The Political Anthropology of the Divine Beast (Part III)

Part Three of the Political Anthropology. (3 of 5)

5. MEN AS THEY ARE

Men who first find human fellowship experience epiphany. They are not so profoundly overawed by this because human beings are united, transcendentally or otherwise, by some over-arching concept ‘Man’, but rather precisely for the opposite reason, because they are not so united. Granted, he is not born alone, as Rousseau’s man strangely is. Man before genuine political organization is still social, still born of a mother, nor is his conception in any way immaculate in the sense of virginity, but only in the sense of sinlessness.

*[This is why the pre-modern Christians speak of the “statu innocentiæ”. The first men were born without sin, because they were born without the concept. So, why make use of their work, when it hinges upon the doctrine of sin? For in them we see the first and proudest European Christianity, which is at first only paganism turned on its head and little else modified ( — to wit, many gods become one God, the flesh and the spirit are pried apart, men are sinful, etc. — ), and so we make use of their completed labours, by putting them aright again, without undoing them altogether.]

We must take a view of men which is, at the very least, a place-holder for our political anthropology. There must be a number of ‘regulative hypotheses’ (to paraphrase Nietzsche) or ‘philosophical fictions’ (to use Hume’s expression instead), i.e. provisional arguments to serve as a heuristic for sketching out the behaviour of men, both individually and collectively.

There are various things we can infer about men as they are. This is similar to how we infer things about the world. For example, we learn from astrophysicists and cosmologists that there is residual heat in the universe — and this has been used as circumstantial proof for the Big Bang theory. It is, in fact, the evidence which was championed as it gained widespread acceptance. Ernst Jünger makes a similar point in his essay ‘The Tree‘ (recently translated and posted on the Jünger blog): “The forest grows vigorously in biomass, returning more to the earth than it asks of it. Flourishing anew each year, it casts off its leaves and branches and ultimately its trunks too, entrusting them to the humus, in which the heat of mighty summers is stored. We still warm ourselves with the surpluses of forests whose riches no human eye ever saw.” This remarkable point returns, incidentally, to men. It applies both figuratively and literally. What we get, again, is the notion of a background heat, from a specific source (in this case, the forests of the earth), but also quite literally the background — and the very ground — of human existential continuation.

Where would we be without forests? Without fire? Without the skins we garbed ourselves in? Without the abundance of the earth? Without other men?

It does not matter that we seem not to need forests, fire, skins, the abundance of the earth or other men. All of these, to some degree or other, are needed for the way of life we enjoy. Supposing they grow more distant from view, it is not because we have progressed so far from needing them, but because they lay at the foundation of our complex, politically organized societies, much like the building and lighting of the common hearth within a city’s walls chronologically lay at the foundation of a Greek polis; their fittedness to our bare necessities lays dimly half-remembered because the providential supererogation of their divine superabundance has allowed us, through varying economic distributions and stratified political organization, to build up our societies — in short, precisely because they are so necessary.

Where would we be without bloodshed?

[Jefferson let more slip than he ever intended, if he truly wrote that the tree of liberty must be watered from time to time with blood. Nietzsche understands that our whole ‘moral world order’ as it were, is a gigantic piece of hypocrisy. Our entire construction of a flawed and slavish morality leads not to less cruelty, but to more, because it is morbidly self-mortifying and destroys others ‘for their own good’, truly a richly portentous monstrum of monstrosities to come; so “the moral conceptual world of ‘guilt’, ‘conscience’, ‘duty’, ‘sacred duty’ originates – its beginning, like the beginning of everything great on earth, has long been steeped in blood.” (II §6, Nietzsche, [trans. Smith, D.], On the Genealogy of Morals [1998], Oxford: OUP. p.46.)

The difference is that, in slave-morality, this becomes more intense and more genuinely, harmfully destructive in proportion to how stringently it is denied by the moralists. However, in the former moralities which may be comprehended under the appellation of master-morality, this is not the case. In these moralities — which are manly and masterly in their conception and sentiments —  blood, sweet, toil and tears are accepted and embraced; sacrifices of every kind are permitted, in the proper place at the proper time, under the proper circumstances.

