:: Wednesday, September 02, 2015 ::
Our Cicada Culture
Posted by Edward Cline at 4:15 PM
mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks, fleas, flies and other tiny disease-carrying
insects that seem to exist solely to cause human misery and pain and which are
otherwise expendable, the cicada is the next most useless creature in the animal
kingdom. Ants and worms aerate the soil. Bees distribute pollen.
cicada, however, does nothing. It doesn’t even transmit a disease. It’s also so
ugly it resembles an
alien life form. I’m surprised that no independent film producer has shot
and released “The Attack of the Flesh-Eating Cicadas From Planet Xylophone.” It’s
noisy. The mating call of the American cicada, as anyone who has ever heard one
(or a forest full of cicadas) can testify, is a shrill, high-pitched, compressed clicking similar
to the sound of a car’s gears being stripped. Or a DVD player spinning its
wheels. Or a badly designed alarm clock. It can outshout the mating call of a
rather listen to a forest full of crickets. That can be deafening, too, but at
least I know the crickets are not coming after me.
the cicada provides an “ecological” service to everyone and everything by just
dying. It is basically a parasite. It doesn’t even feed on other parasites. Like
the equally useless bagworm, It sucks on tree fluids, becomes an adult,
reproduces, and dies. It is only good
for being mulched in soil after it dies, or being consumed by ants and other
insects, and by squirrels, birds, and other animals when they’re desperate.
the websites on the cicada say that it is a nutrient-rich delicacy. There are
actually cicada recipes. No, thank
you. I have a hard time picturing people chowing down on chocolate-covered ants
can’t say about the cultural cicadas that make a lot of noise on Netflix that
they’re “nutrient-rich.” These movies and TV series are not nutrient-rich – at
least not for one’s souls – and are otherwise useless as esthetic and/or moral experiences.
They are not produced for “uplift.” They do not provide what novelist Ayn Rand
called “emotional fuel” for one to pursue one’s values. They are a hybrid
cicada, and can burrow into one’s mind and soul to lay eggs. They are produced,
consciously or unconsciously, to inculcate an enervating epistemological and
metaphysical drone that life is pointless, that happiness is random and
arbitrary, and that existence is just one long sentence of spiritually eviscerating
numbness with no chance of relief or commutation.
her essay, “Art and
Cognition,” from The Romantic Manifesto, Rand writes about an artist’s
choice of subject:
For instance, consider two statues
of man: one as a Greek god, the other as a deformed medieval monstrosity. Both
are metaphysical estimates of man; both are projections of the artist’s view of
man’s nature; both are concretized representations of the philosophy of their
Is the universe intelligible to
man, or unintelligible and unknowable? Can man find happiness on earth, or is
he doomed to frustration and despair? Does man have the power of choice,
the power to choose his goals and to achieve them, the power to direct the
course of his life—or is he the helpless plaything of forces beyond his
control, which determine his fate? Is man, by nature, to be valued as good, or
to be despised as evil? These are metaphysical questions, but the answers
to them determine the kind of ethics men will accept and practice; the
answers are the link between metaphysics and ethics. And although metaphysics
as such is not a normative science, the answers to this category of questions
assume, in man’s mind, the function of metaphysical value-judgments, since they
form the foundation of all of his moral values.
in that same essay, Rand clarifies the purpose of art, whether it is written,
auditory, or visual:
Since man lives by reshaping his
physical background to serve his purpose, since he must first define and then
create his values—a rational man needs a concretized projection of these
values, an image in whose likeness he will re-shape the world and himself. Art
gives him that image; it gives him the experience of seeing the full,
immediate, concrete reality of his distant goals.
