The Darkness at the Heart of Whiteness

Marlon Brando as Kurtz in Heart of Darkness

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Monday

Greg Olear of the Substack blog Prevail has written another fine essay, this one on Heart of Darkness. While acknowledging the legitimacy of Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe’s critique—that the novella does a lousy job of depicting Africans—Olear doesn’t want us to overlook Conrad’s main target: white greed.

Olear points out that Conrad makes a point of emphasizing Kurtz’s whiteness:

Kurtz is a full seven feet of skeletal whiteness, topped off by a shiny white cueball of a pate. He is ivory incarnate. He is, in short (kurzum in German), the whitest white man in all of Africa—and also the most evil. Conrad equates the two qualities deliberately. [Kurtz’s fiancé] talks about Kurtz’s “goodness,” and no doubt Kurtz had that in some supply before he left. But by the time we meet him, all of that has evaporated. What remains is a bleached-out husk of pure horrific evil.

White greed, Olear then notes, is currently attempting to ruin America as it once ruined Africa:

Reading the book in 2025, I think only of our current iteration of this kind of white man, brilliant but misguided and irreparably damaged, in this imperial nation vaster and more powerful than Belgium could ever have dreamt of being. Like Kurtz they are white supremacists. Like Kurtz they are men of talent. Like Kurtz they engage in unspeakable acts….Like Kurtz they enjoy the undeserved protection of corporations and governments. And like Kurtz they are driven mad with greed. The accumulation of assets is more important to them than anything: love, sex, art, creativity, fame, faith, hope, charity, decency, respect, community, God, the future of humanity—anything.

Then, in a passage referencing South Africa born-and-raised Elon Musk, Olear asks,

How can we read Heart of Darkness today and not think of the disgustingly wealthy white men from Africa hellbent on destroying our country and the world for their own material gain?

Olear makes one other unsettling application: the novel begins with an allusion to the sun setting on the British Empire, which in Conrad’s day was the most powerful nation on earth.

[T]he dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway—a great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

In response to this scene Marlow reflects, “And this also has been one of the dark places of the earth.”

Perhaps thinking of the Pax Americana that has held since World War II, Olear concludes,

Conrad is trying to warn us: We live in the flicker. Darkness was here yesterday. There’s no guarantee it won’t return tomorrow.

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On Losing One of the Musketeers

Charles, Cabrera, Burke, Pasqualino in The Musketeers

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Monday

When I was growing up, we Bates boys sometimes regarded ourselves as Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and  D’Artagnan. As the eldest, I identified with Athos, the wily old veteran. Now that we have lost our Aramis, no longer can we say–as we once did– “All for one and one for all.”

Sons of a French professor who read us The Three Musketeers as children, we were such fans that we went on to read the sequels as well, Twenty Years After and The Man in the Iron Mask. In these later works, each of the four companions goes his own way, experiencing various adventures and sometimes even finding himself at odds with the others. But the feeling of inseparable unity, forged in their early acquaintance, subsists in spite of all differences. It is this sacred four that D’Artagnan invokes with his dying words at the end of Iron Mask. Here’s the scene:

Leaning upon the arms held out on all sides to receive him, he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion; his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the rolling of the drum which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his nerveless hand the baton, ornamented with its fleurs-de-lis, he cast on it his eyes, which had no longer the power of looking upwards towards Heaven, and fell back, murmuring strange words, which appeared to the soldiers cabalistic—words which had formerly represented so many things on earth, and which none but the dying man any longer comprehended…

While those words are not in fact cabalistic, they do invoke the special unity. So even though they don’t match our current configuration—three of us are still alive—they point to a mystical number that we all experienced as such. I therefore offer them up here in the spirit with which D’Artagnan delivers them, homage to a band of brothers whose roots sink deep:

“Athos—Porthos, farewell till we meet again! Aramis, adieu forever!”

To which Dumas adds:

Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now remained but one. Heaven had taken to itself three noble souls. 

One noble soul in our case.

