Saturday, July 05, 2008

The Soul of Man Under Socialism

Recently, I came across an essay by Oscar Wilde - The Soul of Man Under Socialism.
My curiosity was owed more to the fact that the essay offered the prospect of a glimpse into the true person of the famed author, which in this case would not be hidden by the façade of his wit and penchant for farcical situations as is the case in his more widely known works.
The essay itself is nevertheless more worth reading for its well-articulated ideas, rather than the actual originality of those very same ideas. His discussion of libertarian socialism is more or less simply another naive exploration of the much longed-for Utopia, extolling the virtues of a classless society; but the breadth of his language, and the eloquence and power of his prose arguably compensates for this. Also, his debate on the nature of journalism of his day is impressively modern, as all the arguments put forward in his discussion seem so fresh and equally applicable to our own celebrity-crazed society.
I have extracted certain passages from the essay that do ultimately add up to make for a good read:

“ A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing a better country, sets sail. Progress is the realisation of Utopias.”
“Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known. I am inclined to say that it is the only real mode of individualism that the world has known. Crime, which, under certain conditions, may seem to have created individualism, must take cognisance of other people and interfere with them. It belongs to the sphere of action. But alone, without any reference to his neighbours, without any interference, the artist can fashion a beautiful thing; and if he does not do it solely for his own pleasure, he is not an artist at all.”
“In England, the arts that have escaped best are the arts in which the public take no interest. Poetry is an instance of what I mean. We have been able to have fine poetry in England because the public do not read it, and consequently do not influence it.”
“The fact is, the public make use of the classics of a country as a means of checking the progress of Art. They degrade the classics into authorities. They use them as bludgeons for preventing the free expression of Beauty in new forms. They are always asking a writer why he does not write like somebody else, or a painter why he does not paint like somebody else, quite oblivious of the fact that if either of them did anything of the kind he would cease to be an artist.”
“But I can fancy that if an artist produced a work of art in England that immediately on its appearance was recognised by the public, through their medium, which is the public press, as a work that was quite intelligible and highly moral, he would begin to seriously question whether in its creation he had really been himself at all, and consequently whether the work was not quite unworthy of him, and either of a thoroughly second-rate order, or of no artistic value what so ever.”
“In France, in fact, they limit the journalist, and allow the artist almost perfect freedom. Here we allow absolute freedom to the journalist, and entirely limit the artist. English public opinion, that is to say, tries to constrain and impede and warp the man who makes things that are beautiful in effect, and compels the journalist to retail things that are ugly, or disgusting, or revolting in fact, so that we have the most serious journalists in the world, and the most indecent newspapers. It is no exaggeration to talk of compulsion. There are possibly some journalists who take a real pleasure in publishing horrible things, or who, being poor, look to scandals as forming a sort of permanent basis for an income. But there are other journalists, I feel certain, men of education and cultivation, who really dislike publishing these things, who know that it is wrong to do so, and only do it because the unhealthy conditions under which their occupation is carried on oblige them to supply the pubic with what the public wants, and to compete with other journalists in making that supply as full and satisfying to the gross popular appetite as possible. It is a very degrading position for any body of educated men to be placed in, and I have no doubt that most of them feel it acutely."
“If a man approaches a work of art with any desire to exercise authority over it and the artist, he approaches it in such a spirit that he cannot receive any artistic impression from it at all. The work of art is to dominate the spectator: the spectator is not to dominate the work of art. The spectator is to be receptive.”
“In centuries before ours the public nailed the ears of journalists to the pump. That was quite hideous. In this century journalists have nailed their own ears to the keyhole. That is much worse. And what aggravates the mischief is that the journalists who are most to blame are not the amusing journalists who write for what are called Society papers.”
“It is only fair to state, however, that the extraordinary success of the revolution in house decoration and furniture and the like has not really been due to the majority of the public developing a very fine taste in such matters. It has been chiefly due to the fact that the craftsmen of things so appreciated the pleasure of making what was beautiful, and woke to such a vivid consciousness of the hideousness and vulgarity of what the public had previously wanted, that they simply starved the public out. It would be quite impossible at the present moment to furnish a room as rooms were furnished a few years ago, without going for everything to an auction of second-hand furniture from some third-rate lodging-house. The things are no longer made”
“One who is an Emperor and King may stoop down to pick up a brush for a painter, but when the democracy stoops down it is merely to throw mud. And yet the democracy have not so far to stoop as the Emperor. In fact, when they want to throw mud they have not to stoop at all. But there is no necessity to separate the monarch from the mob; all authority is equally bad.”
“But it is exactly the existing conditions that one objects to; and any scheme that could accept these conditions is wrong and foolish. The conditions will be done away with, and human nature will change. The only thing that one really knows about human nature is that it changes. Change is the one quality we can predicate of it. The systems that fail are those that rely on the permanency of human nature, and not on its growth and development. The error of Louis XIV was that he thought human nature would always be the same. The result of his error was the French Revolution. It was an admirable result. All the results of the mistakes of governments are quite admirable.”
“What man has sought for is, indeed, neither pain nor pleasure, but simply Life. Man has sought to live intensely, fully, perfectly. When he can do so without exercising restraint on others, or suffering it ever, and his activities are all pleasurable to him, he will be saner, healthier, more civilised, more himself. Pleasure is Nature's test, her sign of approval. When man is happy, he is in harmony with himself and his environment. The new Individualism, for whose service Socialism, whether it wills it or not, is working, will be perfect harmony. It will be what the Greeks sought for, but could not, except in Thought, realise completely, because they had slaves, and fed them; it will be what the Renaissance sought for, but could not realise completely except in Art, because it had slaves, and starved them. It will be complete, and through it each man will attain to his perfection. The new Individualism is the new Hellenism.”

