Edit: 4 days have gone by and I think this book broke me.
5/5 for thought-provoking and enjoyable writing.
Meanwhile, out in what is fondly called ‘the real world’ by people who often don’t know very much about reality, you are living in a metastatising machine which is closing in around you, polluting your skies and your woods and your past and your imagination. If you have the kind of sensibility which prefers Lothlorien to Isengard, this means that you are a character in a tragedy rather than a heroic epic. Most of the things you like are fading away. The great forests and the stories made in and by them. The strange cultures spanning centuries of time. The little pubs and the curious uninhabited places. The thrumming temples and dark marshlands and crooked villages and folk tales and conviviality and spontaneous song and old houses which might have witches in them. The possibility of dragons. The empty beaches and wild hilltops, the chance of getting lost in the rain forever or discovering something that was never on any map. A world without maps, a world without engines.
So we eat the fruit, and we see that we are naked, and we become ashamed. Our mind is filled with questions; the gears inside it begin to whir and turn and suddenly now here is *us* and *them,* here is *humanity* and *nature,* here is *people* and *God.* A portcullis of words descends between us and the other creatures in the garden, and we can never go home again. We fall into dis-integration and we fall out of the garden forever. Armed angels are set at the gates; even if we find our way back ot the garden again, we cannot re-enter. The state of questless ease that was our birthright is gone. We chose knowledge over communion; we chose power over humility.
We keep building towers and cities and forgetting where we came from. Outside the garden, we are homeless and can never be still. We forget the creator and worship ourselves. All of this happens inside us every day.
You are living among these ruins, and you have been all your life. Many of them are still beautiful—intact cathedrals, Bach concertos—but they are ruins nonetheless. They are the remains of something called ‘Christendom,’ a 1,500-year civilization into which this particular sacred story steeped, informing every aspect of life, bending and changing ans transforming everything in its image. No aspect of daily life was unaffected by this story: the organisation of the working week; the cycle of annual feast days and rest days; the payment of taxes; the moral duties of individuals; the very notion of indiviudals; with ‘God-given’ rights and duties; the attiude to neighbours and strangers; the obligations of charity; the structure of families; and most of all, the wide picture of the universe—its structure and meaning, and our human place within it.
[The West] is the result of the binding together of people and peoples across a continent, over centuries of time, by a sacred order constructed around this particular religious story.
The West, in short, was Christendom. But Christendom died. What does that make us, its descendants, living amongst its beautiful ruins? It makes ours a culture with no sacred order. And this is a dangerous place to be.
We—at least if we are among the lucky ones—have every gadget and recipe and website and storefront, and exotic holiday in the world available to us, but we are lacking two things that we seem to need, but grasp at nonetheless: meaning, and roots.
Even if you are living where your forefathers have lived for generations, you can bet that the smartphone you gave your child will unmoor them more effectively than any bulldozer could. The majority of humanity is now living in megacities, cut off from non-human nature, plugged into the Machine, controlled by it, reduced to it.
…people don’t tend to talk much about their ‘identity’ unless it is under threat. The louder you have to talk about it, the more you have lost.
We turned away from a spiritual, rooted understanding of the world in order to look at ourselves reflected in the little black mirrors in our hands.
We build and rebuild our cultures every day, in the stories we tell our children and ourselves.
This, in practical terms is, the slow, necessary, sometimes boring work to which I suspect people in our place and time are being called: to build new things, out on the margins. Not to exhaust our souls engaging in a daily war for or against a ‘West’ that is already gone, but to prepare the seedbed for what might, one day long after us, become the basis of a new culture. To go looking for truth. To light particular little fires—fires fuelled by the eternal things, the great and unchanging truths—and tend their sparks as best we can. To prepare the ground with love for a resurrection of the small, the real and the true. But first, we are going to have to be crucified.
The rise and triumph of the internet—the neurological network of the Machine—has meant that there are now few places on Earth to which we can escape from the incessant noise of this state-corporated ‘growth’ and the incessant urge to contribute to it by clicking, scrolling, buying and competing.
Feminism, which began as a movement calling for the equal treatment of women, has become a device for filling the workforce with females while eroding the inconveniently un-Machine-like family unit.
…it’s the whole mindset of humantiy changing, from one which dwells in a place in which we are not the centre of attention, to one which exists in a new kind of landscape, built entirely by and for us.
You can judge a culture, I think, by its tallest buildings; what it chooses to reach towards is a reflection of its soul and purpose. The tallest buildings in a modern city are not cathedrals, temples, or even palaces: they are skyscrapers, which are homes to bank, finance houses and global corporations.
Why were the merchants the lowest order of society? Because their work created nothing of value.
Soon enough, human contact will be a luxury good, and like all luxury goods it will sell at a premium.
Many people have simply forgotten what it feels like not to be pulled and pushed and tugged and directed every hour of the day by the demands of the glowing screen.