Slave moralities, modern-day ideologies and utopian dreams are enormous lies. They can simply not be honest on this point, because they are incapable of living up to the genuine unity of life — which is not at all kumbaya, but rather a molten, tectonic shifting, a sacred and structured hiearchy utterly inextricable from the celebration and augmentation of thriving life — which that demands that offerings of all kinds be given up as the very precondition for social order. How many scores of bones lay broken on the field all around us, waiting to be ground underfoot by the ceaseless (and perhaps ultimately aimless) march of History through the world?   How much blood nourishes the roots of the Tree of Life?

In the great edifices of human civilizations, there are always bodies in the foundations. Blood always nourishes these roots, because many must bleed so that some may be free. Many must toil so that culture can even exist. The maintenance or even intensification of a rigid class/caste structure leads to what Nietzsche calls “higher culture”. Countless masses must produce, so that a tiny handful of truly great men can create.]

We must understand the lesson of the Sceptics, that men (like any other natural phenomena) cannot be considered in isolation — that is, rationalistically — separate from their situations. Nevertheless, just as we can discover background radiation throughout the whole universe, in different parts at different times, which lead our scientists to believe in a Big Bang, we can learn things about men from what we know of their similar natures in different situations. So, where do we go from here? Well, we create a cosmology of man, showing his place in his world as a whole! Let it be termed a political cosmology, to go neatly with our political theology and, of course, our political anthropology. Moreover, it will be yet another direction from which to approach this political anthropology.

To this end, we shall take a number of varying and widely contrasted theses, which nevertheless form a complex (and much more life-like) picture of a man. A living being, after all, exists multidimensionally; he has more than one aspect.

(Thesis 1)
Man is a singular creature. It is his mortality which makes him so — even as it makes him live with others, to give meaning to his life. He is being-toward-death, as Heidegger says, and none can die in his place. The greater the danger, the greater the awareness of mortality and its profound riddle (albeit all must be aware, to some extent). Let us treat the singularity of what we call the strongest and proudest of men — the warrior. He is a singularity and is all too aware of the risk of physical destruction.

Since it is this ‘singular-ness’ (not singularity per se) that we are interested in at this point, rather than call the condition in which he exists a bellum omnium contra omnes, we will be better to call it a bellum unum contra omnes. He can stand by himself, in fighting all of nature, all hazards and animals, and even all other men. He makes his war (or what passes for war) by his own choice. He very consciously could die by himself, which shapes how he lives. Encounters with other men mean conflict, even if they do not have to. It is his choice to be the lone frontiersman, the outlaw or the lord — as is a permanently dangerous situation his choice.

This is the sort of man Robert E. Howard envisioned, fully formed in his mind’s eye, when in The Phoenix on the Sword, he wrote the famous lines: “Hither came Conan the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jewelled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet.” This calm, lean, pantherish (anti-)hero captures the very physical quintessence of these men almost perfectly.

There are countless examples throughout the Western tradition — and it is perhaps a good omen that they are still, half-unconsciously, drawn upon even today.

A more contemporary example, the idiosyncratically written song ‘Amaranth‘, by Nightwish, opens with these lines:

Baptised with a perfect name
The doubting one by heart
Alone without himself

His is a grim joviality which is so rigidly natural as to appear to us perverse. What can we say of his moods? He is implacable at his worst, indomitable at his best, and inscrutable at all times.

This man, as we find him, is a fearsome skirmisher. His hand, like Ishmael’s, is against all men, as theirs are against him. He shelters himself from them when he sleeps; when he eats, it is apart from them and perhaps at their expense. They huddle together, for warmth, while he skins wild beasts for his adornment and lean comfort. Once the stag is dead, its antlers become his weapons, too. Soon, he will fashion weapons inspired by wildest nature or have others in his power (women, children or such like) do so.

It is natural for him to dictate in this way, for “each one is the law for his own wives and children, and cares nothing about the others”. (The Odyssey of Homer, trans. Richmond Lattimer, London: Harper-Perennial, p.140) The power of the lawgiver, the sovereign and the supreme justice must be derived from his arbitrary imposition — this and nothing else must be its basis. So, a man must make this imposition and a woman must surrender herself to it. Notably, in Roman law, the closest corresponding concept of marital and sexual consent was affectio maritalis (literally the marital feeling or inclination), a man’s and woman’s consideration of one another and themselves as husband and wife respectively. The woman must consider herself “swept off her feet”, as it were.

Nevertheless, this is merely the refinement of a more primitive, primal practice. We see this with the sort of man in question.