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

An Elegy

Well it's officially a fact: my goldfish has died.

Something akin to brain damage plagued it since Saturday night, and today morning, I found it lifeless on the bottom of the tank. There were two of them, but now one of them is gone.
That sort of illness was particularly brutal as my goldfish kept swivelling about, without any proper sense of direction. Its little body assumed the shape of a rainbow in such a grotesquely pitiful manner - I was pretty much helpless. Its appetite abruptly vanished, and though I tried force feeding it by shoving food right at (not right into it, of course) its mouth, hoping that it will be consumed, that was likewise to no avail either as all was simply vomited out again. Whatever treatments I poured into the tank, nothing could restore that little goldfish's élan vital, as it lay there paralysed; its body emaciated - the only glimmer of hope being the fact that it was still intaking oxygen, but in the end, the severity of the illness was simply too much to bear as its gills eventually ceased functioning. The rest was silence.

What caught my eye however was the other goldfish - the healthy one. Day and night, it huddled together with its dying comrade, ocassionally giving it the odd life-restoring nudge, but the terminally ill goldfish responded less and less to these as its state deteriorated in favour of complete resignation. That resignation was eventually followed by the all too imminent death.
However, the other goldfish was visibly sensing this and I somehow felt sorry both of them. But I have to admit - that healthy little fish, in spite of its all too natural simplicity and questionable intelligence, demonstrated such matchless solidarity, such a courageous readiness to do everything at its pathetic disposal to help its dying pal, that I almost felt guilty before it and I am sure that in its eyes, I was the culprit and the cause of its friend's demise. And perhaps I was -that itself I cannot myself tell.

If such simple little creatures could exhibit such a strong sense of togetherness and comradeship, where does that leave us, humans? Is our intelligence and certain tendency to over-think things through to blame?

For instance, the high rate of gang crime here in the country, and the recent spree of street stabbings in the city bears as its foremost cause the wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time effect, i.e. the unfortunate nature of circumstances surrounding the case. But the fundamental reason simply has to be ineffective and plain bad upbringing. Indeed, parents are most to blame as they have unleashed upon the world creatures whose code of behaviour equates to instinctive baseness, disregarding to the full any sense of personal pride and dignity. It's not swimming with sharks that; it's swimming with piranhas, for they are the mindless pack of killers who would feast upon your helplessness, without any code of honour, tactics, or at least some form of intelligent stalking prior to attack. This is what you are up against when you're facing a bunch of ignoble cads: unprovoked, uncalculated, unfounded offensive against you, not as a person, but as an objectified victim.

In the end, that little mythically dumb goldfish ostensibly had in store more care and affection towards its damned friend, than many human parents living on council estates have towards their own children, and that's pretty much how the cookie crumbles nowadays.
In the meantime, the little goldfish is now somewhere on the shores of the river Styx, better known as the sewers, having been literary flushed down the bog. Those bastards thought, they are still living.

In honour of my dead goldfish and its comrade's valorous albeit vain attempts to resuscitate it, I shall watch Finding Nemo again!