Laura K. Field, _Furious Minds: The Making of the MAGA New Right_ (2)

 FIELD PROVIDES A classification system in a chart on page 7 of Furious Minds, dividing the scene or movement she is surveying into four groups: "National Conservatives," “Claremonters,” “postliberals,” and “Hard Right Underbelly.” The groupings don’t seem to represent sharply distinct schools of thought, though there are differences in style and emphasis, we might say.

The “Hard Right Underbelly” people are mainly online presences and tend to be wilder and more ferocious in their rhetoric. Field places Raw Egg Nationalist, Mencius Moldbug, and and Bronze Age Pervert in this group. Their outrageousness places them outside the mainstream of the movement in some ways, but they have large followings among the base, and Mencius Moldbug (Curtis Yarvin) apparently has the ear of Peter Thiel, who has the ear of J.D. Vance, so they are not exactly marginal. 

“Postliberals” tend to be Roman Catholic with theocratic tendencies. Patrick Deneen, whose Why Liberalism Failed got a nod from Obama a few years ago, is the best known of them, Adrian Vermeule the most formidable. A key idea here is “integralism,” that is, incorporating Catholic doctrine and values into civic laws and institutions. 

The “Claremonters” are associated with Hillsdale College and the Claremont Institute. The Founders and the original Constitution, with its varieties of brakes on full democracy, are particularly revered in this group.

The “National Conservatives” tend to take a very hard line on immigration.

The thing is, the Hard Right Underbelly also takes a hard line on immigration, the Claremonters would also like to see church and state get cozier, the National Conservatives like the idea of restoring traditional patriarchal family arrangements, etc. Mutual influence, networking, and ideological convergence mean that Field’s group lines can’t be tidy—she often makes remarks along the lines of “we will see more of him in a later chapter,” so the whole phenomenon is more a rhizome than her categories suggest.

As I mentioned in the previous post on this book, Field disagrees with her subjects on most topics and does not bother to conceal her feelings. Michael Anton, discussed in her book as a “Claremonter,” went on at length about Field’s abandonment of any kind of objectivity in a flame-snorting review in a recent issue of the Claremont Review of Books. I found her book immensely enlightening, but I would be curious to read a book on the same people by someone more sympathetic to their views, just to get an idea how things look from their perspective. I imagine, though, that Field’s take is the one that would sound most true to me. For all of them, making America great again seems to boil down to “put white straight Christian men back in charge of everything.” I would hate to see that happen.

Jorie Graham, _Killing Spree_ (5)

A CURIOUS COUNTERPOINT is struck, though, when the next poem, “Suddenly,” begins by suggesting that farming is still going on:

as if beside me

the solitary horse

neighs in the

 

neighbor’s distant

 

field […]     (77)

The furrows, the field, and the horse together recall Edward Thomas’s “As the Team’s Head-Brass,” written in 1916, less than a year before Thomas was killed on the Western Front. The poem’s speaker is having an intermittent conversation with a farmer, who pauses for a minute at the end of each furrow he cuts with his horse-drawn plow. The conversation is about the devastations of the war. Had the war not come, the speaker says, they would be living in “[a]nother world”; “‘Aye, and a better,’” the farmer replies, “‘though / If we could see all all might seem good’” (Thomas CP 29). The farmer has some faith in the future; indeed, the very act of plowing affirms that faith. At the beginning of the poem, two lovers are glimpsed slipping into a nearby wood, slipping out again at poem’s end. Their presence, too, suggests ongoing life amid disaster.

     Graham re-envisioned and expanded Thomas’s poem in “The Hiddenness of the World,” published in Runaway(2020), developing the idea of the disruption and possible renewal of natural cycles. She winked in the direction of Thomas’s poem, I believe, in “In Reality” in To 2040: “The winning ticket is still in my pocket. / The disappearing lovers are still in my satchel. / I have the stories we needed ready” (46). That the two closing poems of Killing Spree make contact with “As the Team’s Head-Brass” floats just a whiff of hope, as does an even more surprising quotation from Pound on the book’s last page: “what thou lovest well / remains” (80)—a line from the Pisan Cantos, a line about what cannot be lost even in defeat.