A woman becomes his and solely his when he carries her off and takes her in hand, to behold her for himself. Either that or she is given to him by her father or a (male) relative who has precedence and power over her. Thus the Greek marriage ceremony was a giving-away. The woman’s consent, in such times, was the effect of their union, not the cause. In this second case, the man and woman are bound in the home and will be bound by blood, with the wife’s bearing and rearing of his children, whereas the man and his father-in-law are bound by their tacit agreement and their families brought closer together. The laurels of amity thus grow around strength.

Now, she will be safe, but protection and possession are, in this case and at this point, indistinguishable. Man protects what is his, protects what he adores, protects that which becomes part of him. He is not the weak little individualist, bound only to the epidermal limits. The man and his young family grow together in the sweet symbiosis of inequality. Family is a condition of intimate dependence (thus we see the etymological root of ‘family’, in ‘famulia’, and the whole development of the family concept, bundled neatly together). Even so, he has a dignity which can only be maintained in self-reliance.

This is why he makes the law in the home. Even as it is the woman who both obeys and enacts it, through her enforcement, his domicile is in his dominion, in which he is supreme. It is woman who rules the hearth, but she does so in her relation to her man, she serves at his pleasure, only the further to honour his rulership of the household.

This, however, is the case of a few men, but not all. We can see this in how this man sets himself apart from others.

(Thesis 2)
Others might find peace in the so-called ‘state of nature’, but it is a cowardly contentment, it is a demeaning condition of timidity. However, men of the most frighteningly ferocious temperaments exist and must find community with their own or be checked by their fellows — sometimes both. The timid, who like to live in prideless peace, may vainly try to avoid such beings, but this does not at all mean they will not be followed by his depredations. So, they will be protected by one pugnacious protector, against the pugnacity of another — or they may be destroyed, in absence of such protection. There is, at a stretch, a third option: that they could even eke out an existence quite undisturbed and plod aimlessly through life so long as their natures permitted this, as Nietzsche suggests, but it does not. Supposing it did, then in any case, no matter how close they live together, they can never become or join a people. Without a protector and without leaving their places of comfort to awaken and acknowledge that they are surrounded by dangers, they will never become a political community. They will never know walls to shelter them or sanctuaries to worship their own gods or marketplaces, let alone free ones. These are risks such men cannot stomach. They are a poor parody of nomadic warriors: these pitiful creatures are nomadic cowards.

Nietzsche’s point is, of course, quite different (but clearly related): namely, that men are not like this, for survival is not their most fundamental instinct. How many such communities exist — and, indeed, how many fewer last, if they exist in the first place? They will kill for nothing and die for nothing — and so they will be nothing.

So, it is possible that men could be peaceful, but it would be an absurd and un-noteworthy existence, not life. There is no danger Here we have the demonstration that men do not live merely to survive, but to thrive — and, if necessary, sacrifice blood, toil and life itself for this purpose. It is not a will to life which drives them, but a will to power.

Perhaps there is an effeminate ‘state of innocence’, in which men rather prosper, without struggle, without contest. It is possible that, given the arrangements among men, and their natural fearfulness, they might somehow avoid dangers. They might even avoid the animals, so far as that is possible. Fire, the Promethean gift to men, may have been a way of warding them off. One could grant that men might be content in the enjoyment, so far as it goes, of such a state.

In any case, we can for the sake of fascination at least entertain Aquinas’ musing in the Summa, that “homines in statu innocentiæ non indigebant animalibus ad necessitatem corporalem, neque ad tegumentum, quia nudi erant, et non erubescebant, nullo instante inordinatæ concupiscentiæ motu; neque ad cibum, quia lignis Paradisi vescebantur; neque ad vehiculum, propter corporis robur. Indigebant tamen eis ad experimentalem cognitionem sumendam de naturis eorum. Quod significatum est per hoc, quod Deus ad eum animalia adduxit, ut eis nomina imponeret, quæ eorum naturas designant”.

[Translation: “Men in the state of innocence would have no need of animals for his person: for they did not need their hides for clothing, as these men went naked without shame, since they had no inordinate impulses to concupiscence; nor for food, since they ate of the trees of Paradise; nor for carriage, since he was strong enough for this himself. Man needed, however, to acquire an understanding of their natures. This is signified by the fact, that God to him led the animals, so as for him to give them their names, which designate their natures.”]