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Jesus, Fishing, and Everlasting Life

Peter Paul Rubens, Miraculous Fishing

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Sunday

In today’s Gospel Luke tells us that Jesus told Peter, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people” (5:11). In “The Fish” Mary Oliver also uses fishing as a metaphor to grapple with Jesus’s promise of life after death, and she does so in a way that speaks to me as I grapple with the death of my brother.

Oliver describes eating a fish she has caught in a way that invokes the Eucharist. Through symbolically consuming Jesus’s body and blood in the ritual of Holy Communion, Christians see themselves becoming one with Christ and therefore “heirs of his eternal kingdom.” If one sees this kingdom as all of creation, as Oliver and I both do, then she engages in her own version of this sacred ritual following her own fishing expedition:

The Fish

The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
and died
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.

Oliver here is invoking the pain of the crucifixion, and having just seen my brother endure “pain, and pain, and more pain” before dying, I do not take the fish’s death lightly. With all the flailing and sucking, the fish does not go gentle into that good night. The “slow pouring off of rainbows” is a powerful way of describing the transformation of a beautiful creature into inanimate flesh.

But if one looks past one’s separate self, death does not get the last word. (As Dylan Thomas puts it, “Death shall have no dominion.”) Life is everlasting because we are all “tangled together” in God’s creation, with life and death feeding upon each other. The power of Oliver’s poem lies, in part, in her big-eyed wonder at the process. She imagines surrendering one’s self to become part of a bigger self.

Oliver describes this process elsewhere. In her poem “In Blackwater Woods” Oliver concludes,

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

First there is this fierce love of life, along with the struggle to hold on to it. Then there is the letting go. And then there is that rising up that constitutes the cycle of life. This is the feverish plot that has us all in its grip but that can nourish us if we embrace the mystery.

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A Woman 600 Years Ahead of Her Time

Chaucer’s Wife of Bath

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Friday

Yesterday I visited St. Mary’s College of Maryland, where I taught for 36 years, sharing sections of my book in a public reading and also visiting an early British Literature class. In that class I talked about Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, one of my favorite characters in all of literature. As I told the students, I think Chaucer’s three-dimensional creation helped make Shakespeare possible.

In making the claim, I drew on Harold Bloom’s book Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human to explain what I meant. Tu quote from my book,

Bloom contends that Shakespeare “pragmatically reinvented” us,[i] changing the way we see others and ourselves and even how we experience feelings. Whereas fellow playwrights Marlowe produced “cartoons” and Ben Johnson “ideograms,” Shakespeare created characters like Hamlet and Falstaff, thereby inventing “human inwardness.” Personality as we understand it, Bloom explains, is “a Shakespearean invention…Insofar as we ourselves value, and deplore, our own personalities, we are the heirs of Falstaff and of Hamlet, and of all the other persons who throng Shakespeare’s theater…”

The class had just read Beowulf so I noted that, while the epic is psychologically complex, Beowulf himself is not three-dimensional. The same can be said about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: it offers us a profound exploration into the psychology of confronting death through plot, imagery, and setting, not through complex characters. But the Wife of Bath, written around the time of Sir Gawain and 200 years before Shakespeare’s great creations, is another matter. She is a woman whose depths we still haven’t fully plumbed after 600 years.

The key drama in the Wife’s Prologue and Tale, I told the students, is a woman attempting to honor her essential self in the face of a society that tells she should be a different kind of woman—and that condemns her for being who she is. A vibrant character who wants to be loved and respected, Alisoun is instead condemned as a black widow, dominatrix shrew who violates church injunctions to be like the Virgin Mary (i.e., meek, mild, and submissive). Rather than surrender quietly to this social pressure, Alisoun tries to defend herself before  29 judgmental pilgrims, comprised of 29 men and one woman (a prioress).

Confused about who she is—given the social pressures, how could she not be?—she tells a fairy tale that poses the question, “What is it that women really want? (“moost desire”). That answer, I believe, is not “sovereignty” or “mastery”—although that is the answer she comes up with. Rather, she wants women to be listened to and respected, Given the gender dynamics of her day, however, Alisoun thinks that “sovereignty” is the only way to get such respect, which is why that is the answer she gives.