     And we also have the cicadas. They appeared in “Dawn 2040” in To 2040 and reappear in “Suddenly,” at a crucial juncture:

& the rising & falling silences

of terminal hunger

like the cicadas

revving up again

 

after having ceased long enough

 

for us to have forgotten the story

 

completely, for us to be

 

surprised again

 

by their engine     (78)

The disappearance of the cicadas, even for long periods, does not mean there are no more cicadas. Similarly, perhaps, some hopes can disappear, some principles can disappear, poetry of the farthest-reaching kind can disappear, but all these things may be underground, biding their time, to reappear when we have forgotten all about them. 

Raise yr voice in my voice.

Or raise my voice in yrs.

What remains is

 

always, only, voice—this, here,

this creature in the bony

enclosure, these cicadas in

 

the burning trees.  (79)

Laura K. Field, _Furious Minds: The Making of the MAGA New Right_ (1)

OUR CURRENT PRESIDENT does not strike anyone, I guess, as an ideas-and-principles person. He himself says he likes to go with his “gut”; people who like him might instead talk about his instincts and intuitions, while people who don’t like him (as I do not) might talk about his whims and impulses. He’s a canny gamesman, we could probably all agree, but he probably hasn’t cracked a book since college, if he did even then.

There are plenty of ideas-and-principles people around him, though—Stephen Miller, Russell Vought, and J. D. Vance come to  mind—and plenty more in various think tanks, foundations, and  the blogosphere who are making and disseminating arguments for why Trump is the right person at the right time for the U.S.A. Field’s book, which has been cited all over the last place during the last half-year or so, is a survey of a wide array of these folks.

Field has a doctorate in political science—more specifically, in political theory (the three main domains of political science as an academic field are U.S. politics, international politics, and political theory). Political theory shares a long border with philosophy, going back to Aristotle’s Politics and Plato’s Republic. Field came up as a Straussian, that is, someone working within the conceptual frameworks created by Leo Strauss, an influential and controversial figure who thought the west made a terrible wrong turn in the early modern era.

Most Straussians would be roughly classed as conservative or neo-conservative, and Field herself might have been classed so before (as she writes in her preface) she had a crucial encounter with the conservative movement’s deeply rooted sexism and patriarchal assumptions. 

Field’s own experiences with and takes on contemporary conservatism are a large part of the book, actually. Even though her book is published by a university press (Princeton, no less), it does not seem academic, at least not in the narrowest sense. First person singular pronouns crop up often, and she does not conceal her distaste for some of the ideas held by her subjects. The book is more intellectual journalism than an academic study, we might say.

It’s certainly illuminating, though. Having recently read two books covering adjacent territory—Quinn Slobodian’s Hayek’s Bastards and Matthew Taylor’s The Violent Take It by Force—I noticed that while Slobodian and Taylor end up talking about distinct, non-overlapping groups of MAGA-ites, Field talks about some people discussed by Slobodian, some discussed by Taylor, and a whole lot discussed by neither. She gives us a very wide chunk of the MAGA intellectual spectrum.

Furthermore, she gives us an important clue about what may be holding that spectrum together. The free-market fundamentalists Slobodian writes about may not have a lot in common with the independent charismatic Christians Taylor writes about, and neither group may have much in common with mavericks like the Bronze Age Pervert, but they would all agree that white straight (or profoundly closeted) men should be in charge. And that, Field helps us see, may be the real core of the phenomenon.

Jorie Graham, _Killing Spree_ (4)

IRONICALLY, THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT of ultimate defeat may itself belong to this particular high modernist tradition. Eliot’s last major poem, Little Gidding, written when the outcome of the Second World War was in doubt, dwells on “a king at nightfall,” on “three men, and more on the scaffold, / And a few who died forgotten / […] / and of one who died blind and quiet” (CPP 143). The warriors and combatants in Yeats’s late poems are badly besieged (“The Black Tower”) or sole survivors (“The Curse of Cromwell”) or finally overcome (“Cuchulain Comforted”); “The Circus Animals’ Desertion” faces the problem of having nothing left to say, and “Man and Echo” wonders whether what he did manage to say did more harm than good. Auden’s “poetry makes nothing happen” could not be terser or more final, and Pound’s admission of defeat in Drafts and Fragments of Cantos CX – CXVII could not be more explicit:

But the beauty is not the madness

Tho’ my errors and wrecks lie about me.

