"Optimism is cowardice."
Oswald Spengler wrote that in this very book. It's hard for me, a fellow who has sometimes found comfort in the thought of lying down in front of an oncoming train, to not like him. And, on the grounds of a shared general pessimism about this species known as Homo sapiens, I do like him. Hell, I don't even approve of the conceit Homo sapiens, translated loosely as "wise man" as it is. I'm more fond of Jonathan Swift's assessment of the species as rationis capax -- "capable of reason." (Yes, I know that the former is a scientific classification of genus and species whereas the latter is merely rhetorical caprice, nerd. My point is that I don’t see humans as inherently imbued with wisdom; indeed, they -- we, because I presume you, like me, are human, despite, perhaps, your desire to not be because you have an interest in Oswald Spengler -- merely are in possession of a facile diabolicalness that can be, with a lot of heavy lifting, massaged into something approaching a rationality which can be taken for a kind wisdom if looked at sideways.)
In this short treatise, Spengler sets out, through some hackneyed and truncated anthropological gymnastics and philosophical assumptions, to chart the path and destiny of humanity in general by way of a very specific tribe of that humanity, the proud — and, in essence, superior — Nordic. He begins with the hunter-gatherer stage, the implied apogee of this tribe because Spengler sees our species simply in episodic decline from those halcyon days before antibiotics, wherein the terrible yet inevitable decision is made to use tools by way of the hand — the appendage, never mind the big brain that requires all those calories be ingested, that truly sets humans apart from the rest of the animal kingdom. This unavoidable decision marks the Nordic as both special and tragic because tool-making becomes some sort of empirical compulsion that can never be satisfied by way of conquering nature; nevertheless, they try their damnedest as their civilization metastasizes into various stages, from agrarian to urban. Unfortunately, the Nordic tribe ends up stratifying, abandons technology which is then taken up by other, less white, tribes, who then use it to avenge themselves upon the long dominant Nordic tribe; meanwhile, the planet is rendered an ecological disaster through this technological orgy. But for the blood and soil bullshit, it’s an intriguing counterbalance to the often naive cult of progress in the vein of your classical cyclical view of history.
But, in the end, a sympathy by way of shared general pessimism is where I part ways with Herr Spengler. True, I may have a weakness for the vague and sweeping mysticism, informed by Nietzsche as it is, that gives color and flair to his pessimism, just as my own pessimism was once given color and flair by an adolescence thick with albums by The Cure. However, I only ever knew the lyrics; I never wore the eyeliner. You can have an identity without slavishly wearing a uniform, and a species can aspire to improve itself while painfully conscious of its past failures; indeed, how could it even begin to aspire without having encountered many a failure? Spengler would have us stand stoically as the Roman guard who was cut down by the eruption of Vesuvius, resigned and duty-bound to death, because progress isn’t possible. We are doomed. But this heroic and tragic image, thrown in almost as an afterthought, belies the survival instinct to which this poor unfortunate guard was in thrall to well before he peacocked around in his fascist trappings. He was a human being that was driven to live; indeed, his submission to the state was an exercise in that very real biological imperative. Besides, I've seen the pictures. That bastard was running.