If You Want To Do The Time, Ask A Policeman

I was reading the other day about how a nineteenth-century Frenchman named Vidocq invented the idea of publicising fictitious crime waves in order to create a market for the police services he was offering. He was a master con artist and police double agent turned top national crimefighter – which not even Dr. Moriarty managed in real life. Vidocq invented forensics, criminal databases and much else, inspiring many fictional crooks, policemen and detectives including Sherlock Holmes. Given the essential corruption of his ruling idea, we may question whether he ever stopped being a criminal mastermind. His conversion to the alleged forces of law and order looks very like what the economists call “regulatory capture”.

We have continued as Vidocq began. The notion of the police telling us honestly what criminals are out there and faithfully combating them falls on its own absurdity. The police have no economic interest whatsoever in fighting serious crime. Their budget rests on keeping minor crime on the boil, sufficient to justify their own existence but not so much as to attract reproach. In this way they resemble not the hunters they pretend to be but rather farmers. They live off their stock, a more-or-less-fixed circle of petty criminals subject to endless bureaucratic and judicial procedures, in and out of court and jail but never disappearing altogether. Pay-offs are then additional to this public income. Sudden homicide from unexpected directions can bring political pressure and thus upsets them, but the only thing in which they have any real emotional investment is violence against colleagues.

Perhaps this is easier to see in the relatively peaceful Nordic societies than in the United States, where the underlying economics of animal husbandry seem obscured by the police habit, whether driven by hatred or entertainment, of shooting unarmed black people and even the occasional white tourist. In the UK, too, racketeering and gratuitous assault has periodically dominated the culture at least of the London force, and in some other countries the police are all too obviously a paramilitary drugs cartel doing territorial battle with unsanctioned rivals. In Scandinavia, on the other hand, the police role in drugs distribution and political violence is so much less obvious that the bureaucratic imperatives to call meetings and generate paperwork become all the clearer. Where I live, the police are so water-soluble that they are rarely seen outside their warm dry headquarters and vehicles. Like the rest of the state sector, they seem to spend all their time writing reports about how they lack the resources to do anything other than write reports about lacking resources.

And yet there is a large sector of home-produced whodunits, with a sizeable export value, famous for both sadism and a social critique ultimately derived from Ibsen. For here everything is the fault of “society” – it is a kind of anti-Agatha Christie, in which middle-class order is not something to be disturbed and then restored but rather the root of all evil. This reader, however, is struck not only by the sheer nastiness of the serial killers but also by the extreme unrealism of the police-procedural aspects. As a resident and former translator, I am simply unable to buy the novelists’ picture of the police detecting. Why, that would be hard work!

I cannot speak for certain about the whodunit-prolific Swedes, but the Norwegian method in actuality consists of pre-trial detention until the victim confesses. After months of such detention, nota bene in isolation, most people would confess to having done anything, just to get out. There is not the slightest equivalent to the ACLU, and the citizenry is united in imagining that a conviction rate over 99% is proof of their own superiority, inasmuch as members of the Master Race (so unlike those Russians next door) would never prosecute an innocent person. It is to laugh – and yet the Scandinavian noir authors have built an international reputation not only on the man next door being a paedophile sadist but also on police officers being lonely alcoholics nevertheless capable of astonishing feats of intuition and deduction.

In my youth the English police were polite to members of the middle classes, who never saw how they treated their inferiors. That being so, one can easily understand how what one might call “Scotland Yard fiction” was possible for its time, although the quaint notion of an unbent copper has survived until Discworld. Perhaps the same holds true of small-town America, at least if you have white skin. Although the Scandinavian police rarely murder innocents on the street, not even coloured ones, the disjunction between the fictional assiduity and the universal experience of utterly incompetent police forces is startling. When they tried to stop the worst one-man shooting spree in history, the Norwegian police had no helicopter but piled onto an inflatable, which then sank beneath them. The Keystone Kops could not have done it better. To us it seemed merely characteristic.

The questions in my mind are, first which model will prevail, the American armoured-car and kick-the-door-down (hey, at least the Gestapo knocked) or the Scandinavians’ automatic regret that they are unable to assist you; and when, if ever, the crime fiction of either culture will desist from describing a wholly imaginary response, investigation and detection.

Three Echoes In Scott Fitzgerald

My dotage being devoted to reading what should have been read long ago, it is only now that I have ticked off The Diamond as Big as the Ritz. It came as a great surprise, as I had assumed that the title was hyperbole about some cut stone even larger than the Koh-i-Noor. Not a bit of it, it was utter fantasy about a mountain in Montana made of diamond, so that that the equal size with the Ritz Carlton was meant quite literally.