In the last instance, the point in considering this counter-position is immanent critique. Let us consider, that is to say, how this counter-position ramifies — and how, dialectically as it were, this counter-position is changed and absorbed by our general zoological understanding of Man. So it goes: the earth was very likely a great boon, like a planetary nature preserve which needed no efforts for preservation! It is, then, most probably accurate that men had things much easier in this condition — but they did not make things easier; they do not want things easier.

This is in no man’s nature; in any case, nothing could be further from the nature of the stronger specimens.

Remarkably, Xunzi makes the contrary assertion that this prosperity and ease of living exists where men form hierarchical societies, in accordance with Heaven, and are thus able to subdue other creatures. “Fire and water possess energy but are without life. Grass and trees have life but no intelligence. Birds and beasts have intelligence but no sense of duty. Man possesses energy, life, intelligence, and, in addition, a sense of duty. Therefore he is the noblest being on earth.” (Xunzi, Basic Writings, trans. Burton Watson [2003], p.47) Notice that Xunzi does not give the credit for man’s greatness to his intelligence, but rather to his social instinct and his ability to form stable, stratified societies — or ‘sense of duty’. “He is not as strong as the ox, nor as swift as the horse, and yet he makes the ox and the horse work for him. Why? Because he is able to organize himself in society and they are not. Why is he able to organize himself in society? Because he sets up hierarchical divisions. And how is he able to set up hierarchical divisions? Because he has a sense of duty. If he employs this sense of duty to set up hierarchical divisions, then there will be harmony. Where there is harmony there will be unity; where there is unity there will be strength; and where there is strength there will be the power to conquer all things. Thus men can well in security in their houses and halls. The reason that men are able to harmonize their actions with the order of the seasons, utilize all things, and bring universal profit to the world is simply this: they have established hierarchical divisions and possess a sense of duty.” (Ibid., pp.47—48.) Inequality, order and prosperity are inseparable.

Why is it important to organize in this way?

“Men, once born, must organize themselvesi nto a society. But if they form a society without hierarchical divisions, there will be quarreling. Where there is quarreling, there will be chaos; where there is chaos, there will be fragmentation; where there is fragmentation, men will find themselves too weak to conquer other beings. Thus they will be unable to dwell in security in their houses and halls. This is why I say that ritual principles must not be neglected even for a moment. He who can follow them in serving his parents is called filial; he who can follow them in serving his elder brothers is called brotherly. He who can follow them in serving his superiors is called obedient; he who can follow them in employing his inferiors is called a ruler.” (Ibid., p.48.)

So, Xunzi ties together traditions, rituals, inequality, order and feudal relationships between all men. What is it, exactly, that men enjoy, once they organize in a society with hierarchical divisions?

Xunzi lays these out with a beautiful description of ancient China’s wealth in natural resources:

“In the far north there are fast horses and howling dogs; China acquires and breeds them and puts them to work. In the far south there are feathers, tusks, hides, pure copper, and cinnabar; China acquires them and uses them in its manufactures. In the far east there are plants with purple dye, coarse hemp, fish, and salt; China acquires them for its food and clothing. In the far west there are skins and colored yaks’ tails; China acquires them for its needs. Thus the people living in lake regions have plenty of lumber and those living in the mountains have plenty of fish. The farmers do not have to carve or chisel, to fire or forge, and yet they have all the tools and utensils they need; the artisans and merchants do not have to work the fields, and yet they have plenty of vegetables and grain. The tiger and the leopard are fierce beasts, but the gentleman strips off their hides for his personal use. Thus, wherever the sky stretches and the earth extends, there is nothing beautiful left unfound, nothing useful left unused. Such goods serve above to adorn worthy and good men, and below to nourish the common people and bring them security and happiness. This is what is called a state of godlike order.” (Ibid., pp.45—64.)

Men only enjoy ease when it goes perforce hand-in-hand with dominance and exploitation.

A man will perhaps, in a situation of plenty, with a group to call his own and a vast array of possessions, enjoy a certain ease of living, due to the protection of his property — but the apparatus of protection, with all its historically developed mechanisms, is coercive. It is occasioned precisely by the precariousness of possessions which prevails in the quarrels and clamour of chaos. Moreover, his leisure, his ease of living depends upon the ruthless and guiltless exploitation of others* and not at all upon a peaceful disposition.