And I am not a demigod, 

I cannot make it cohere. (Canto CXVI, Cantos [1972] 795-96)

Defeat was perhaps inevitable. Acknowledging defeat, though, is not the same thing as wishing one had never made the attempt. Even Pound, amid his wreckage, “a blown husk that is finished” (“from Canto XCV,” Cantos [1972] 794), seems to feel the effort was worth making. And so with Graham in Killing Spree. She did not win the race. Hypocrisy, cruelty, greed, and exploitation won the race. But she is still on the track, taking her defeat lap, and there is a dry, radiant joy in seeing her take it.

     Killing Spree is dark, but even so, there are cracks where the light gets in. Some of the cracks, examined closely, open into surprising vistas. The book’s penultimate poem, “Then,” begins with a moonrise and the speaker’s arm around a sleeping beloved. The speaker wants to “let go / of the world / as it was / once,” and chastises herself for past delusions:

& we thought we were

free, we thought

there was history

 

in the world—

but it was an

illusion, wasn’t it, it

must have been,

 

because otherwise how

could it have

disappeared

so suddenly.     (75)

The poem ends with the image of surviving wildlife—"all the watchers in their dens”—inhabiting

what were once

the sun-warmed furrows

farmers cut

into the earth

 

when there were farmers.   (76)

Farmers have disappeared along with the hummingbirds in this terrible future. Since farming relies on an enormous reservoir of faith in the future, faith that the labor will be worthwhile, that the plants will survive, that the social structures distributing food will be intact, that there will be people to whom the food will be distributed, the imagined disappearance of farmers is as dire a dystopian detail as any in Killing Spree. 

 

Catherine Barnett, _Into Perfect Spheres Such Holes Are Pierced_

HAVING READ BARNETT’S other collections, I decided to go back and read the first, first published in 2004. My copy looks to be from the fourth printing, which is doing better than okay, I would say.

Barnett’s hallmarks are already present here in her first book; the poems are lucid and subtle, take short but striking lyric flights, and feel honest.

A good many of the poems in the first part of the book seem to be about the death of two nieces in a terrible plane crash. A few minutes of internet search suggest to me that the nieces may have been on Alaska Airlines flight 261, which fell into the Pacific after “a catastrophic loss of pitch control,” according to Wikipedia.

As in Barnett's other collections, we get some good poems about her son, who at this point seems to have been in the toddler/pre-schooler era. 

Barnett’s poems don’t dazzle, I would say, but one can keep coming back to them and they are just as good as one remembers them.

Jorie Graham, _Killing Spree_ (3)

SINCE PART OF the failure is not saying the right words at the right time, implicated in that failure is poetry itself. Opening poem “The World” ends:

[…] the words even

the right words

 

cannot be un-

 

furled from breath from

mind oh

memory no cannot be

dug up dug up from

 

this buried world.     (5)

Even for one with Graham’s astonishing command of language, words seem to have lost their power in “You Shall Not Speak”:

[…] I don’t know

if there’s anything left now in

my heart. It is so 

 

dry. I must 

scour it with 

words. They must bring 

moisture 

 

back. As they rise up in me 

they almost touch 

my fingertips & then 

they flee onto this 

 

page, they leave bits of 

themselves, right here, this trace, these skins…. 