I see the Machine, humming gently to itself as it binds us with its offerings, as it dangles its promises before us and slowly, slowly, slowly reels us in. I think of the part of it we interact with daily, the glowing white interface through which we volunteer every detail of our lives in exchange for information or pleasure or stories told by global entertainment corporations who commodify our culture and sell it back to us. I think of the words we use to describe this interface, which we carry with us in our pockets wherever we go, as we are tracked down every street and into every forest that remains: *the web; the net.* I think: *These are things designed to trap prey.*
Humans have always used technologies, or at least tools; but for most of history they have been designed to augment human work rather than to entirely replace it.
“It is east for me to imagine that the next great division of the world will be betwene people who wish to live as creatsures and people who wish to live as machines” (Wendell Berry).
1. Past. Where a culture comes from, its history and ancestry.
2. People. Who a culture is. A sense of being ‘a people.’
3. Place. Where a culture is. Nature in its local and particular manifestation.
4. Prayer. Where a culture is going. Its religious tradition, which relates it to God or the gods. 131
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1. Science. Where we come from. Science can offer us a non-mythic version of this story, and assert a claim as to the true (i.e. measurable) nature of reality.
2. The Self. Who we are. The highest good is to serve the self and ensure its longevity.
3. Sex. What we do. Both the highest means of sacral pleasure and, through public expressions of ’sexuality’, an affirmation of individual identity.
4. The Screen. Where we are going. The screen is both our main source of distraction from reality and the interface by which we are directed into the coming post-human reality of the Machine.
The deepest human emotions are engaged to flog us cornflakes, shampoo and dog food. We are drowning in strategically commercialised passion.
In the past, the act of sitting staring into the smoky fire with family or neighbours was the genesis of the folk tale and folk song which tied the culture together. Now we stare at digital fires hemmed into boxes manufactured by distant corporations who also tell us our stories.
In a Machine anticulture, the home is a dormitory, probably owned by a landlord or a bank, in which two or more people of varying ages and degrees of biological relationship sleep when they’re not out being employed by a corporation, or educated by the state in preparation for being employed by a corporation. The home’s needs are met through pushing buttons, swiping screens or buying-in everything from food to furniture; for who has time for anything else, or has been taught the skills to do otherwise? Phones long ago replaced hearth fires. Handily, a phone, unlike a fire, can be kept under the pillow in case something urgent happens elsewhere while we sleep. We wouldn’t want to miss anything.
the pre-modern woman, working in her home with her husband and family, had more agency and power—in that sphere at least—than her contemporary counterpart whose life is directed from outside the home by distant commercial interests… Today’s ‘liberated’ woman is liberated from her home and children, who will be looked after by a paid stranger while she is out adding numbers to the gross national product like the men were before. ‘Freedom’, the highest prize, is always to be sought and won away from home, family and place.
When the phone in your pocket allows you to make more friends in other countries than you can at school, when the whole world is converging on the same digitally enables globoculture, when you can log on to Instragram in Austria or Australia and order from Amazon in the Amazon, what does your ‘nationality’ even mean?
…the things which cannot be measured happen to be the stuff of life. Love. God. Place. Culture. The profound mystery of beauty. A sense of being rooted. A feeling for land or community or cultural traditions or the unfolding of human history over generations. Song. Art. They’ll ‘datafy’ all of this soon enough, no doubt, or try to. But the kind of people who think that the Great Library of Alexandria contained ‘exabytes’ worth of information rather than the collected fruits of hard-won wisdom are lost before they ever sit down to their datasets.
In just a few years we became smartphone junkies with anxious, addicted children, dedicated to scrolling for hours each day, in the process rewiring our minds and turning us away from nature and towards the Machine.
It is living within limits, refusing to consume for the Machine, refusing to give the Total System what it wants. It is planting your feet on the ground, living modestly, refusing technology that will enslave you in the name of freedom. It is building a life in which you can see the stars and taste the air. It is to live on the margins, in your home or in your heart; to scatter the pattern. It is to speak truth and try to live it, to set your boundaries and refuse to step over them. It is to be a conscientious objector to the Machine.
Choosing the path of the cooked ascetic means you be must be prepared, at some stage, for life to get seriously inconvenient, or worse. But such a refusal can enrich as well as impoverish you. In exchange for your refusal, you get to keep your soul.
If we don’t have an end-game—‘saving the world’, say—then everything gets easier. The Earth still turns. These are churches. Prayer works. Nature gives and takes. The sunset is astonishing. There is poverty and death and injustice. There are miracles and there is some strange, saving love. It’s all still there.
Once, in a dark age a very long time ago, the Irish built monasteries. As the pagan armies flooded through the West, burning books and people, slaughtering priests and kidnapping villagers, the monks kept the manuscripts safe, and the teachings. Then, later, they emptied themselves and went out to the margins, to offer up those teachings to the barbarian kings. It was a ridiculous idea. As ridiculous as sending two halflings to throw a ring into a volcano under the nose of the dark lord. It was madness. But it worked.