Since a rational man’s ambition is
unlimited, since his pursuit and achievement of values is a lifelong
process—and the higher the values, the harder the struggle—he needs a moment,
an hour or some period of time in which he can experience the sense of his
completed task, the sense of living in a universe where his values have been
successfully achieved. It is like a moment of rest, a moment to gain fuel to
move farther. Art gives him that fuel; the pleasure of contemplating the
objectified reality of one’s own sense of life is the pleasure of feeling what
it would be like to live in one’s ideal world.
cicada culture offers drama that doesn’t let one rest, tells one that the
achievement of values is irrelevant and perhaps even discriminatory against
those who have no life-affirming values, and that the ideal world is one of
chaos, anarchy, and medieval monsters. Cases in point:
House of Cards:
have written about the American
version of House of Cards (HOC)
Its star and co-producer, Kevin
Spacey, is a committed Democrat, but in this series, being filmed now for
its fourth season, all the villains are Democrats together with a handful of
Republicans. A man is known by the company he keeps.
is doing the Democratic Party no favors by portraying his party as a gang of
liars, thieves and frauds. So one wonders what his ulterior purpose is in
producing the series. There are no heroes
in this series, only a few patsies and pawns and other victims of the
power-lusters, the politically and pragmatically ambitious, and the social
climbers. In HOC, Spacey plays Frank
Underwood, a ruthless Southern politician who rises to occupy the White House. He
is a murderer and an adept manipulator of others’ lives and values.
is no “uplift” or metaphysical reification of rational values in HOC. Many politicians and fans of the
series have claimed that HOC’s
dramatization of Washington politics is realistic and spot-on. Significantly,
President Barack Obama
is a fan of the series, as is former president
Bill Clinton. No surprises there.
“message” of HOC is that, for those
who are not in the power game, who have no connections in Washington, D.C., and
who wish to live their lives unimpeded and uncontrolled by government and
conniving politicians, your life is hopeless, futile, and owned by the likes of
Frank Underwood, his wife Claire, Doug Stamper, and other nightmarish
creatures. Spare them the “fiction”
that your life is your own. HOC goes
out of its way to drill into one’s mind that one is merely a gnat to be crushed
or manipulated by efficaciously evil men (and women).
Orange is the New Black:
is, basically, the feminist depiction of American society, which, according to
the series, is nothing but a larger, minimum security prison, in which all men
are contemptible liars and philanderers and exploiters. Or they’re wussies. In
most women are okay, a few are exemplars of the superiority of women, and a few
not so much. Some are absolutely crazy. The series is billed as a “comedy
drama.” I have not laughed once. I have previously reviewed the series here
you have a strong stomach and want to see a cast of some of the homeliest,
unappealing, repulsive women ever to enter the acting field and then be assembled
under one camera, and also get graphic lessons in lesbian and bisexual sex, then
this is the series for you. There is even a token black/transgender/father/ex-firefighter
hairdresser character. There is quite a lot of #BlackLivesMatter and
#HispanicLivesMatter racial conflict for your delectation; whites get trounced,
of course. There isn’t a single character in the series whose circumstance or fate
should concern anyone with the least quantum of self-respect, or whose gaze is
fixed upward, and not down on the sewer.
it or not, the series is produced by Jenji Kohan, who looks like the
man-hating dyke that would produce it, but who is actually married with
children. Nevertheless, it is a man-hating series.
series, starring John Hamm as Don Draper, a Madison
Avenue advertising executive, has reached its nadir. I watched a bit of Season
7, and yawned so much that tears began sting my eyes. I devoted some words to
the series here.
I had watched it infrequently up to the last episode I could tolerate, which wasn’t
the series conclusion. Don Draper is a boring non-entity. Literally. He took
his name from a soldier killed in Korea. Much of the story is about his hiding
his stolen character, or doing penance for it. The series is also as much about
the pseudo-fraudulent mechanics of advertising as it is about “sexism” and
adultery and even, occasionally, about racism and homosexuality. All of the
main characters attempt to escape from their predictable and boring lives by
having affairs here, there, and everywhere, and, of course, by drinking gallons
of high-octane liquor. This is a “slice of life” series. I am done with it.
