This week’s book is The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. The same Ayn Rand who is so well-known in the US
that I’d rather assumed the rest of the English-speaking world would be aware
of her as well, but whose work seems not to have made the jump into the
socialistic murder-pit that is Peninsula of Peninsulas. Even the Czechs I
asked, largely literary and capitally capitalist, were unaware. I have never
felt so ethnocentric in my entire life. The sensation was so overpowering, so
all-encompassing that I came dangerously close to experiencing an emotion. For
those of you who are not familiar with the book, it is best known for two
things. The one we’re going to talk about is the philosophy of Objectivism,
essentially the idea that the market will handle all needs whatsoever provided
that there is an incorruptible government which can enforce contracts, protect
IP, and so forth. And no, I’m not going to talk about the other thing it’s
known for. You know… that scene. Feel
free to argue it in the comments, if you like, but I’m here for something else.
You will note, no doubt with an overwhelming mixture of
shock, anger, and betrayal, that it is not an eBook. Apparently I’m not even
trying to stick to the flimsy pretense of promoting my fellow Kindle and Nook guttersnipes
and am just writing about whatever I read like the objectivist asshole Ayn has
made of me. That (if I may say so) brilliant segue brings us to the thrust of
the post, which is to talk about fiction, specifically novels, as a vehicle for
the propagation of ideas or philosophies. This is a technique which was more
common in centuries past, with things like Philosophy
in the Bedroom and Candide taking
up special places in our hearts (and, in the former case, often in that secret
place near our beds where we put all the things we’re “not” getting off on).
However, despite their taking rather controversial views, even (or perhaps
especially) by modern standards, they raise none of the ire that Ayn Rand has
managed to.
I’ve contemplated
this for a number of years, having read her other major Objectivist tome, Atlas Shrugged, in what ought to have
been my formative years. Obviously my first thought was that the concept of a
selfishness as a virtue was simply not something people could accept even as a
possibility. This is reinforced by the fact that owning a copy of Atlas Shrugged was sufficient justification for being exiled from the dating world,
as The
Hairpin reminded us in a half-joking article (which is worth a read for
the humor if not the insight). And yes, I do read The Hairpin. No, I don’t
think that calls my masculinity into question. Well, you know what, I don’t
need to justify myself to you with all that weird porn you keep in your bedside
table and yes I saw it! Ahem. Anyway.
My point is, Philosophy in
the Bedroom is usually (and wrongly, in my opinion) interpreted as a guide
to committing dire sins against nature purely for the sake of taking mirthful
glee in perversity; surely the idea that capitalism will cure what ails us is
not a more repugnant concept than that for a society so obsessed with sexual
restraint that at time of writing there are a dozen states with signs that say
“good girls don’t” hung in the halls of their public schools? I think not. So I
locked this particular line of
questioning up in my head, taking it out every so often to roll it over before
getting bored and putting it back again.
When I began to study the history of philosophy after
realizing I knew literally everything else in the universe that didn’t involve
math, I found that Voltaire’s work with Candide, even more so than his more
straightforward philosophy which was or ought to have been more controversial
in itself, was not taken well by the body politic. It was, in fact, met with a
notable degree of ire. What this tells us, apart from the fact that I am
apparently content to draw conclusions from only a couple data points so long
as the alternative involves some form of work, is that we must, perhaps, look to the format. My
suspicion is this: People get upset when they go into a book expecting a
narrative and instead get philosophy, especially philosophy which disagrees
with their sensibilities (which all good philosophy must, not just because its
job is inherently to challenge the status quo but because the average person is
so overwhelmingly wrong on virtually every subject that writing in agreement
with them must of necessity involve monkeys and typewriters, or else the fetid
Bard himself), they become rather outraged. This outrage lasts a few
generations as one teaches the next to hate the things they hate, and then dies
out because who actually gives a fuck?
The moral of the story is this: If you want to be
remembered, piss off a lot of people. If you want to piss off a lot of people,
write a philosophical fiction piece. If you want to write a philosophical
fiction piece, get in fucking line because mine’s getting published first and
there’s nothing you can do about it.
Selfishness is the only way to go, and if people were smart they'd realize two things.
ReplyDeleteTo take care of oneself is to take care of others, to make them stronger so when you're weak they can back you up.
To take care of others, you have better take GOOD care of yourself, because if you're not strong enough, it's impossible to take care of others in the way they deserve to be taken care of.
I don't think selfishness and self-centerdness are the same things. I am likely redefining selfishness to such an extreme that I'll likely alienate everyone ;)