*[Notice that the bourgeoisie attempt to justify such exploitation, because they do not really believe in it and must expiate their guilt.]

Regardless, no man begins with brotherly love in a powerless and equal condition. We can comment, if nothing else, that brotherly love, derives from the specific form and content of a relationship between brothers. Note, though, that the relation between brothers inherently requires a specific relation and also that non-brother relations exist. In other words, for brothers to be possible, there must exist those who are not brothers. We may, in a poetic sense, stretch this meaning to include comrades-in-arms. However, we may not so extend it that there are no longer men we do not call brothers — that is to say, of course, that we may not extend this universally. A brotherhood of humanity is therefore impossible — or worse, it implies (as detailed above) that some (e.g. the counter-revolutionary classes!) are excluded from this brotherhood, in order to be the target of an absolute and eternally unrelenting enmity, until they are simply wiped out.

We find this not simply in the relations between concepts, but in the affirmation of practical experience. We find comrades only in great struggles, on the march to battles and war, where we face a common enemy. This is where the strongest of friendships, camaraderie and brotherly oaths are found.

(Thesis 3)
The class of men who rule and fight differ from the rest somehow — and we have just reaffirmed this principle.

So, we are once again brothers, under the gods of our race; our gateway is marked clearly on either side — like the great arcaded entrance-way to the Doge’s Palace in Venice — by two gods, Mars and Neptune, whose dominions seem distinct. The former, the war-god, is he who overturns a vat of fire onto the land; the latter is god of tempests and of the deep. For as surely as warriors drill and march and feast with Mars, the greatest of them surely dwell in the House of Neptune, enduring the long tides and plumbing the depths of themselves and the world. They sup and discourse with the great Lord of the Oceans. It is only from the flux of the seas that they learn that things shift from one condition to another, but they do so constantly — and so Neptune teaches them the paradoxical principle of impermanent permanance or permanent imperanance. The only way to overcome the antinomic contradiction, between the metaphysical extreme of Permanence and the other of Impermanence, an antinomy well known to the Buddhist philosophers, is with a third position: Continuity. Great pantheons of elemental energies and forces preside over the divine-bestial fury which binds us in clans, fiefs and nations: the elemental divinities of war and thunder; fire and the forge; the oceans and the underworld.

What is most ungodly in men comes from the gods.

It does not matter where we find him: Man sooner or later reveals himself, red in tooth and claw: whether feral and free; barbarous and brutal; or, civilized and sybaritic. Everywhere, at every stage of refinement, one finds the specimen that is still primal and proud. Still, even now, he is self-reliant. All that is conducive to his continuation, he arrogates to himself; all that he wants, he acquires. He takes exactly what he needs, like Stirner’s egoist. All things are nothing to him! Nothing but what he makes of them!  Himself he adduces to the innermost meaning of life. He is the most dreadful son of the divinities, the ungodly beast who reaches up and snatches the golden bough, to fashion for himself a godly weapon and symbol.

Why is his gaze so far-seeing? Why does his eye glint with something we have never seen before?

The world he sees is different, because it is a different man seeing it, through different eyes. He welcomes the world into a different heart. It can even be said that his phenomenological perceptions are completely different from the rest of herd-like ‘humanity’ and are exclusive to his kind: his awareness begins with himself, his happiness, desires, drives and his symbolic meaning to himself, which is central, radical, immediate and first in order. To himself, he is ontologically primary; all else, secondary — and a distant second at that. Since there is only so much variety in the biology of men, we may say that this self-experience is a recursive phenomenon (or suite of phenomena). It is, for once, a clean-cut either/or proposition, a binary opposition: either a man is strong and self-reliant or he is not. Following on from this, he must be conscious of his strength, if nothing else, and this consciousness shapes his perceptions, especially his self-perceptions. Conversely, the weak and dependant perceive themselves only upon a distant and indirect reflection, as secondary, as derivative, as an after-effect, as merely an object in relation to a more powerful being. It is the strong who become their masters, because it suits both.

The master gives meaning; the slave must be given meaning.

It is the master that must be venerated.

The man of this kind, since he is strongest, does not need to change. Naturally, therefore, he is the most unselfconsciously conservative of beings. He is the most genuine remembrance of our origins. In him, we have a reminder not only of our own ontogeny, but of the very ontogeny of the political community. These are, quite simply, the men who prevail.