The Walking Dead:
hit series about a zombie plague, The
Walking Dead, ironically has interesting conflicts between its principal
characters, and some interesting characters, as well. Overall, most of TWD’s dramatis personæ are more fascinating and addictive than are the “slice
of life” ensembles of HOC and Orange is the New Black. The series is
an extended if unpleasant study in emergency ethics, and will debut its sixth season in October. I
am not a horror-film fan, not in the least. I have argued for decades that the
director who made horror films “respectable” was Alfred Hitchcock, with The Birds, in which reality
revolts against man in metaphysical chaos. This film could also be deemed the
first environmentalist horror tale.
series has grown an enthusiastic “cult” audience that surpasses even that of HOC or Orange is the New Black. This is basically because the various
directors and cast members have developed characters whose actions and fates viewers
actually care about. So, the series is not just about plague survivors lopping
off zombie heads. It is also about their having to deal with survivors who have
turned rogue killers whose specialty is killing other survivors. The basic
survivor group, lead by Georgia ex-deputy sheriff Rick Grimes (Andrew Lincoln),
at first holes up on a farm (overrun by zombies), then in a maximum security
prison (attacked by the residents of another survivor enclave), and encounter a
“safe” haven, Terminus, whose residents turn out to be cannibals who serve up
anyone luckless enough to think they’re “safe.” The series is not without its
plot holes and lapses in consistency, but in a culture ruled by moral zombies
on TV, in film, and in literature, this is, by my own standards, the “best” there
is to watch.
The form in which man experiences
the reality of his values is pleasure . . . . A chronic
lack of pleasure, of any enjoyable, rewarding or stimulating experiences,
produces a slow, gradual, day-by-day erosion of man’s emotional vitality, which
he may ignore or repress, but which is recorded by the relentless computer of
his subconscious mechanism that registers an ebbing flow, then a trickle, then
a few last drops of fuel—until the day when his inner motor stops and he
wonders desperately why he has no desire to go on, unable to find any definable
cause of his hopeless, chronic sense of exhaustion.
is no enthralling pleasure to be experienced in any of the works discussed here,
except in the brief twinkle of light seen through a gray overcast sky or
through an impenetrable and increasingly poisonous fog.
motion pictures are a great art, but that potential has not as yet been
actualized, except in single instances and random moments. An art that requires
the synchronization of so many esthetic elements and so many different talents
cannot develop in a period of philosophical-cultural disintegration such as the
present. Its development requires the creative cooperation of men who are
united, not necessarily by their formal philosophical convictions, but by their
fundamental view of man, i.e., by their sense of life….
The movies are still in the
position of a retarded child: born into a collapsing family, i.e., a
deteriorating culture, an art that demanded Romanticism was left to struggle
blindly in the midst of a value-desert. It produced a few rare, almost
accidental sparks of true greatness, displaying its untouched potential, then
was swallowed again in a growing tide of mediocrity.
I love movies. More and
more, to watch them, however, I must go back in time to enjoy them, to a time
when the cicadas did not rule the roost, as they do now. But were Rand alive
today, doubtless she would conclude that films are not governed by a tide of
mediocrity, but by a mob of medieval monsters. I don’t take these monsters for
granted, as the norm, as the expected. Anyone who has read any of my fiction,
will know that.
2 Comments ::
:: Monday, August 31, 2015 ::
Excerpt from An August Interlude
Posted by Edward Cline at 3:05 PM
An August Interlude, set in August 1929, takes Cyrus Skeen to
a notorious “upper class” brothel, the Turf Club, and to the Catholic convent
next door to it , in this twelfth detective novel set in San Francisco. He is on a quest to
clear the name of a valued friend accused of a horrendous murder five years go.
In the Turf Club he meets Lachlan Figgis, its personable manager, and his
alluring twin sister Lachina. In the convent he talks with Sister Mary Joseph, the
Chapter 6: Misery Loves Company
Well, thought Skeen as he walked up the
street to the convent: All I had to do was endure Lachlan Figgis’s hospitality
and his sister’s circumspect flirtations, to get an answer to a few questions. The
brother and sister were an astonishingly peculiar couple.
