Other dogs bite enemies; I bite my friends to save them. – Diogenes, a Cynic
I give up on books sometimes.
In the old days, I didn’t; I would consign them to bathroom reading, or stick them in the car to have handy in waiting rooms. Somewhere along the line – probably after a shit-ton of reading for my doctorate, considering that I chucked Naked Lunch across the room after 17 pages – I came to the conclusion that mortal life was too brief and poignant for literary imprisonment.
In sum: There’s a lot of wisdom to be had and a limited span in which to acquire said wisdom. Why stick with subpar ideas or shitty people?
I barely made it through a few sections of Kurt Anderson’s Fantasyland: How America Went Haywire, a 500-Year History. I agree with the review from the Washington Post’s Carlos Lozada, who described it as the “most irritating book I read this year,” and his reasons (shared in a brief blurb). Basically, I stopped at the Puritan chapter, which followed a short chapter on the Protestant Reformation – which Anderson apparently diagnoses as a mistake that followed an even more ancient mistake (the establishment of the church, and Christianity, and religion as a whole).
Anderson’s thesis is that the United States has a “promiscuous devotion to the untrue” dating from the time of its colonization; we are, in essence, uniquely bad on the reality front. Trump was the logical culmination of a trajectory that includes pretty much every social movement, event and innovation in America; pretty much anything can be seen as evidence of our commitment to “fantasyland.”
Which, I suppose, is the street-level definition of cynicism. The word “cynic” is Greek for dog-like, and it describes an ancient philosophy that promoted self-sufficiency, an embrace of hardship as a way of life and disdain for the workings of society, described as anaideia, or shamelessness. True to their name, cynics saw themselves as “watchdogs,” hounding people for the error of their ways through biting satire.
In other words, cynics are edgelords. “An Edgelord’s History of the United States” would be a good descriptor for Anderson’s book, at least what I saw leafing through it; it’s a hardcover, so I didn’t do the Burroughs route of tossing it across the parlor.
Cynics and edgelords
Part of Anderson’s contention is that we’re too committed to the idea that we have the freedom to believe whatever we wish to – a freedom, of course, guaranteed by the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Unlike many other nations, the United States never established a state religion and has historically permitted the operation of a free press; while these freedoms have certainly never been perfect or unfettered, they have shaped a national tradition of individual liberty.
And yes, sometimes this liberty goes too far. We are, of course, free to believe in reptilian overlords, chem-trails, QAnon and the benefits of strange diets, to opt out of life-saving vaccines or sensible medical treatment, to inhibit our children’s education through “homeschooling.”
We are free to follow “influencers” of various stripes, pray to the Mighty Spirit of Bacon, sink our life savings into cryptocurrency memecoins … or whatever, because all of this is the philosophical distillation of whatever. Whatever needn’t be a demanding god, but he insists upon ridiculousness because he’s the patron of edgelords (and teenagers, but the latter only on a temporary basis.)
But, Mr. Anderson … what is the alternative?
One answer comes from Plato: the philosopher-king. In this paradigm, a right-thinking individual – a philosopher — sets the course for the entire culture. Everyone else is simply too benighted, chasing their cave-shadows; only a special class of people is worthy of sailing the ship of state.
In other words, we must eliminate free will and any pretense of democracy, and return to a “natural aristocracy,” as Thomas Jefferson once called it. Some people are simply better than others: wiser, smarter, capable of discernment. The rest are mudsills, supporting that aristocracy through their silent labor.
Scratch an edgelord, and you’ll find someone who believes that they are a part of the natural aristocracy – whether on the right or the left. They skew heavily white and male because this perception roots in privilege; ultimately, social power erodes empathy. Even the choice to adopt anaideia, or shamelessness, roots in privilege because the privileged are more likely to survive and even benefit from bucking societal norms, rather than experience actual consequences such as rape, police brutality, imprisonment, homelessness and social abandonment.
Cynicism, in the common parlance, has become conflated with skepticism – the belief that we are motivated entirely by self-interest. In other words, it’s the philosophy of hyper-individualism that not only erodes the concept of communitas, but mocks the very idea.
So, what’s communitas? This fancy Latin word essentially describes an unstructured state in which all people are equal and united by bonds of obligation and social responsibility. That’s the core of what community is: We are bound to each other. The Proto-Indo-European root is *ko-moin-i, “held in common” or “shared by all.”
Cynics and philosopher kings do not share; they decree and control – for what is mockery but an attempt at control?
