Heart of Darkness

Today's rising tension reminds me of literature a century ago.

In response to my recent post, The Tragedy of Tribalism, Dr. Joel Friedman on Maui sent me a long poem he’d written about taking refuge and solace in nature to escape the horror of human affairs today. I enjoyed his meditations on nature—especially a passage about his encounter with a mockingbird (my favorite bird)—but it’s the following stanzas that preoccupied me this morning:

Tribalism has reasserted itself

and dialogue has become all but impossible

between those with differing views.

In fact, when a meeting of the minds is attempted

I get an epithet hurled at me.

And like the chimps in the zoo

that hurls its feces at the gawkers,

there is no civility or dialogue possible

with these epithet hurlers. 

I suspect that the face of God

is hidden somewhere deep in these hurlers.

But the excavation work needed to find it

would be too time consuming and dangerous.

I will go with an easier search and reflection.

The poet turns away from the intractable bloody-mindedness of human affairs and seeks to catch glimpses of God in nature.

The stanza reminded me of notable works of literature from a hundred years ago. The following passage is from Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, in which a character reflects on a pamphlet that Kurtz (the head of an ivory trading station in the Belgian Congo) wrote for the The International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs:

It [the pamphlet] gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an august Benevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power of eloquence—of words—of burning noble words. There were no practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the exposition of a method. It was very simple, and at the end of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: ‘Exterminate all the brutes!’

The final line expresses Kurtz’s disintegration from physical and mental illness, resulting in a fit of irritation and loss of patience.

Thirteen years after Heart of Darkness was published, Thomas Mann started work on his novel The Magic Mountain, which tells the story of Hans Castorp (from a well-to-do family in Hamburg) visiting his cousin Joachim at a sanatorium in Davos, Switzerland. The residents of the sanatorium constitute a microcosm of Europe on the eve of World War I.

A recurring observation in the novel is that—even though Europe is enjoying a period of great prosperity at the time—its societies seem to be pervaded by a loaded aggression, irritation, and readiness to be angry. A funny scene occurs when a young student who is a resident of the sanatorium flips out when he is served what he perceives to be cold tea in the dining hall:

How dare you bring me ice-cold tea! Where did you get the notion—what made you think you could serve me this tepid bilge with even a glimmer of hope I would drink it? I won’t drink it! I will not!” he howled and began to drum both fists on the table, setting all the dishes rattling and dancing. “I want hot tea! Piping hot tea—before God and man, that is my right. I don’t want this, I want it boiling hot. I’ll die on the spot before I take one swallow of this—you damned cripple!” he suddenly shrieked, flinging off the last bit of self-control and breaking through to the madness of utter license. He raised a fist at Emerentia and literally bared his frothing teeth. Then he went on drumming, stamping his feet now, howling, “I won’t. I will not!”—and the reaction in the hall was the usual. Tense and terrible sympathy went out to the raving boy. Some people had jumped up and were watching him, their fists doubled now, too, their teeth clenched, their eyes blazing. Others sat there pale, with downcast eyes, quivering. And they were still sitting like that long after the student had sunk back in exhaustion, gazing at his new cup of tea without taking a sip.

The solution to all of this pent up aggression and irritation is unspoken, but everyone senses it and even yearns for it:

The unadmitted, secret, universal desire for war was another manifestation. It would come, war would, and that was fine, although it would bring forth very different things from what its organizers expected.

I wonder if we are experiencing a similar Age of Irritability today. I often think of it when I write something controversial and the response is not one of asking me to consider a different perspective or additional information, but expressions of rage and righteous indignation.

Reflecting on the literature of a century ago reminds me of Schopenhauer’s observation that humans are doomed to vacillate eternally between distress and boredom. This basic observation seems to lie at the heart of the Strauss–Howe generational theory. Wikipedia provides a succinct account of this theory:

…devised by William Strauss and Neil Howe, describes a theorized recurring generation cycle in American history and Western history. According to the theory, historical events are associated with recurring generational personas (archetypes). Each generational persona unleashes a new era (called a turning) lasting around 20–25 years, in which a new social, political, and economic climate (mood) exists. They are part of a larger cyclical "saeculum" (a long human life, which usually spans between 80 and 100 years, although some saecula have lasted longer).

The theory states that a crisis recurs in American history after every saeculum, which is followed by a recovery (high). During this recovery, institutions and communitarian values are strong. Ultimately, succeeding generational archetypes attack and weaken institutions in the name of autonomy and individualism, which eventually creates a tumultuous political environment that ripens conditions for another crisis.

Just over 100 years after World War I, I wonder if are we standing on the precipice of of another great crisis?