I was further struck by three echoes of or in three other works. The inability of the protagonist to escape the valley reminded me of Wells’ The Country of the Blind. Since this was published in 1904, it might have influenced Fitzgerald or it might simply be an inevitable storyteller’s trope. The congruence between the 2003 film Goodbye Lenin and the mountain-owner’s bringing his slaves up to believe that the South had won the civil war would have to be influence in the opposite direction, or else a happy coincidence.

Far more serious and sinister, however, is the initial set-up, where the mad plutocrat family have removed their treasure or refuge from the rest of the United States, by dint of corruption of the cartographical records plus life detention of foot visitors plus anti-aircraft guns. Aviation being then in its infancy, that would surely be easier than Ayn Rand’s SF-magical forcefield valley roof in Atlas Shrugged. I doubt it is provable, but intuitively this feels like a real case of influence, that is to say, it feels as if Rand acquired the idea for her solipsistic rich man’s paradise from Fitzgerald. After all, the story was very well-known in its day. What Fitzgerald meant as a surrealistic satire, however, Rand seemed to take perfectly seriously as a pillar of the new religion she created.

Posted on February 29, 2020 at 17:24 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: RESISTANCE IS FUTILE!, Randians And Aristocrats

The Other Side Of The Fence

There has been a lot of talk recently about women’s “sexual capital”. Some, especially where I live, would have me burned at the stake for mentioning the very possibility, but today I am going to ask two relatively innocent questions. One, can men at all understand what it is like to have this sexual capital? Perhaps they could in the days of fortune-hunting for heiresses, which were before my time, and perhaps it is also known to the gays, about whom I know practically nothing. But to me as a postwar heterosexual male, unattractive and therefore more or less invisible, the notion of my looks being a resource has always been utterly alien. One was supposed to make one’s way in the world (which I never did properly, but that is a wholly different issue) and only then, and quite separately, acquire a partner.

Does that then put me in the same bracket as a woman who is conscious of being called “plain” or worse things, knowing that most of her contemporaries have this thing called sexual capital and that she alone does not? It might. It might even make me spiritual kin to an ugly bluestocking. The question seems valid, but I can never be sure that our experience is the same. Certainly a diminutive man and an aged woman belong together at the bottom of the human pecking order. But I naturally have no idea what it feels like to be any kind of young woman, either with or without sexual capital.

My other question is whether and if so how it is possible to have this sexual capital and still be miserable. Might this imply unreasonable demands on life, or might there be downsides to sexual capital that I am simply not equipped to perceive? If that be so, this might offer us a fresh avenue to understanding the women and men who throughout history have turned their backs on the sexual marketplace and – even if good-looking and charismatic – entered the cloister.

Telling It Like It Became

Towards the end of Robert Musil’s massive (and unfinished) novel The Man Without Qualities I came across, in quick succession, three quite unintentional prophecies. Musil no doubt meant them as fanciful reductiones ad absurdum or as-ifs, but they have all turned out to be true of our own world.

For example, he says that, “Wanting to live for another person is no more than egoism going bankrupt and then opening a new shop next door, with a partner!” The implication here is that such a business practice is immoral. But this is precisely what most of business life now consists in, hallowed by the Washington Consensus; the standard justification for the limited-liability company is that you can try your luck again, but in practice this is all preplanned – one goes into liquidation to escape one’s debts, whether to investors or suppliers and including the start-up outlays, and then creates another company to continue the same con-game.

When Musil writes, in what context I don’t now remember, “… the button to be pressed is always clean and shiny, and what happens at the other end of the line is the business of others, who, for their part, don’t press the button”, this might be the first use of the metaphor that entered the language around the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis and has stayed in it ever since. He seems also to be anticipating Stanley Milgram.

Again as a reductio, Musil scoffs that getting one’s personality-forming ideas from such-and-such a source is like “ordering oneself from an interior decorator”. But that is precisely what the middle classes nowadays do. The providers are called “lifestyle consultants”.

(Fiddle to July 2, 2015)

The Qina and the Nakhba

It is no new observation that Arabs, who tend to know much more history than Americans, draw a parallel between two overseas occupations of what they call Palestine. In the Nakhba, the establishment of the State of Israel, they find echoes of the Qina, which from our side we call the First Crusade. If neither geopolitical event was quite as straightforward as the unprovoked invasion of the conventional narrative, that is only par for the course of perceived national history. Which is always about Us virtuously minding our own business until They viciously turn up and stomp us. The Muslims actually took a bigger punch than the Crusades in what we call the Middle Ages; the Mongol devastation of Central Asia and Persia was provoked by extraordinary stupidity on the part of a frontier commander and his emperor, but the millions of ordinary dead would not have appreciated that.

