Sometimes I will start a book feeling I have a pretty good idea what it will be about. But when this one started talking about conversion experiences and desires I was put off-balance. I thought, wait a second, I wasn’t expecting conversion, I thought we were talking about change. Except, of course, what is it to want to change other than to become what you currently are not, and, well, how is that not a kind of conversion? Which is the other thing that can be a bit annoying – when I realise there has been no sleight of hand involved in putting me off balance, nor that the discussion of religious conversion the distraction I might have otherwise anticipated, but that all of this should have been much more obvious from the start. All the same, I was put off-balance.
I think what I rebelled against when being told wanting change was about conversion was that I think of conversion as a complete transformation – and I’m not sure that is what people normally mean when they say they want something in their lives to change. You know, you might want to get another job, find a new partner, move to another city or country, learn how to play chess or meditate. But we generally don’t think of these as being examples of conversion experiences – in the way that if we were to wake up one morning and find ourselves an animist or a socialist might be. The changes in the first list are often not made with the conscious intention of becoming a fundamentally different type of person to who we already are, rather they are often made with the intention that we will become ‘more like ourself’ or our ‘true selves’. “If only I lived on the Sunshine Coast, I could finally be me.” Whereas conversion experiences like becoming a Christian or Hindu don’t feel like we have chosen them, so much, as we’ve been chosen by them. I’m becoming increasingly what Bourdieu referred to as a Pascalian, someone who believes that our social situation forms and structures us much more than we can bring ourselves to believe. My ex-wife was always very keen to have epiphanies of one kind or another. But I doubt she actually ever wanted a conversion experience. For her, I guess, she was after what the author calls here ‘seeing with new eyes’ – but given Paul is the first of the converts and his experience was the first use of epiphany, the conversion aspect of an epiphany cannot be ignored. All of which is likely to be made even more confusing if moving to the Sunshine Coast might prove to have a more lasting change on us than a sudden epiphany and conversion, where moving provides consequences we might never have considered or even thought possible. All change changes us, but change is only recognisable in amongst the sameness.
Which also brings us to the idea that conversions are not as simple as we sometimes think they might be – not even deeply felt religious conversions. Another book I read recently, Eagleton’s The Real Thing, made the point that there are more things that stay the same after a revolution than that change. This is hardly different from that saying, ‘wherever you go, there you are’. And, naturally enough, such a sentiment is the opposite to what I was just arguing, and so almost definitely must have a kernel of truth in it. We are unreliable witnesses of our own lives. We frequently misunderstand what we desire, what will make our lives better.
What this author does not do, as much as I might have expected him to, was to talk about how capitalism is fundamentally premised on the idea of thwarted desire. And desire is always the driving force behind our felt need for change (I’m being tautological here, but hopefully with a purpose). We desire what we do not have, in the belief that if we were to get what we do not have we will become what we currently are not but rather want to become. Capitalism’s need for a permanent purchasing class is required since it helps drive production and consumption and this in turn requires a permanent desire-producing industry finding links to the identities we wish we had and to objects and experiences that can be purchased, used, discarded and replaced with new objects of desire. Here the stress is placed on the ‘wanting’ from the title of this book, the desire, and the manipulative deception involved in the underlying premise that this desire will never be realised, and, in fact, is never intended to be realised, since the system’s continued health depends upon this desire being endlessly thwarted.
The problem doesn’t stop there. The last century was scarred by regimes that wanted to convert entire nations so that ‘a new man’ might flourish. This was premised upon what Bauman called ‘hygiene tasks’, realised in the great conversion machines of either death camps or gulags. Hygiene is being used in the sense of ‘ethnic cleansing’ – that is, once enough of them have been removed, the world will be a better, safer place. We will have achieved true liberation. We fool ourselves that these hygiene tasks have been relegated to history.
As we are currently witnessing in Gaza, and taking the Israelis at their word, they need to kill enough of those who hate them so that they can finally negotiate peace with those who love them. This means we have no option to negotiate settlements anywhere, since all change must first involve the conversion of our enemies into ourselves. Before we can negotiate, they must become identical to us. Otherwise, death is the only option available. Here the ‘wanting’ of change is not change for us, but change in them, they must change or die. The 4.5 million people murdered across the Middle East following 9/11 according to a recent report by Brown University also fit this category – our desire for change justifies any atrocity and is the motive power of our vengeance.
This is a book where psychoanalysis provides the undercurrent. And so, sublimated desires, particularly displaced sexual desires, play an important role here, not least in deluding us about the true nature of ourselves. This is not merely in our relationships with other people, you know, hidden homosexual desires that have us being cruel to our heterosexual partners, but also the hidden drives behind those other life partnerships we have, with books or work or art or sport, that similarly serve as means to repress our guilty subconsciouses.
I don’t really see myself as a follower of psychoanalysis, or Freud for that matter, but I do think Freud’s ideas of repressed desires is a very useful one to play with. Particularly if we think we want change in our lives. All desire is a desiring after, but if the underlying motivation of our desire is hidden from us, and almost must remain hidden by definition, as Freud asserts, then what is it to want change? This in no way is me saying we should seek stasis – that isn’t even an option open to us – but again, notice that the focus is again placed on the desire, rather than on the ‘change’ per se – so who is it doing the wanting? Which part of us wants this? And do we have any control here or are we automatons to our desires?
The worst forms of ‘wanting change’ are those times when we don’t really want change at all, but are confronted by a new reality – and when we are being asked to choose between ‘least worst’ options. Here the western idea of Buddhism, the reconciling of oneself to change, of letting oneself go in seeking acceptance, probably seems appealing. And as appealing as it seems, I’ve never been able to achieve this form of nirvana. For me, underlying everything, and again, contrary to so much of what I said as I started this review, I feel it is almost impossible to not feel devoid of agentic power in my life, maybe not in total control, but still an agent and not an object. I acknowledge that my surroundings do so much to determine my life, and if sociology has taught me anything, it has taught me to try to notice the options I would otherwise assume were not available to me due to my habits and dispositions, but even so, I feel there are choices to be made and that often I’m the one making them, not the structures around me only, or my repressed desires.
Right – this review is now about 1400 words, and really I wouldn’t have anticipated writing any of them in a review when I started reading this book. The book is short and powerful – I can’t help but recommend it.