In my last post, I awkwardly name-dropped a book to admit I hadn’t read it — namely Robert McDonald’s Works Like a Charm: Incentive Rhetoric and the Economization of Everyday Life, available wherever fine books are sold. Since then I have in fact read it and want to discuss some connections with my notion of a Trumpian “shove” as the successor to the neoliberal “nudge.” What follows is not a full account of the book — which, along with being a great critique of “nudge” rhetoric, also turns out to be an accessible primer on Lacan (with depressingly relevant examples) — but a sampling of some key concepts that I find especially applicable to Trump’s heretical neoliberalism.

McDonald’s Lacanian approach allows him to see some internal dynamics of the nudge that otherwise would not be as evident. (I will spare you the Lacan and give you the pay-off.) First, he notes that nudges never live up to their promise of seamless unconscious manipulation of behavior. Instead, they always announce themselves more or less clearly, spurring the subject to begin questioning what the nudger wants from them — and possibly rebelling against the intended outcome simply out of annoyance at the attempted manipulation. For this reason, nudges generally don’t work, and presumably the nudgers know they don’t work. Hence McDonald concludes that nudges are not actually directed at the ostensible nudgees, but are messages sent to some presumed third party. For example, the attempts to “incentivize” a return to work post-covid by removing unemployment benefits had not apparent impact on employment — but they were a powerful message that everyone should get back to work and no longer expect any mollycoddling (my term, not McDonald’s). Finally, the nudge paradigm as a whole sends a broader message of despair, signalling clearly that any deliberate collective project is impossible. This opens up a performative contradiction, because on the one hand, only the market can be trusted to deliver any social benefit, but on the other hand, the market is apparently not achieving that on its own and needs tinkering by expert state actors.

Applying these to Trump’s “shoves” — his attempts to use economic inducements to blackmail people into his desired behavior — I think we get further evidence that Trump is a heretical mutation of the neoliberal project. First of all, like a classic nudge, Trump’s “shoves” generate a lot of questions as to what he really wants, but in contrast to the neoliberal apparatchik, Trump’s desire is fundamentally unknowable — apparently even to himself. Hence investors and political commentators all assumed, up to the weekend before they were set to take effect, that Trump would call off his harsh tariffs against Canada and Mexico. And at the last minute he did, at least temporarily, after securing concessions that most observers agree were already happening (and, bizarrely, conceding to Claudia Sheinbaum’s demand that he take more action to stop the flow of guns into Mexico). Will he find another excuse to kick the can down the road in early March? Presumably, but who knows?

What is at stake here is more than simple incoherence or inconsistency — and we are certainly not dealing with some game of 11-dimensional chess where Trump is skillfully deploying Nixon’s “madman strategy.” Where the nudger ostensibly sought to influence the behavior of the nudgee for the sake of some particular end, Trump’s shoves seem to be nothing but the assertion of dominance and control for its own sake. And we can see that the same ambition was present in the original nudge paradigm, which promised a form of seamless social control without political conflict. Surely what made nudging so appealing to people like Barack Obama was not the series of piecemeal social gains they could deliver (increasing uptake of 401(k)’s by 6%!) but the very idea that “smart” policymakers could gently guide society from behind the scenes without indulging in anything so vulgar as political contestation.

In practice, many subjects were offended by the implied blackmail of the nudge — and in protest, they have helped to elect someone who took away the implication but kept the blackmail. But, importantly, they are no longer the people being nudged. Rather, the deep state wreckers and DEI elites and, above all, foreigners are finally getting a taste of their own medicine. This is why Trump and company have targetted arguably the most sympathetic and beneficial use of government money (USAID) for absolute elimination and why they began their tariff crusade by threatening to blow up relations with our closest neighbors — to send the message that they will be swayed by no moral claim, especially not a claim of loyalty. All that matters is the brute fact of economic competition, which Trump is attempting to rig so that America wins every time (instead of merely most of the time). Any other concern or priority is not merely a distraction from the important task of “winning” every economic statistic, but an active deception and a ploy.

And that brings us to the performative contradiction of Trump’s agenda. If the classic nudgers were testifying to the failure of the state to organize collective life, Trumpian shoves presuppose the failure of the economy itself — and on a global scale. In his very desperation to gain the approval embedded in the economic statistics he has chosen to target (coming out “ahead” in all trade balances), Trump implicitly invalidates all previous economic outcomes as illegitimate, tainted as they are by wokeness and meddling foreigners. And his attempt to assert American domination presupposes that America has been almost comically weak for basically the entire postwar era, allowing even Canadians to manipulate them into unfavorable trade deals.