Once they rivered everywhere—    (42-43)

She has a voice, and feels the imperative “to / sing instead—sing!—and the right / song the surprising one full of / forgiveness good- / natured among the many / shrieks” (53). But in the very next poem she asks, “Who am I kidding” (56). At moments poetry seems capable of making a difference: “I clench my hand around / this pen. / I staunch the current” (64). More often, it fails:

Are you almost done I hear myself say,

but when I throw my words onto the scales

nothing moves.  (32)

 

     What feels like the failure of poetry in Killing Spree might be more narrowly described as the failure of a high modernist project belatedly undertaken. Yeats, Eliot, Pound, and the Auden of the 1930s attempted to address the entirety of the cultures in which they lived about the questions of greatest moment for their time, drawing on the more serious intellectual currents then in circulation and working in the more advanced frontiers of their form. Similar ambitions animated many of modernism’s immediate inheritors: Charles Olson, Louis Zukofsky, Robert Duncan, Robert Lowell, Delmore Schwartz—naming Schwartz, however, may suggest how foredoomed such ambitions are. Historically, these or like ambitions lie behind great poems not only of the visionary prophet tradition, like those of Milton, Blake, and Whitman, but also poetic monuments like Spenser’s Faerie Queene, Pope’s Essay on Man, Wordsworth’s Prelude, and Tennyson’s In Memoriam. For the modernists, though, such undertakings faced seemingly impossible odds. Their culture had become too various and incoherent—an “immense panorama of futility and anarchy” as Eliot memorably put it in “‘Ulysses’, Order, and Myth” (Kermode Selected 177)—for any poem or poet to address, organize, and interpret the whole of it. The political positions their cultural commitments led them to take seemed suspect (and, in Pound’s case, literally criminal). The project asked too much.

     Poets understandably moved away from it. Poets born after 1980, the year Graham’s first book appeared, look less towards the example of the high modernists than towards those of Elizabeth Bishop, Jack Spicer, Frank O’Hara, and John Ashbery, all of whom certainly had ambitions, but less grandiose, less delusional ones. They were, arguably, more modest, more honest, and clearer-eyed about poetry’s reach and capabilities. The need to address urgent questions remained, but strategies like the poetry of witness, more reportorial than hortatory, seemed more effective than that of the Cantos. Explorations of marginalized identities and communities made the unified, integrated culture Eliot hoped to call into being seem not at all desirable. Poetry that seems to declare, “I am writing to clarify and illuminate where we, as a community and culture, stand right now,” as attempted by Yeats, Pound, Eliot, and Auden in his twenties, scarcely seems tenable now. It is hard to think of any living poet apart from Graham who is even trying. Killing Spree often seems like an acknowledgement that the project is not just difficult, but impossible. 

Thomas Pynchon, _Shadow Ticket_

THAT DETECTIVE AGENCIES early in their history (e.g., the Pinkerton agency) were involved in industrial espionage, union breaking, and red baiting has given Pynchon ample opportunity to combine noir-derived plot lines and tone with his conjuring of (nearly) ubiquitous and (nearly) omnipotent networks of secret power and authority. As he did in Against the Day and Inherent Vice, he takes full advantage of the opportunity in Shadow Ticket. Lew Basnight of Against the  Day even makes a cameo appearance. (I imagine he is not the only crossover detail, but I will leave such trainspotting to others.)

Hicks McTaggart is our gumshoe here. It is late 1932. Hitler is on the brink of taking power in Germany, and the USA has just elected FDR. The Depression is showing no signs of lifting. In Milwaukee, Hicks gets handed a tricky assignment involving the wild daughter of a dairy magnate. Tracking down the daughter and the swing musician she loves will eventually take Hicks to Hungary, where….

…well, you know, things happen. The novel has its plot, knotty in classically noir ways, but the real treat is Pynchon’s writing, the dialogue that seems to come right out of Ben Hecht and George S. Kaufman, the arcane lore, the evocation of time and place, all those  things at which Pynchon is simply better than everyone else. 

If you like Pynchon (as I do), I expect you will like this (I did), and if you are just curious about Pynchon, this might be a good book to start out on, at just under three hundred pages. Shadow Ticket probably will not dislodge The Crying of Lot 49 as everyone's favorite among Pynchon’s relatively shorter books, but it does provide a modest-sized sample of how Pynchon can fascinate.