He didn’t bother showing Figgis or his
sister the photograph of Valda Redfern. He doubted they would have recognized
her, if it was true that they didn’t follow the story past the finding of
Willowman’s body the next day. He wondered if the newspapers had carried
another photograph of her.
He also wondered what he would need to
endure now when he visited the convent. Probably expressions of piety,
humility, and sanctimony. And reproof. He strode stolidly and determinedly up
the sidewalk past his roadster to the home of the Sisters of the Apostolic
Skeen mounted the brick steps two at a
time. Just as he reached the extended portico, the bells of St. Joseph the
Carpenter struck twelve. Before he could step into the cloister and knock on
the single arched oaken door, from his left a column of nuns in twos came from
a door on the far end. He stopped and watched the procession.
It was led by a handful of older nuns
– one of them using a cane and being helped along by a much younger woman –
with hunched backs and downcast eyes, arms crossed and hands hidden in the
oversized sleeves. Next came some younger nuns in their thirties or forties.
Following them like a passel of ducklings were the novices, or novitiates. Some
of the girls were in their late teens.
One of the girls noticed him and
braved a quick glance at him before resuming her humble mien.
The parade passed as quickly as the
hobbling, and probably arthritic older nuns allowed. He guessed they were going
to some sort of service. The column rounded a corner and disappeared.
There was a brass knocker on this
door, too. Skeen lifted it and hammered it three times. After a moment, he
heard a latch turn and the giant door creaked open. A little pinched-face woman
of about sixty years, not in a habit, but in the drab garb of a housekeeper,
looked at him with puckered lips and a furled, disapproving brow. “Yes?”
Skeen removed his trilby. “My name is
Cyrus Skeen. I’m here to see Sister Mary Joseph. I believe she’s the Mother
“Men aren’t permitted in the convent.
And you need an appointment.”
“I think she’ll see me. It’s about
Valda Redfern, a missing novitiate.” Skeen took out his wallet and showed her
his private investigator’s license.
The woman studied it – longer than did
Howard Li – with some comprehension of what it meant, blinking only once. Then
she glanced up at him with an even more disapproving look. “Wait here outside.
I'll ask if she can see you.”
The door slammed shut and the latch
was turned. Skeen lit an Old Gold, twirled his trilby around on one finger, and
paced back and forth on the stone walkway. Men weren’t permitted in the
convent? No priests, either? Bishops? Cardinals?
He had just pitched the nearly
finished Old Gold into a nearby rhododendron when he heard the latch turn
again. The door opened and the housekeeper stood on the threshold, glowering at
him. But she waved a hand at him. “This way, sir,” she commanded.
Skeen stepped inside. The woman
slammed the door shut and turned the latch.
They were standing in what Skeen
surmised was a visitor’s waiting area. There were some benches and chairs
pressed against a bare cement wall. There was a table with some kind of
literature on it, probably, Skeen guessed, about the Apostolic Faith order and
But the first thing that struck him
about the place was a dank, lifeless odor in the air. The hall they had entered
had the same basic interior layout of that of the Turf Club, except that there
were no amenities like couches or chairs or benches. No potted palms. And
certainly no ash stands. Half the hall had been partitioned off with a series
of unpainted plaster walls. He glanced up. There was a no mezzanine, just a
series of unlit chandeliers. If there was anything else up there, it was hidden
in darkness. No rotunda. He could not guess the layout of the rest of the
The housekeeper shuffled ahead of him.
He hung back a few steps to look into an open space. He saw pews of raw,
unfinished, unvarnished wood and a plain, unembellished altar. Nuns were
sitting in them. An older nun was standing at a pulpit, leading them in prayer,
in Latin. He guessed this was the convent’s chapel. It was nothing like the
glittering French church on Bush Street he had had occasion to visit during the
Enoch Paige case in May, Eglise Notre Dame des Malheurs
He felt a tug on his coat sleeve. He
turned. The housekeeper was glaring furiously at him. She nodded with her head
to continue following her.