In other words, Alisoun, with her vision of marriage based on mutual respect and power-sharing is centuries ahead of her time. But she can articulate this only through a fairy tale because nothing in Chaucer’s England supports such a vision.

In my presentation I concluded that Chaucer and Shakespeare’s greatness lies in part in how they listen to their creations. Canterbury Tales is a work about listening, and if we listen—really listen—to the tales the pilgrims tell, vast worlds open up, just as they open up when we listen to Hamlet or Macbeth or Viola or Brutus.

And because Chaucer and Shakespeare both believe that women are worth listening to, they have created characters that transcend their time. Whatever the two men were like in their daily lives—I’m sure both men had their gender biases—when they were in the grip of their creations, they saw deeply into who we are.

Or as Shelley says of such literary creations,

All high poetry is infinite; it is as the first acorn, which contained all oaks potentially. Veil after veil may be undrawn, and the inmost naked beauty of the meaning never exposed. A great poem is a fountain forever overflowing with the waters of wisdom and delight; and after one person and one age has exhausted all its divine effluence which their peculiar relations enable them to share, another and yet another succeeds, and new relations are ever developed, the source of an unforeseen and an unconceived delight.

Or in other words, great literature is timeless, with each age discovering something new in it.

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Good Night, Dear Heart

Vincent van Gogh, At Eternity’s Gate

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Thursday

Yesterday my brother died of cancer. I have no words of my own, but this Mark Twain lyric gets at some of what I’m feeling:

Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.

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Trump Doth Murder Sleep

Robert Dudley, illus. from Macbeth

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Wednesday

Macbeth’s murder of Duncan is going through my mind as I watch Donald Trump and Elon Musk attempt to murder democracy. Like Macbeth, they believe that a quick and overwhelming strike will do the business and appear to think they can handle any consequences. Or as Macbeth puts it,

If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well
It were done quickly. If th’ assassination
Could trammel up the consequence and catch
With his [Duncan’s] surcease success, that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here.

The difference between Trump and Macbeth, as I’ve noted in the past, is that Macbeth has a conscience and is far more reflective. Even though he is a monster, he’s far more interesting than Trump. Unlike the president, he actually worries that he is unleashing unstoppable violence upon the world, and that this violence will one day rebound against him:

                                    But in these cases
We still have judgment here, that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague th’ inventor. This even-handed justice
Commends th’ ingredience of our poisoned chalice
To our own lips. 

In other words, with this action he is teaching others to use the same tactics, which he foresees will “return to plague th’ inventor.” He himself will ultimately drink the poison he is administering to others.

And so it happens in Shakespeare’s tragedy as Birnam Hill does in fact rise up and advance upon Dunsinane. Dare we hope that this will occur here as well, with those who still believe in the American Constitution serving as our avenging Macduff and Malcolm? Even with a happy ending, however, a lot of good people died first, including Duncan, Duncan’s servants, Banquo, and Macduff’s wife and son.

One consoling thought is that the same paranoia that prompts Macbeth to turn against a former ally (Banquo) might be at work in our own situation. Musk might want to watch his back—or Trump his.  But I don’t imagine that either man has enough of a conscience to see the other’s ghost rising up to chastise him. Nor, if Melania were to die, do I imagine Trump mourning her death as Macbeth mourns his spouse.

While I once derided Trump as a wannabe Macbeth, he’s a lot closer to pulling off a Macbeth coup than I ever thought possible. It appears that I suffered from Duncan complacency.

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Unknown Citizens vs. Musk-Trump

René Magritte, Song of Man

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Tuesday

Jay Kuo, who runs the Substack blog The Status Kuo, recently addressed the issue that is on many of our minds: Is Somebody Doing Something? He is referring, of course, to the Musk-Trump on-going coup. I subscribe to Kuo’s blog because he has a clear perspective of what it possible and what is not when things go haywire. Today he contends that more is being done than we may think.