This disconnection from reality is what makes Trump so scary, but it is also what makes him weak. Indeed, on his own terms, Trump cannot possibly succeed, because he has deprived himself of any standard of judgment other than his own irritable whim — which will never be satisfied and which, ironically, makes him extremely vulnerable to people who manipulate him by setting up incentives and fooling him into thinking their preferred outcome is his own choice.

Though I haven’t written much on neoliberalism lately, I still dip into the literature now and again. The next book in my queue, Robert McDonald’s Works Like a Charm: Incentive Rhetoric and the Economization of Everyday Life, has put me in mind of the classic neoliberal notion of the “nudge” and how it might help us think through the vexed question of Trump’s relation to neoliberalism. (This post does not directly reflect McDonald’s specific view, though, because I am not planning to start it until my train ride tomorrow — but in the true spirit of blogging, I decided to write at the moment I had the time, the idea, and the motivation rather than waiting.)

In the “Trump chapter” of Neoliberalism’s Demons, I claim that Trump is a heretical neoliberal in the proper theological sense — someone who radicalizes the premises of neoliberalism in order to purify it. Trump doubtless violates many specific neoliberal policy preferences (e.g., free trade, trust in abstract expertise and competence), but when it comes to what I identify as the moral core of neoliberalism, he is a true believer. He really sees the world as a field of zero-sum competitions whose results don’t just sort people into winners and losers, but do so in a way that reveals their true worthiness as people. His critique of actual-existing neoliberalism is that the “wrong” people and countries are winning.

Hence Trump concludes that the system must be rigged against the “right” people and countries and sets about righting that supposed wrong to make sure that the “right” people and countries start winning again. Obviously his framework for determining the “right” people and countries is deeply racist and xenophobic, but I think it’s important to highlight that he’s taking a specifically neoliberal approach to racism and xenophobia — the damage that the racial and foreign Others are doing is economic and calls for a shift in economic policy. The economy is still in principle the site for legitimation of individuals and groups, but in his view it hasn’t been allowed to operate properly. Once he “fixes” it, white people will once again be in charge of everything (instead of merely most things) and America will once again dominate the world (instead of being merely the unipolar hegemon).

Trump is pursuing this agenda even more radically in his second term. What’s striking to me, however, is how thoroughly neoliberal his tools are. So far, everything is structured as a big, dumb “nudge.” To start with the least heretical policy: he doesn’t like the trade balance with other countries, and so he threatens them economically with tariffs. Traditional neoliberals would prefer that tariffs be kept at a minimum, but there is room for protective or punitive tariffs if they aren’t following the rules of the free market, as Trump believes other countries are not. More radical, though, is his attempt to weaponize economic tools to achieve seemingly unrelated policy goals, like using tariffs in his negotiations with Colombia over deportations (apparently unsuccessfully, or at least not as successfully as Trump believes) or his threats to impose punitive tariffs on Denmark if they do not cede Greenland to him. And on the domestic side, he doesn’t like anything “woke” or DEI, so he tries to take away all their money — most dramatically through the attempted freeze on federal grants and loans, but also with the more routine threats to withold federal funding from sanctuary cities, school districts that acknowledge trans people exist, and other supposed malefactors.

In both cases, Trump also holds in reserve the punitive arm of the state — refusing to rule out a military conquest of Greenland (surely a mighty feat that will live on in song and legend) or the deployment of troops in his deportation scheme. That, too, broadly fits with the neoliberal paradigm, which tends to delegitimate any direct role for the state other than the police and military. But it is fascinating that these hamfisted economic “nudges” are what he reaches for first and most often. From the classic neoliberal perspective, the actions are much too “in your face” and forceful, rather than the seamless, almost unconscious manipulation that “nudges” were supposed to achieve. Hence we could call them “shoves” rather than “nudges.” But both are still economic in nature, and thus in continuity with a worldview in which economic incentives are the only legible motivations.

More than that, Trump conceives of the policy priorities that are not directly economic from a common sense perspective as profoundly economic. They are part of his agenda to “fix” the economic order so it starts delivering the “correct” results again. And once we see that, even some of his crazier policy preferences start to make a perverse kind of sense. The best example here is his fantasy that tariffs can somehow replace the income tax as the primary funding source for the federal government. This goal is for all intents and purposes impossible to achieve and the pursuit of it would cause untold suffering and disruption. But what makes him think it must be possible is that it is morally necessary — it would be a form of reparations from the whole world, for all the economic damage they have done to America with the many unfair deals they have imposed upon us. The same logic worked on a smaller scale with the fantasy that Mexico would pay for the wall. By supposedly “sending” so many immigrants to steal American jobs, Mexico had done profound economic harm to America, so it’s only fair that they should foot the bill for the solution.