Skeen shrugged and obeyed. A chant
came from the chapel.
The housekeeper turned left at a
detour, then into another long corridor. They came to the end of it. He
supposed they were in the vicinity of where Lachlan Figgis’s office was in the
Turf Club. A plain wooden sign on a plain wooden door read, “Sister Mary
Joseph. Mother Superior. Please knock before entering.”
The housekeeper knocked once, then
opened the door and went in. “Mr. Skeen, ma’am,” she announced.
A voice that sounded like crumpled up
paper being squeezed into a ball as tightly as possible said, “Show him in,
Hortense stood aside. Skeen went in.
The housekeeper waited to be dismissed.
“That will be all, Hortense. Thank
Hortense sort of curtsied, left the
room, and closed the door behind her.
Skeen found himself in an office that
was about the size of Lachlan Figgis’s office, but it was so sparsely furnished
it may as well have been empty. There was a large desk, a bow window almost
hidden by a black curtain behind the desk, some wooden filing cabinets, and
armless chairs strewn about the room. There was no carpet on the wooden floor. There
was a single colored picture under glass of Christ on a wall to the side of
Sister Mary Joseph’s desk. It looked like it had been cut from a newspaper’s rotogravure section and cheaply
There was a overly-ornate marble
fireplace in one corner, with a large crucifix sitting on its mantle. A cradle-shaped
rack holding firewood sat to the side, together with a black iron poker. But
otherwise there was no statuary, not a single plant, no tapestries. Not even a
plaster statue of St. Joseph. Nothing to absorb the sound of one’s voice in the
A weak overhead light in the middle of
the room fought to dispel the gloom. The rest of the room was in darkness. He
could see what there was in the black space in the rear.
Practically the only “luxuries” Skeen
noted were a typewriter on a rolling stand next to the nun’s desk, a small desk
lamp, and a candlestick telephone on her desk. That was all.
Sister Mary Joseph rose as he
approached her desk. She was nearly as tall as Skeen, but seemed taller because
of the headdress, which was a wimple that was just a black veil of voile attached
to a cornette or kind of curved white crown of some scratchy fabric. A white
coif completely enclosed her neck, ears, presumably the back of her head, and
her hair. Skeen could detect no strands of it peeking out from anywhere in the
There was a weak overhead light and a
lamp on the desk, but the glare from the white guimpe that flowed down from her
shoulders clear to her abdomen nearly blinded him. It looked so thoroughly
starched that he imagined using it as a weapon, or as bullet-proof armor.
Her blouse and skirt looked like heavy
black serge. A crucifix on a rope dangled from beneath the quimpe, and a rosary
with another crucifix hung from her waist.
The woman exuded a strange, pungent, and
unpleasant antiseptic odor that complimented the dank smell of the place. Perhaps
Sister Mary Joseph bathed in ammonia, too, Skeen thought. Or in a tub of
mothballs. She must be in her late forties or early fifties, he estimated. She
was once a handsome woman. Not pretty, just handsome. She wore round rimless
glasses. Her face was sallow, almost anemic looking. He was certain it did not
see much sun or even fresh air. When she was not speaking, her mouth and thin
lips were set in a prim bitterness. He did not imagine she smiled much, either.
The white fabric of the coif that
enveloped her face was fixed high enough to reveal a one-inch scar on her
forehead. It looked like an incision, or a burn. Skeen did not think this was
the result of a violent encounter with an open door.
And all throughout their conversation,
Sister Mary Joseph, Mother Superior and boss lady of all the other wrecked,
humbled souls here, never once looked at him directly. Instead, she peered
askance at him through her glasses with a glint of pious fanaticism, as though
she suspected him of being guilty of the most horrendous sins. It was the look of
doubt someone gave you if he was certain you were lying.
Skeen said, “Thank you for seeing me.”