In which I compare the ‘natural aristocracy’ to lamprey eels
Look and listen for the welfare of the whole people and have always in view not only the present but also the coming generations, even those whose faces are yet beneath the surface of the ground — the unborn of the future Nation. – The Constitution of the Iroquois Nation
Would-be philosopher kings can be found a-plenty in militant atheism/materialism and movements such as libertarianism. Typically, they strive to disconnect themselves from such mammalian indignities as the need for love and fellowship, and recategorize their feelings as “logic” or “reason.” It’s not real logic per se, but a post-facto justification of a chosen philosophy based on disconnection.
At the core, there is a deep suspicion of free will. Yes, that includes libertarians, oddly enough; while they place “free will” on a shiny pedestal, there is a definite vibe of “and if you choose incorrectly, you’ll suffer and no one will help you and you’ll deserve it!” And then they put the popcorn in the microwave because they really, really want to see you suffer.
This may seem unkind, but it’s a key feature of the libertarians I have met – a trait that’s excusable in teenage boys, but inexcusable in the presumably socialized. No joke: I even witnessed a female libertarian mocking and blaming victims of domestic violence because it’s their fault that they married an abuser. “Empathy is bad,” to paraphrase the anti-saint of objectivism, Ayn Rand.
Another key feature is apparently parasitism; ironically, I’ve met more than one libertarian who has relied on a spouse for financial support. This makes a certain degree of sense: As with any aristocracy, so-called natural aristocracy is likely a form of community parasitism, in which individuals devour resources intended to better the whole in the name of venture capitalism, generational wealth or whatever.
Bitter aside: You can always tell the “self-made man.” Their road to success typically begins with an emerald mine or a massive loan from daddy, and folks handling all the gruntwork behind the curtain.
I know the above runs the risk of cynicism, but I don’t really think that naked self-interest is our natural orientation. Famously, the great law of the Haudenosaunee is to consider the impact of decisions on the seventh generation, or 150 years into the future. Rather than an aberration, this way of thinking – based in communitas – makes sense for a species and for traditional cultures, which consider themselves a part of the land in which they dwell.
Remember how the Irish duine – or person – means “earthling”? So does human, from the Proto-Indo-European root *dhghem, or Earth. The Hebrew name for man, adam (yes, the dude) is linked to the word adamah, or ground. To be human is to be part of the dust and soil, and in community with the earth.
So, what changed? In a word: capitalism, which turns all things – the Earth, people, pixels of light – into commodity, a substance to be owned by the individual. Capitalism and communitas are not friends and do not play well together – and as the avatars of hyperindividualism, cynics tend to align with the self-interest of capitalism.
Hacking free will
Until philosophers are kings, or the kings and princes of this world have the spirit and power of philosophy, and political greatness and wisdom meet in one, and those commoner natures who pursue either to the exclusion of the other are compelled to stand aside, cities will never have rest from their evils. – Plato, The Republic
Capitalism, on the surface, seems to be an ally of free will – but its servants pretty much spend all their time trying to hack it. Advertising, for example, deliberately exploits human need in order to drive purchase choices, no matter how ultimately devastating the results for individual or community. Street drugs could be seen as the ultimate capitalist success: a product that you will purchase over and over until you beggar yourself and die in the gutter.
Free will is one of those complicating and uncomfortable realities.
Overbearing parents try to squash it in children, in the name of avoiding error and instilling perfection: You will major in what I tell you, pursue the career I have selected, marry the person I choose. In essence, they play the role of philosopher king: Mommy/Daddy knows best. Little kids, by the nature of attachment, typically go along with this, but even the most supportive families will run into friction and opposition when the kid individuates – and develops free will.
Free will is marked by disobedience and boneheaded mistakes – sometimes fatal ones. It can lead you to addictions, wacky beliefs, the kind of relationships where someone leaves a hole in the plaster, jumping the fence at the zoo in the attempt to hug a bear.
Eliminating free will provides a kind of comfort – the comfort of complete predictability. In my own experience as a diviner, I’ve run into folks who crave this idea of a Book of Life in which everything is predetermined. I get it: Predestination removes our agency, and thus our need to do the hard work of making choices.
Eliminating the capacity for choice also eliminates the capacity for mistakes. I usually have quite the time trying to convince these folks that “the future is a process of dynamic co-creation,” and they can shape the future*. More on that asterisk in a minute.
I would argue that without free will, none of this Earth trip means a damn thing. When we’re not permitted our mistakes, we don’t learn anything – except how we don’t matter. We’re automatons. Stepford wives. Servants.