Trump’s mutation of neoliberalism is of course delusional and simplistic — but it is, in its own way, deeply coherent. In fact, it is too coherent, which leaves it with no room to process the unexpected or even the unknown. The fact that all the people who actually know anything objectively true at all are in on the anti-American DEI conspiracy is obviously a huge weakness, and it leaves those of us on the outside of the Trump bubble with very little leverage to persuade them to change course. Yet I cannot help but notice that the reciprocal shove of everyone in the country simultaneously shouting at them that, no, they can’t arbitrarily shut down the entire federal government because some of duly legislated programs might be too “woke” did prove effective. We can also expect reality itself to shove them back if they really do attempt to replace the income tax with tariffs, because they will very quickly realize that they don’t have any money to pay all the guys with the guns.

This is obviously very far from the ideal of deliberative democracy, but it makes sense that a neoliberal heretic would not be invested in an ideal to which the orthodox believers gave half-hearted lip service at best.

This year I had the unique opportunity to visit both Athens and Rome (on separate trips). I’ve therefore seen a ton of ruins. In most of my travels, I’ve found ruins and archaeology in general less interesting than well-preserved artworks in comfortable museums. This time it was more of a mixed bag — the Acropolis, for instance, was a little underwhelming, but it felt very meaningful to me to wander about in the Agora, imagining that this was the same ground Socrates trod.

My reaction to Roman ruins was more complex. Part of the reason that I had never visited Rome before, despite having ample opportunity, was that I have an antipathy to the Roman Empire, due to my intellectual formation in liberation-oriented theology circles. To me, they are history’s Bad Guys, and there is something pathological about the way they are fetishized again and again throughout Western history. What jumped out at me on this tour — especially in the day we spent at Pompeii, the preservation of which surely counts as one of the most horrifying yet amazing things ever to happen — was just how capable they were. The design of the city of Pompeii, for instance, seemed more functional and intelligent than that of 95% of US cities. (Here I count even the biggest cities — surely the Romans would have anticipated the problem of garbage piling up on the streets in New York City and designed the city with alleyways!) The fact that the routes of Roman roads are still travelled today, that aqueducts are still functional, that the international metropolis of Rome literally still uses the sewer dug by the Romans — it’s absolutely incredible.

One of My Esteemed Partner’s favorite sites was the Pantheon. On the ground level, it’s just a moderately cluttered and tacky church, but the ceiling is an unparalleled feat of engineering — a huge dome, with no internal infrastructure or supports. Contemporary investigators literally don’t know how they achieved it. And on this trip, a retrospectively obvious thing dawned on me: for most Western Europeans for a thousand years or more, that was how it was with essentially all Roman achievements.

Often modern people look down their nose at the so-called “dark ages” as an era when people were obsessed with the past, seemingly arbitrarily. But they were physically surrounded by infrastructure and buildings erected by the ancients that they couldn’t build if they wanted to. The engineering know-how, the access to resources, the sheer ability to organize and structure a labor process — it was all gone and there was seemingly no way to recapture it.

The situation reminded me of a common trope of contemporary dystopian sci-fi. In many of these stories, there is a kind of deposit of older technology that current-day people either rely on without fully understanding or else scavenge for parts — often with unanticipated consequences. The same thing happened with Roman technologies. The Colosseum, for instance, was obviously subject to wear and tear from the weather, as well as earthquakes, but a big part of why more and more sections of it kept collapsing was that people were simply pulling out the iron rods that held the columns together and using them for something else.

We could say the same for the intellectual achievements of the ancients. Medieval people didn’t rely on them simply because they were lazy or unimaginative. They lacked the intellectual infrastructure — not just the traditions of education, but often the physical documents themselves, which had to be copied afresh every generation or so. They assumed that Galen was smarter than any contemporary doctor not only because he was such a genius but because he was in a position to know much more than any current-day investigator. You can’t just rebuild that intellectual infrastructure through sheer force of will, certainly not as an individual. The most gifted person in medieval Europe simply could not get as far as a person in the Hellenistic era would have been able to get. Medieval Europeans thought the ancients were better because they were, and it took centuries for them to get to a place where they could seriously think of themselves as surpassing their achievements.

