There is a spectre haunting England at the moment, and yes, it has to do with ethics. Even before the exposure of the News of the World scandal, I felt it every time I went into work, as the restaurant “office gossip” heated up recently ever since a pair of beautiful girls filled employment vacancies (the one pictured below with me stole my shades; see, these girls are trouble). A subsequent series of drunken, drug-filled escapades, some of which I was involved in, sparked jealousy and rumours of “who fucked whom?” Subsequent battle lines were drawn: nice guys vs. assholes. Shhiiitttt.
My own internal battle lines were inevitably created, leading to many (drunken) introspective evenings. Why am I always the nice guy? It never does anything but fuck me over.
I get reminded daily of the importance of ethics every time I go to work. A British film entitled Brighton Rock, starring Helen Mirren, created a large buzz in the U.K., especially, as I have been told, when it was released theatrically earlier this year. To advertise its more recent DVD release, a large promotional poster for the film is plastered in several Tube stations, including the Bethnal Green station, where I catch the Central line to go to work before transferring onto the Northern line at Bank. Five days a week I encounter the murderous glare of anti-hero Pinkie Brown—a chilling reminder to us of the inner conflicts we all share. Pinkie’s gaze is a haunting assurance that he knows my secrets, the inner ethical conflicts we all think are unique to us, but Pinkie knows better. His look tells me he can see into my soul, and that I am really he. It’s the scariest thought in the world: What if I turn into Pinkie Brown? What’s scary is that it’s not only plausible, but it is something I am actively struggling against at the very moment.
I have yet to see Brighton Rock, nor its original 1947 version. However, Pinkie’s glare does strike a chord with me, as I have read the book of the same name on which both films were based, written by the eminent Graham Greene. A household name here in Britain, Greene is one of the best-known British writers of the 20th century, notably for his ability to mutually receive critical and popular acclaim. Most writers who even manage to become successful only do so by getting one; he got both.
Brighton Rock is ostensibly a crime thriller, but its “bread and butter” is ethics. At the apex of the novel are its religious theme and a seeming contradiction, at least by traditional standards. The secular character stands up for what’s right, while the two die-hard Catholics (one of whom takes “die hard” too literally) consistently transgress (one more so than the other, but you can guess which one). Pinkie has all the fun and gets the best of both worlds. Why am I always the nice guy?
Ethics does of course have more far-reaching implications, as was demonstrated to me by a fantastic event I recently attended in London. Marxism 2011 was this year’s weekend-long annual instalment of the Marxist-inspired political and cultural festival at the University of London campus. Using the term “Marxism” in its broadest sense, presumably to be inclusive and appeal to anyone who considers them self to be at least marginally left of centre, this year’s theme was “Austerity, Resistance, Alternatives.” It featured public forums, lectures, readings, performances, bookshops, information kiosks, you name it, all organized under several sub-themes, such as the Arab revolutions; anti-racism and anti-sexism; austerity and the economic crisis, particularly as they pertain to Britain; contemporary British politics; the Israel-Palestine conflict; environmentalism; the role of anarchy; and Marxist philosophy.
A few days earlier, I also attended a debate and forum I was invited to at the University of London’s Birkbeck College about the role of critical theory in contemporary society, featuring internationally recognized professors Drucilla Cornell, Costas Douzinas, and Slavoj Žižek. Being in the same room with Žižek and hearing him speak in person was for me like having sex for the first time. There was a lot of anticipation and ignorance about what to expect, a lot of confusion and bewilderment, and many awkward moments, but it was also incredibly stimulating. I was going to ask him a question, but I got too intimated after Žižek roared at a poor young bloke asking him about praxis: “YOU ARE WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE LEFT!” I never heard a professor swear so much to his audience, nor treat them—or his colleagues—with such hostility. Meanwhile, people were going up to him asking for his autograph, and he smiled and flirted with two young pretty girls in particular, before making an offhand joke to the audience in reference to recent mainstream gossip about him having a romantic fling with Lady Gaga. He was a god to them. Why am I always the nice guy?
As much as Cornell held her own with her intriguing argument that the spirit of resilience and community in many politically and socially tattered South American countries is exemplary of what she calls “living communism,” the stars of the show became Douzinas and Žižek. They engaged in a heated, at times personal, debate about praxis in the current crises in Greece and Libya. Douzinas argued that they are at least symbolically significant because of the emancipatory results represented by abstract aesthetics. Žižek’s response was, “So fucking what? Getting together in the town square to hug it out ain’t going to change shit here in the real world.” Douzinas became the man who likes to hold hands. Žižek became the man who thinks holding hands is for naïve suckers. Nice guy vs. asshole.
