Lars Iyer's Blog, page 81

Messianic politics: doesn't that describe our commitment? What did W. write on his Facebook profile under religion? Messianic. What, under political persuasion? Again: messianic. What, under interests and hobbies? The messianic epoch. But W.'s never been sure what messianism really means. What does it mean to talk about the Messiah when neither of us is in the least bit religious? And what is the meaning of political messianism?

He knows that the figure of the Messiah is always accompanied by the apocalypse, W. says. The Messiah, the apocalypse: you can't have one without the other. The Messiah only arrives at the end of times, in the Last Days, W. says. It's only at the end of politics that politics might become messianic. And we are at the end of politics, he says. Politics really is over.

We've never been too sure of our politics, W. admits. What's our position? Are we communists or anarchists? Socialism or barbarism: is that our motto? Or is it anarchism or barbarism? Is Marx our master, or Bakunin?

Of course, it's never really mattered. We know what we're against! Isn't that what matters? We're anti-capitalist! Of course we are! We're full of anti-capitalist pathos! We feel very left-wing. Very revolutionary!

He feels the hatred of the generations of the past, W. says. Of our philosophical ancestors who felt that something good might come of their struggles on the slaughter-bench of history. He feels their disappointment, those who expected something better to come.

But it's nothing compared to the hatred of our philosophical descendants!, W. says. They're not yet born, they've yet to appear on their scorched and burning earth, but he can feel their hatred even now.

Some of them, of course, will never be born. Some will be denied even the chance to appear. They hate us even more for that!, W. says. They hate him even more! 

I'm exactly the kind of person who would be drawn to Manchester, W. says. Who would make the Mancunion mistake. 

Oh, he can see why I romanticised Mancunion despair. But didn't I realise that such despair was only the desire to leave Manchester, the same city in which I had now marooned myself?

Of course, I was closer to the state of things in my Mancunion existence, W. says. I was closer to the truth of the world. I understood the honesty of the city, W. says. He admires that in me.

There's a terrible kind of Mancunion gravity, W. says. A kind of Mancunion tractor-beam. I was lucky to escape, W. says. Did I escape? W.'s sure I carry something of Manchester in me still.

He knows you can see the hills from any tall building in the city, W. says. He knows you can see all the way into Cheshire. He tries to hang onto that thought as he walks the streets, W. says. He tries to remember that there's something outside the plain of Manchester. Something apart from Manchester, other than Manchester.

W. sees me as a young student, quite lost in the city. He sees me: a speck, an atom, rucksack on my back, trying to find my way around. Didn't I understand that the city was no place for me? That it was hard enough for those who belonged there?

Postgraduates, lying in the grass, with dew on their faces. - 'They followed us to the end', W. says. 'Beyond the end!'

W. searches goes through my rucksack. A packet of corn nuts, and a packet of peanuts. Two packets of pork scratchings. And some obscure Indian snacks, sent over by my relatives. - 'Do you think you brought enough snacks?', W. asks.

W. loves to watch me filling my face, he says. He loves to watch me gratify myself. There's something innocent in it. Something charming.

More questions. ‘How many people do you think you’ve offended?’, W. asks me. ‘How many people have you irritated? Have you angered?’ And then. ‘How many people have tried to sue you?’, because he knows that some have. ‘How many people have tried to run you out of town?’

W. begins again. ‘How many appetites have your spoilt? How many people have you put off their dinner?’ And then, 'What would you say is your most irritating trait? Your most rage-inducing one?' And then, ‘What do you think your clothes say about you? What about your hair? Your shoes? Does the way you dress befit your role as a thinker? As a would-be philosopher?'

Still more questions. ‘Do you think you have a noble face? A dignified bearing? Do you think you have the physiognomy of a thinker? An intelligent face?' And then, 'Do your rolls of fat make you uncomfortable? Do you think obesity gives you gravitas? Presence?' He pauses. 'At what stage would you consider gastric bypass surgery? Have you ever considered liposuction? Do you think you come across as a happy fat man, or as a sad fat man?' And then, 'At what stage will you have your mouth sewn up?'

'Of what are you most guilty?', W. says. 'What is your greatest source of shame? What is your greatest failing? Do you think you’ve failed? Do you think you should be ashamed? Do you have any real sense of guilt?' And then, 'What do you think you add to the world? What do you think you subtract? What is your net worth to existence? Do you think you’ve added to the balance of goodness in the cosmos, or evil? Are you on the side of the angels or the devils?'

‘How do you think you can make amends?', W. says. 'Do you think you can make amends? Reparations? Damages to intellectual reputation? Emotional damage? Digestive damage? How many people have you put off their dinner?’