And while I know it’s a small thing, the situation has me thinking of W.H. Auden’s poem “The Unknown Citizen.” Although the poem is a satire, citizens with the characteristics that Auden appears to denigrate are stepping up to resist the takeover. Such people do indeed deserve a monument, although it is not one that a surveillance state such as the one in the poem would ever erect.

Kuo says that mass purges of FBI prosecutors and agents, the shutdown of USAID, and the “tech bro putsch” at Treasury and the Office of Personnel Management—the latter giving “an unelected billionaire access and possible control over our entire federal workforce HR and some $6 trillion paid annually by our federal payment system—was deliberately carried out on Friday so that we would have the weekend to “panic for several days and make us feel like we were rudderless and without clear options.”

On the first business day following the attacks, however, Kuo says that he “can report confidently that the anti-Trump/Musk response is well underway.” Some of those responders are unknown citizens.

But let me first share the poem before mentioning names:

The Unknown Citizen
By W. H. Auden

(To JS/07 M 378
This Marble Monument
Is Erected by the State)


He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

As described by Auden, Unknown Citizen (who like the Unknown Soldier has no name) appears to live his life in conformity with social expectations. He has the right kind of job, the right kind of political views, the right number of children.

But note that he steps up to do his duty, which is no small thing. And it is people stepping up to do their duty—and getting fired for it—that we are seeing at the moment. Kuo notes that, currently, the front-line defenders of our democracy are

the civil servants whose roles and responsibilities are being upended or whose jobs are on the chopping block under the new administration. How they respond matters a great deal for a number of reasons, both moral and practical.

Morally speaking, it takes courage to stand up to authoritarianism, and Kuo notes that “[o]ne person’s courage is sometimes all it takes for many to find their own.” Practically, meanwhile, “stopping an illegal move initially buys valuable time for the press to be alerted, for union leaders and politicians to organize and respond, and for lawyers to be called in.”

Among the heroic personal responses over the past three days that Kuo mentions are:

–James Dennehy at the FBI, who counseled his staff to “dig in” and who wrote, “Today, we find ourselves in the middle of a battle of our own, as good people are being walked out of the F.B.I. and others are being targeted because they did their jobs in accordance with the law and F.B.I. policy.”

–David Lebryk at Treasury, who refused to grant Musk’s team access to the Fiscal Service, which disburses over $5.4 trillion. Then he retired, depriving the team of his knowledge of how to read, sort and control payments. As Kuo puts it, “More sand in the gears.”

–Director and Dep. Director for Security, John Vorhees, and Brian McGill at USAID, who denied Musk’s “Department of Government Efficiency” (not an actual department) access to classified materials. Both were suspended.

Of course, unknown citizens can swing both ways, and there are those faceless figures that participate in Nazi rallies and refuse to acknowledge the neighboring concentration camp. But Auden’s unknown citizen appears to have taken civics in high school, which is looking very attractive these days. The man even belonged to a union, which would not make Musk or Trump happy.

Of more concern in Auden’s poem is the “we.” Trump’s billionaire allies—not only Musk—are vacuuming up personal information in ways that the poet could never have imagined. Trump is determined to make it even easier for them.

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Responding to the Musk-Trump Coup

Elon Musk’s Nazi salute

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Monday

In February 2022 I shared “We Lived Happily During the War,” by Ukrainian-American poet Ilya Kaminsky, because it was important that Americans oppose Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Little did I think that America would be experiencing its own invasion two years later. As Ruth Ben-Ghiat, an expert on fascist takeovers, points out,

We are living through a new kind of coup in which Elon Musk, the richest man in the world, has taken over the payment and other administration systems that allow the American government to function, and has locked out federal employees from computer systems. Many of Musk’s collaborators in this endeavor previously worked for his private companies and/or helped him take over Twitter.

For Ben-Ghiat, there is a frightening sense of familiarity to this:

What is happening now builds on classic authoritarian dynamics as I described them in Strongmen and in many essays for Lucid. There is always an “inner sanctum” that really runs the show, with its mix of family members and cronies, some with histories of working with or for foreign powers. And there is almost always a purge of the federal bureaucracy. That is now being carried out on a mass scale.