In the biblical story of Abraham and Isaac, “The Binding of Isaac,” God asks Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, and Abraham keeps his anxiety hidden as he proceeds with the sacrifice, achieving infinite resignation, having faith in the impossible, that everything will be alright, even and especially against God’s seeming will. Sure enough, God intervenes at the last moment, revealing to Abraham that the sacrifice was only a test of Abraham’s fear of God. Although, in the final instance, and regardless of the context (i.e., secular or religious), I find this kind of transgression of the universal, at least symbolically, to be a problematic catalyst for violence, Kierkegaard explored Abraham's anxiety in his Fear and Trembling, and the principle of Kierkegaard’s thought here is worth considering. The man of faith believes in the impossible. As Kierkegaard says, “One became great through expecting the possible, another by expecting the eternal; but he who expected the impossible became greater than all.”
What was I and everyone else who attended that Marxism festival really thinking? Were we really naïve enough to think we would make a substantial dent in the current political and social climate, or was it just one giant, weekend-long circle jerk? In truth it was neither (although I have no doubt there were some attendees who legitimately believed in the former and consequently ended up belonging to the latter). For me at least, I didn’t go there expecting, nor wanting, a revolution—whatever that is. I also felt incredibly humbled to be in the presence of so many great individuals who had such passion for what they believed in. I felt inferior, not only as a supposed intellectual or activist, but as a human being too. Why can’t I be as passionate as the modest PhD candidates who took the time out of their day to lead group discussions on Marxist philosophy, showing incredible patience and understanding towards those who weren’t on the same level of knowledge and intelligence as they were? Why can’t I be as passionate as the DYI publishers providing journals and literature on the University of London’s main courtyard? Why can’t I be as passionate as the political and feminist activists who just didn’t show up to dress the statues of men outside the university’s main building in subversive clothing, but would actually go out and continue their activism on the next day and the day after that, going to rallies and demonstrations I otherwise wouldn’t be bothered to attend?
These people (well, most of them) know they’re not going to change the world into a utopia, but they fight on regardless, while I stay in most afternoons watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond, eating cereal. Going to that festival was the best thing I could’ve done for myself. Yeah Žižek, we may all be holding hands in the town square, but that’s how people learn how to live, how to change things in the first place. Žižek, elsewhere, recontextualized Alain Badiou’s abstract concept of “the act” to encourage social activists to do the impossible to get real change. Simply put, “the act,” to Žižek, is to proceed with the third option when you’re only given two. You know, like Keanu Reeves in Speed when he has to choose to either let Dennis Hopper escape or let Jeff Daniels die. So what does Reeves do? He shoots the hostage, obviously. It’s the impossible third choice.
Žižek thinks that we must move beyond the choice of holding hands with a girl and not holding hands with a girl—instead, just be an asshole and fuck the girl. Žižek wants to enact the impossible; I just want to believe in it. Social change doesn’t come from doing the impossible, but in striving towards doing the impossible.
I met a girl at the Marxism festival, who needless to say by all standards is vastly out of my league. She’s a beautifully beautiful girl. She’s impossible.
She studied English literature and is now a journalist. Wanting to get more involved in politics and philosophy, and without really knowing the basics, she attended the festival at the urging of a friend. As I walked into a classroom to attend one of the lectures, I noticed her instantly—she stood out like a white boy in Whitechapel. A room full of unattractive hippies, she was a cover girl dressed in all black. The Veronica to everyone else’s Betty.
Eye contact and flirtatious smiles were exchanged. I inexplicably had the guts to engage her in conversation as we were leaving the room at the end of the forum. It led to a wonderful all-day first date. She wanted to learn more about Marxist philosophy so I gave her the 101, undoubtedly coming off as pretentious but with enough charm, humour, and intelligence to compensate. I’m sure my consistent insistence that I was the least qualified person in the world to be teaching her these concepts in spite of her impression of me to the contrary also helped my cause. She was hanging onto my every word.
At the end of the day, two figures appeared, one on each of my shoulders. On my one side materialized Douzinas, calmly recommending to me, “Play it cool dude, no rush. No need to screw it up.” On the other is Žižek, yelling ferociously with his Eastern European accent, “HEAD, HEAD! ASK FOR HEAD!”
We all know what happens when you do the impossible, whether that be a nerd like me sleeping with a drop-dead gorgeous girl on the first date, or a socialist revolution fulfilling and actualizing itself: things get awkward, and shit gets fucked up. Just like sometimes you have to hold hands in the town square as opposed to prematurely jumping into revolutionary battle, you also have to just ask for a girl’s number as opposed to asking her to come back to your place.
The battle lines at work may have been drawn, but at least I can say with pride that I know where I stand. There’s a lesson here, and it’s that despite everything, everything possible and rational, I ain’t going to sink to some asshole’s level just to impress a girl (or, in the bigger picture, to change the world). Perhaps Pinkie’s stare is my reminder to strive for the impossible: resigning to sacrifice Isaac is like actively endeavouring to avoid becoming Pinkie Brown. So go for it, big-city boy and small-town girl, just like Steve Perry says. Don’t stop believin'.
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