The formative event for the Orthodox Church was the 1204 Latin conquest of Constantinople, in which the Franks divided up what was left of the Byzantine Empire as if it were an old-fashioned watch, apparently lacking any understanding beyond “Look! Shiny stuff!” Again, this was not really out-of-the-blue, and has even been treated as an internal putsch. In the same way, the Europeans conquered India by offering military assistance. Although the Spanish also overthrew the Aztecs and the Incas as external mercenaries in the service of native factions, in the light of the European impact on the continents as a whole the pre-Columbians may be conceded their unprovoked Catastrophe. In their five thousand years of history the Chinese have eaten a lot of bitterness, but the Jurchen sack of Kaifeng in 1127 probably stands out as their own resonant moment. The straightforward “they-just-came-and-spoiled-everything” perception is perhaps most accurate for the African experience and even more the Australian. The Russian-Polish-Hungarian experience of being devastated by the Mongols is the closest Europe comes to the simple narrative.

The odd men out here are the Western Europeans. We have our watershed of the civilisation-destroying 1914, to be sure, but that was entirely self-inflicted. Nobody came to do it to us from outside, which is why H.G. Wells had to give us the “vast, cool and unsympathetic” Martians. He wanted to show the complacent British what it felt like to be on the receiving end of superior technology. The question is thus whether we are ever likely to understand a culture whose historical memory is dominated by alien irruption and devastation.

(Fiddle date-stamp to January 24, 2014)

Posted on November 26, 2019 at 17:09 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: GETTING MEDIEVAL, Getting Medieval, Miscellaneous

The Downtrodden Rulers

Robert Musil has penned a memorable description of the Austro-Hungarian Empire (which he calls “Kakania” – from kaiserlich und königlich, but perhaps also echoing cacophony or something even worse) on the eve of the Great War that destroyed it. Every single ethnic group, not excluding the Germans (whom everybody outside thought ran the place), had a towering sense of sacred victimhood. Some called themselves the “Unredeemed Nations”. Well, in 1919 they were redeemed, and much good did it do them.

It occurs to me that precisely the same sensibility dominates our own time. “No man is a villain to himself”, and the same principle holds true of the social groups that others perceive as top of the pecking order. For example, many men consider themselves oppressed by women as the politically dominant sex, many heterosexuals are terrified of being somehow coerced into homosexuality (don’t ask me how this will be done), and above all, the white supremacists regard themselves as being on the verge of extinction. In just the same way, the Nazis did not think of the Jews as the weaker side, but saw themselves making a desperate last stand against a immensely powerful global Jewish conspiracy that mysteriously used both capitalism and communism as weapons against the Volk. The Jews stuffed into the death camps did not see themselves as deposed masters in this way, but that is honestly how the stuffers saw them. Similarly, it must be hard for an American woman of colour to perceive her white-male persecutor as an endangered species, but honestly, that is how he does – doubly – think of himself.

The main difference between the aggrieved ethno-nationalism of Musil’s Kakania and ourselves is that the competitively more-victimised-than-thou mentality led to two global interstate wars, whereas ours is more likely to lead to civil war, perhaps a global civil war. Which in some ways is what the last one was. So maybe there won’t be so much difference after all.

(Fiddle date-stamp to January 1, 2012)

The Vauxhall Gardens Omertà

I read somewhere that Vauxhall Gardens was the premier site for pick-ups and commercial sex in 18th-century England. The chief point of these “Pleasure Gardens” was not the botany, not the food, not even the music, but the opportunity for a quick fuck in the shrubbery. And yet I would have been hard put to it to name my source – until I was fortunate enough to read the complete memoirs of Giacomo Casanova. Who ought to know.

He does not, however, describe it as an in-your-face meat market in precisely the same style as the contemporary Palais-Royal in Paris. My impression is rather of that class of women who, because they extract a somewhat higher price than their despised sisters, would deny being prostitutes at all. For on the subject of getting paid, the women of the Vauxhall Gardens told Casanova, “We never talk about such things”. Which is clearly an admission that they were there to provide play-for-pay, but that the precise parameters were never discussed openly.

What we are dealing with is, therefore, a cartel but a coded cartel. In which the principles of exchange are entirely tacit. I leave it to the reader to decide how much of the rest of life follows the same rules of obfuscation. In conjunction with other things we know, what the Vauxhall Gardens ladies said to the Venetian visitor suggests that a feminine indignation about prostitution driven primarily by the breach of a code of silence.

(Fiddle date-stamp to February 7, 2012)

Posted on September 26, 2019 at 18:15 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: THE NAME OF THE GAME, The Matrix Of Exchange

It Takes Two To Giggle

I have previously written about the competitive roaring and squealing that is so often confused with a sense of humour. Here the object of the exercise is not to achieve any wry distancing from the principal business of life on earth, namely ruthless self-aggrandisement, but rather to practice that very self-aggrandisement – in the form of taking up as much auditory space as possible.