Ben-Ghiat notes that the goal is to “rearrange government around an extremist ideological project of Christian nationalism and White supremacy.” A second goal is to “enact neoliberal deregulation and privatization meaures.” Progress on both fronts has been horrifyingly rapid:

The speed of its implementation makes Trump’s takeover stand out within an authoritarian framework. The more corrupt and criminal the autocrat, the more he is obsessed with punishing enemies and feeling safe. Cue the immediate execution of the revenge and retribution part of this plan, with anyone who was involved in attempts to bring Trump and his collaborators to justice for the Jan. 6 insurrection or anything else, FBI employees included, is now a target.

Only with coups, Ben-Ghiat concludes, does one see “such a rush to punish and expel non-loyalists from the government.”

With that in mind, Kaminsky’s poem is a call for us to wake up, even if we ourselves are not yet suffering:

We Lived Happily During the War
By Ilya Kaminsky
 
And when they bombed other people’s houses, we

protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not

enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America

was falling: invisible house by invisible house
by invisible house.

I took a chair outside and watched the sun.

In the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money

in the street of money in the city of money
in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)

lived happily during the war.

What does enough protesting and enough opposing look like? Kaminsky doesn’t say and I myself don’t have clear answers.  But just because we aren’t seeing obvious signs of people pushing back doesn’t mean that they aren’t. In her Washington Post column an aging Anne Lamott, who believes that resistance can’t be rushed, points out some of the quiet forms protest is taking:

It is in the witness and courage of the Right Rev. Mariann Budde. It is in the bags of groceries we keep taking to food pantries. It looks like generosity, like compassion. It looks like the profound caring for victims of the fires, and providing refuge for immigrants and resisting the idea that they are dangerous or unwanted, and reaching out to queer nieces, siblings and strangers and helping resist the notion that their identities are unworthy, let alone illegal.

And:

It is in our volunteer support for public schools and libraries, because we know the new president holds them in contempt and fear. Teachers and librarians are allies for souls who have been dismissed as hopeless.

Throughout history, it has always been the case that we can’t do more than what is doable. None of us can stop the coup on our own. But what we can do, we should do.

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Prayer Is Waiting with Desire

Rembrandt, Simeon in the Temple

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Sunday

Today’s Gospel lesson features two “righteous and devout” individuals, Simeon and Anna, who have grown old while patiently awaiting the coming of the messiah. Their faith is finally rewarded when they encounter Jesus as a child.

Biblical scholar and theologian Richard Bauckman has a poem in which he describes the waiting process as travelers stranded in a train station. “The hardest part of waiting is the not doing,” he observes before warning, “waiting too long the heart grows sclerotic.”

Whatever the state of his heart, Simeon is overjoyed (so Luke informs us) when he encounters Jesus, declaring,

Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace,
according to your word;

for my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,

a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel.

Anna, meanwhile, “began to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.” Bauckman characterizes their prayers as “waiting with desire,” concluding, “eyes will see what hearts await.”

Wait and See (Simeon and Anna)
By Richard Bauckman

In the drab waiting-room
the failed travelers, resigned, sleep
on the hard benches, inured
to postponement and foul coffee.
Hope has given up on them.

There are also the impatient,
pacing platforms, and the driven,
purple with frustration, abusing
their mobiles, for the hardest part
of waiting is the not doing.

Truly to wait is pure dependence.
But waiting too long the heart
grows sclerotic. Will it still
be fit to leap when the time comes?
Prayer is waiting with desire.

Two aged lives incarnate
century on century
of waiting for God, their waiting-room
his temple, waiting on his presence,
marking time by practicing

the cycle of the sacrifices,
ferial and festival,
circling onward, spiraling
towards a center out ahead,
seasons of revolving hope.

Holding out for God who cannot
be given up for dead, holding
him to his promises – not now,
not just yet, but soon, surely,
eyes will see what hearts await.

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