(I know my tendency to list things in threes is a bit tedious. Please bear with me; this is a Druid problem.)
Eliminating free will and following the lead of the philosopher-king may end QAnon and other nonsensical weirdness – but it’s also the M.O. of totalitarian governments, from the old-style Soviets to modern-day North Korea. Let’s look at an example from fantasy because reality depresses me.
I’ve never made it to the end of The Game of Thrones (I’m not big on gory rape-fests), but I did read all the episode recaps since I read the books. The ending appalls me. George R.R. Martin handed the Iron Throne to the ultimate philosopher king, the kind who has been scrubbed of his basic humanity and can eerily spy on you through trees. The people of Westeros are left in a world without snow-zombies, dragons, years-long winters and the Children of the Forest – but also without free will.
In other words, they go from the hell of chaos to the hell of relentless order: freaking panopticon.
Initiation and possibility
When people have the capacity to choose, they have the capacity to change. – Madeleine Albright
There’s another argument I have seen: that free will doesn’t exist. We are born, after all, into particular constellations of privilege and pain: into cultures, countries, customs, social classes, into particular physical bodies and all the little niggles that constitute identity.
*So, our actual free will has some pretty common-sense limits, which makes the New Age saw “you create your own reality!” such ridiculous horseshit. Weirdly, it functions in a similar way to libertarianism: Because it assigns everything to free will – including, say, childhood cancer – it eliminates the call for empathy and compassion. Obviously, your soul chose to develop leukemia at the age of six; my smug little soul just made the better choice.
When I ponder the noodle-like mess of Ultimate Reality, I am reminded of the teenaged vision I had of the Web: every word, action, being and basic noun connected to everything else with constantly shifting lines of force. Those lines of force may impel us to act in certain ways, but other lines – including those we introduce ourselves – open a different set of outcomes. That’s what I mean by “dynamic co-creation.”
Let me offer an example. Let’s say you fling a vicious Shakespearean insult at me: “You ruinous butt, you whoreson indistinguishable cur!”
I have some choices to make: Punch you in the face? Insult you back? Leave the scene? Tell you that your language is hurtful and sit down for a serious conversation?
This is where the privilege and pain bit comes in. If I were a man born into an honor culture, punching you in the face may be the default reaction. If I happened to know you and we didn’t have an adversarial relationship, maybe I would assume it was a joke and insult you back.
If I am a “subaltern” – a person accorded lesser value in a culture – I’d choose to walk away because the consequences of standing up for myself (violence, imprisonment, even rape) are too risky. I might also walk away if you were a stranger, which makes me uncertain whether you have the capacity for violence.
If I valued our relationship, perhaps we’d have that conversation.
So, our external circumstances and identities circumscribe our choices. But here’s the thing: We can tug those threads and choose to go in a different direction. We can choose to walk away even though our cultural identity encourages us to inflict violence. We can stand up for ourselves and shrug off socialized meekness.
We can choose to open ourselves to the possibility of meaningful conversation, even in the face of risk. All of those choices pull the threads in a different way – and can, in small measure, change the world.
In traditional Wiccan initiation ceremonies, there’s this beautiful phrase: “neither bound nor free.”
In the full context, it’s “feet neither bound nor free,” since the initiate has a piece of cord tied around their ankle, but it remains unconnected to anything. I can’t say the same for the upper half; in Gardnerian Wicca, the initiate’s arms are tied behind their back in a particular pattern and they’re led to the altar with a cable tow. The rite seems pretty standard for the sort of thing done by secret societies, which is how Wicca began back in the 1940s.
The phrase feels like it comes from somewhere, and would certainly fit in with, say, the Eleusinian Mysteries. (Wicca is often interpreted as a mystery religion.) So, where? I doubt Gardner’s coven came up with this on their own.
There is a line in the Avadhuta Gita, or “song of the free soul,” that dates back to the 10th century: I am neither bound nor free. I am not separate from Brahman. That’s a possible source; Gerald Gardner worked in Sri Lanka and Malaysia, and was fascinated by religion.
It’s also possible that this language comes from the Christian bible: There is neither Jew nor Greek, bound nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. Interestingly, the sentiment here is similar to that of the Avadhuta Gita: We are one with the Divine, which erases our temporal distinctions.
“Neither bound nor free” sticks with me because it’s such an apt description of the human condition. We are co-creators, but not sole creators; we have agency, but not complete agency. Our identities aren’t all we are; something deeper lies under them that unites us – communitas.
White Cat Grove 
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