Sitting at my Starbucks bench, I note how, when Young Female 2 arrives where Young Female 1 is already seated, they both giggle, apparently uncontrollably. It occurs to me to wonder whether anything is at all funny and if not, why giggling should constitute the primary greeting response. Is it some transposition from mere pleasure, a random signal of gratification? No doubt the arguable male equivalent, back-slapping and arm-punching, which looks like aggression but is not really, seems just as bizarre to the ladies. Perhaps I can see the inherent weirdness of both ritualised behaviours only because I am not a member of any social tribe and never have been.

A variant I found rather sinister was when a mixed group was laughing uproariously over what sounded like nothing at all. A woman who had herself remained totally silent left, whereupon the men started discussing serious subjects. In fact they did what in the popular narrative men never do, namely talked about feelings. I could make no sense of this except in terms of incentivisation; in a manner unknown to me on my bench, the silent female had somehow prevented proper conversation.

Another approach is to reflect that laughter can be a sign of nervousness or embarrassment, and how among the Japanese this may hold true of both sexes. What, in my example, did Young Females 1 and 2 have to be nervous about? I naturally have no idea. Perhaps there was some real issue, about which they were obviously not going to tell a stranger at the next table. At the time, however, I was put in mind of the way people, particularly subalterns, nervously curry favour and pre-empt attack. This is why women smile at men whom they fear or dislike, which confuses the hell out of us and so may actually make their situation worse.

I was left, quite unprovably, with a sense of having witnessed two people who at some level found it necessary to apologise for existing. According to Calderón, so should we all, but once again, this is not humour.

(Fiddle date-stamp to August 29, 2011)

Posted on August 25, 2019 at 16:11 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: AGAINST NATURE, Against Nature, Miscellaneous

The Duellist And The Seagull

Reading the complete memoirs of Giacomo Casanova the other day, I was struck by the extreme amour-propre of those days; that is, the way they responded to what we would now call dissing. Casanova may be best known to us as a libertine, seducer, bon-vivant and con-artist, all of which he certainly was. But a physical coward he was not. In his unhappy old age, he confessed himself too much Nature’s slave to end his own misery, and yet in his prime he had cheerfully faced blade and bullet to avenge an insult.

It occurred to me to ask what our contemporary equivalent might be. The gangbanger, certainly, who would rather die in a shoot-out than go home with a sense of having been disrespected. As regards an exaggerated sense of self-esteem, however, it occurred to me that there is a more cowardly equivalent in the manager. Especially the so-called “seagull manager”, who flies in, squawks loudly, shits over everything, squawks some more and flies off again with the sense of a job well done.

I knew one of these once, a complete incompetent who never tired of repeating his mantra, “If you are a manager, you can manage anything”. In fact he could not manage his way out of a paper bag; which fitted very well with Dunning-Kruger Syndrome. People who knew him even better swore that he was not only stupid but extremely toxic. Perhaps what is actually taught in business schools is the golden rule, “If only you are abusive enough, you can get appointed to manage anything”.

For the point does not seem to be actually having any skill, but rather deeming yourself to be “a manager”. After all, competence in management is not something that can be proved, as all outcomes can be blamed on the business cycle or the incompetence of others. Not even when his staff resign within five minutes of their first meeting with him will it occur to the self-congratulatory manager to wonder about anything else. The amour-propre involved seems to be not too removed from that of the eighteenth-century gentleman by birth, who might not be good for anything but who nevertheless could not be disparaged, or else. It is only a pity that duelling is no longer lawful; as it is now, the parasites have all the rights and we have no remedy.

(Fiddle date-stamp to 11 April 2010)

Posted on July 16, 2019 at 18:10 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: AGAINST NATURE, Homo Homini Lupus

Return Of The Window Tax

In Les Misérables, read better late than never, I find a French excise on doors and windows that positively guaranteed that houses would be insalubrious. Funnily enough, I remember hearing about the English imposing a window tax as well. The governments probably justified these as a rough measure of overall prosperity, one that the taxman could assess from the outside. From that point of view the window-tax is begging to be reinvented in the coming age of privatisation, which is what the ancient evil tax-farming will now be called, as it offers far lower costs of collection and thereby a competitive tender. So make sure you have no windows on your hovel, and you might actually to get to keep something.

The only alternative rationale that I can think of is that the insalubriousness was actually the object of the whole exercise. Why might that be? Why, with the aid of zero-sum thinking. You cannot be rich unless there is someone to be poor; and if you cannot on a rising tide lift all ships then you can at least sink some. Their misery will then be to you an absolute good.