Sister Mary Joseph nodded and said,
“The only reason I’m seeing you, Mr. Skeen, is because you have some notoriety
as a detective. We read the newspapers here. You were the one who got that
atheist rogue acquitted last May, weren’t you?”
Skeen replied, “He wasn’t acquitted.
The charges were dropped.”
Sister Mary Joseph frowned.
“Regardless. He was the devil.”
Skeen said, “He was a kind of Prince
of Darkness, ma’am.”
“He was something like Hamlet, too
morose at times, but with a happy ending.”
“I don’t think I appreciate your
humor, Mr. Skeen,” Sister Mary Joseph scolded.
So much for her sense of irony. “That’s
all right. I don’t think I’d have much of a career in vaudeville, either.”
“Then please confine yourself to the
purpose of your visit, sir.”
She sat down and folded her hands over some
papers on a brown blotter and waited.
“May I sit down?”
“I’m not stopping you, Mr. Skeen.”
Skeen shrugged. He grabbed one of the
armless chairs and sat it in front of the nun’s desk.
“Hortense gave me to believe that you
mentioned a person by the name of Valda Redfern.”
“Yes,” said Skeen, sitting down. He
reached inside his coat and pulled out a photograph of Valda Dilys had taken
from the model’s portfolio. “To make sure we're speaking of the same person, is
this the Valda Redfern who apparently was a member of this convent?” He handed
the photograph over the desk to the nun.
The nun took the glossy image and
studied it for a moment. Her mouth bent in distaste. It was a head shot of
Valda in a strapless gown smiling a toothy, friendly, almost “come-hither” grin.
Then she handed it back to Skeen and refolded her hands on the blotter. “Yes,
that is the same person. That was Sister Clare Lawrence. What about her? She
left this convent and abandoned Christ under the most disgraceful
circumstances, and without any notice to me or to Father Brendan.”
“The pastor of St. Joseph the
Carpenter church, with which this order is affiliated. It is just down the
“I noticed it,” said Skeen. “It
doesn’t look like a Catholic church.”
This remark surprised Sister Mary Joseph
and opened up the conversation, and Skeen led it in virtually any direction he
“It was once a Unitarian Universalist place
of worship. I would never have called it a church.
It did not have much of a flock and the people who ran it decided to sell it.
Father Brendan’s predecessor bought it for a fraction of its worth. Before then
his parish met in a less commodious church elsewhere in this district.”
“How long has your order occupied
“For the last eight years. The order
moved here from its convent in the Mission district. But it seemed it was built
over what eventually became a sinkhole. The convent had to be demolished. We
had to move, and applied to Father Brendan to have a new convent built here. He
bought this building from its former owner, some sort of oil plutocrat who
decided he did not like it enough to live in it.”
Skeen said, “It’s a fine looking
“That is your opinion, sir. When it
was bought, it was renovated to remove all the temporal facilities that would
appeal to people in the clutches of material wealth. According to Father
Brendan, all the furniture, artworks, and other ostentatious and wicked items
of comfort and convenience fetched a sum that helped to reimburse the parish
for the price paid for the building.”
Skeen feigned concern. “I hope that
didn’t include bathtubs and plumbing, ma’am.”
Sister Mary Joseph would neither
confirm nor deny the idea. “I sense you are mocking the Apostolic order, Mr.
Skeen,” she said. “But you must understand that we Sisters of the Apostolic
Faith are in many respects much like Amish women. We place God’s wishes, the
spiritual integrity of our order, and the community of Christ our Savior far
above the needs and comforts of the flesh. We disdain any instrument, device or
practice that relieves us of the stain and guilt of our original sin.
“Our moral code is apart from and
opposed to that of the temporal world beyond our doors,” continued the Mother
Superior, as though Skeen needed a better explanation.” Our sisters are taught
to strive daily to minimize their individual needs, spiritually and physically.
As daughters of God and brides of Christ, we are committed to asceticism and
the hermit’s life in the midst of this modern Babylon.”
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