There must be a focal point for lesser men — and it is he. Once they have someone to look up to, they honour in him “the fruit of long ages” (Nietzsche, The Gay Science§40, p.57), as Nietzsche says, and obey happily.  He is their lord and they follow him. When more men such as him appear, with their own dependants and bonded inferiors, we have the whole array of noble and hierarchical phenomena, from the Greek πόλεις (‘poleis’ or cities) with their χῶραι (‘chorai’ or territories) — e.g. Athens with Attica — and the military-aristocratic republics, to the feudal monarchies and the whole feudal-tenurial order of Europe in the Middle Ages.

Accordingly, the war of all against all will only end with the man — and all such superior men — who, alone, combats and destroys all comers.

(Thesis 4)
Man is a social creature. Men can live alone, but they do not. This does not suit man’s natural strengths. (This is to say nothing of his later strengths, whether infrastructural, technological or rational, since these come later.) The strongest man at the dawn of his kind is a warrior; if he lives close to his fellows, albeit solitary and self-reliant, he might be enticed to protect them. This engages both his natural talent and lust for war, as well as his predisposition towards dominance.

Despite his proud self-reliance, the enjoyment of his solitude and the mortal danger posed by other men (as he perceives them), he is even at the beginning of his species social, as thinkers from, say, Aristotle or Xunzi to David Hume have recognized. Men are at their best when they find kinship with their fellows.

The social nature of men is often compared with the perfect social union of insect colonies. The sociobiological term for this form of organization is “eusocial”. It is characterized by a hive mentality, perfect coordination, a complete loss of individuality (cf. Bernard Mandeville’s The Fables of the Bees).

Marx compared the social organization of insects with that of men, when he observed that though bees may build a hive more perfect than any structure built by men, yet the architect is superior to the bee, for he can conceive of the thing before it is built. In other words, men are set above by the faculty of imagination. (Notably, this same faculty is the one Hume regarded as most important for human thought.) This divine gift, the human brain, is the same organ which Schmitt believes makes us capable of distinctively political organization in the face of our beastly nature, despite also being the source of our fame futura famelicus, which only makes us more monstrously bestial.

(This is what Confucius addresses when he says that men seek to feed the eyes, when they should be content to feed the stomach.)

However, that which makes men behave in such a destructive, self-seeking, “asocial” way, is the same thing which allows him to overcome these difficulties: the brain. His destructiveness makes his compliance with a strict and severe social order all the more important and all the more apparent to the operations of a healthy intellect. He is able, unlike the insects, to achieve a form of social organization (in his case, political organization) without sacrificing personality or gender differences. This is also precisely what allows women to dwell happily in the power of men and leads to the “godlike order” of the happy household.

The most apparent question to modern thinking is simply this: Why would demons want to be angels? Why would men — selfish, acquisitive, wrathful, covetous beasts — wish to be divine? It is the question which is wrong, because it already presupposes its own answers to the issues we have raised. Needless to say, these answers are utterly wrong. Why? Again, it is more simple than we might expect: we seize the sacred, we are divine, precisely because we are the most terrible of all beasts on the face of the earth.

Xunzi says that men pursue the good, precisely because their “original nature” is evil. “Now is it the nature of man that when he is hungry he will desire satisfaction, when he is cold he will desire warmth, and when he is weary he will desire rest. […] Every man who desires to do good does so precisely because his nature is evil. A man whose accomplishments are meagre longs for greatness; an ugly man longs for beauty; a man in cramped quarters longs for spaciousness; a poor man longs for wealth; a humble man longs for eminence. Whatever a man lacks in himself he will seek outside.” (Basic Writings, pp.163—166) This is why men must consciously and dutifully obey sagely advice and ritual principles, according to Xunzi — and why a rigidly structured society must be inaugurated and maintained.

Somehow, somewhere and at some point, all scattered groupings of men realize this and come together, eventually arrange themselves in communities. It is a mysterious mixture of conflict and cooperation which ultimately results in lordship, hierarchy and established inequalities. These are enshrined in convention, customs, habits, rituals and traditions, in conformity with the instincts — and a stable political community ensues.

It is, in short, the beginning of the divine beast’s political life.

About S. J. Irving

S. J. Irving is a writer from Scotland. He is also the editor-in-chief of The Devil's Review.