Cretan. (I want to see if I’m permitted this comment)
Yes, you are, for two reasons:a) I know who you are (or I think I do)b) Your comment actually has some content (unlike the last one I deleted which just said something like “This really sucks”.)I see you’ve found my blog, anyway. I shall have to be careful what I write.