My big worry is that we are currently experiencing a process of decay that will leave future generations living among ruins. It might seem absurd in terms of contemporary ideology to say that we will soon be living off of older technologies, but even within a single lifetime we’ve collectively lost abilities — the ability to get to the moon safely, for instance — and there are still crucial systems that are running on “outdated” code (such as COBOL for bank mainframes, etc.). More prosaically, our roads, our other infrastructure, our housing stock are all cheaper and crappier than they were a generation ago. It is impossible to imagine contemporary buildings remaining functional a century from now, as so many institutional buildings from the turn of the 20th century are. In fact, many of them aren’t functional even when they’re built!

But my more urgent concern is the intellectual infrastructure. Academics of my generation look at people like Fredric Jameson and think of that kind of erudition as simply unachievable — much less earlier polymathic figures like Auerbach. I don’t think anyone the age of 50 would claim to know as much as Jameson did when he was 50. People just don’t do that anymore. And we are witnessing a further ratcheting down, at least in the US, as the humble art of reading an entire book is increasingly lost to the younger generation. Students are graduating from high school and college knowing less and less, and able to do less and less. What happens when they’re the ones teaching the younger generation?

This is not just “kids these days” scaremongering. It’s not about them as individuals, it’s about intellectual infrastructure. My strongest students now are every bit as smart and capable as my strongest students were when I first started teaching — in fact, I’d count some of the students I’ve taught in the last couple years as the finest I’ve ever encountered. But it’s much more binary, and more seriously, the students who lack those abilities and experiences most often don’t think of it as a problem. The students who can engage at a higher level appear to be anomalies, as though they are “born with it.” And if emulating their own stronger peers does not seem like a live possibility, what about emulating the professor, much less the people who are writing or editing or translating the books they’re reading?

Once in a discussion of Aristotle’s scientific writings, a student generously suggested that Aristotle did the best he could, because he couldn’t just look things up on Wikipedia like we can. I jumped in to say: Aristotle was Wikipedia to them! Just like you look it up on Wikipedia, they looked it up in Aristotle! My improvised retort was perhaps a little glib, but especially with the rise of generative AI, it does seem like we’re going to be in a situation where more and more people are going to be forced to rely on a deposit of knowledge from prior to 2019 — one that can be remixed and perhaps commented on, but not really expanded, because the skills and resources that it takes to expand it have somehow withered away.

Some have suggested that this shift is okay, because students are gaining other kinds of competencies we lack. To me, that seems like magical thinking — much like an ancient person assuming that if the Romans left, someone else would come along to build and maintain the roads. Things don’t happen simply because the space is left open for them. Maybe on the margins the new educational regime where text is radically decentered allows other competencies to grow more than they otherwise would, though some of the claimed competencies strike me as having dubious value (like posting TikTok videos). But there is no medium as information-dense or as able to capture complexity as text. People who cannot work with text simply cannot learn as much overall, and no amount of silver linings can undo the brute fact that less is less.

Mass literacy is a kind of infrastructure, and like all forms of infrastructure in our neoliberal and now potentially post-neoliberal world, it has been allowed to crumble. Without a rapid course correction that appears to be nowhere on the horizon, we are headed down a path where many future generations are going to be gleaning from our scraps, because they have been deprived of the resources and knowledge they need to match our achievements. Who knows how long people will look back on the golden age of the Twentieth Century like medieval Europeans looked back on Roman times? As history shows us, it can be a long time.

At the AAR this past weekend, Beatrice Marovich hosted a discussion about the decline of theology. Eventually, this evolved into a discussion of the decline of theology blogging, which was where many of us had cut our teeth intellectually — and, of course, where many of us met in the first place. I have been processing this conversation over the past few days and wanted to write down some thoughts for posterity, as someone who was (if I may boast of such an august position) pretty central to the enterprise of theology blogging at its height.

The first question to ask is why theology blogging took off in the mid to late 2000s. I believe that part of the reason is simply that theology as a field has many intrinsic properties that dispose it to a relatively open-ended, undisciplined discussion like the blogosphere. Above all, theology is inherently interdisciplinary, combining conceptual analysis, literary interpretation, historical and political reflection, cultural criticism — basically everything that any humanities discipline does is done in theology. People in theology were therefore ready to be part of the widest possible range of conversations in the humanities blogosphere, and people in my immediate intellectual circle were in fact closely engaged with bloggers in literary studies, philosophy, political theory, and many other fields.

There are other factors more particular to that historical moment. To put it bluntly, it was the Bush years. This meant that religion was an unavoidable topic. That was the heyday of political theology (in the “real,” Schmittian sense, not the broader sense of “politically engaged theology”) and of the Paul and philosophy trend — meaning that other intellectuals were ready to take theologians seriously as interlocutors in a way they might not have been in the 90s. By the same token, the fact that the evangelicals seemed to be so clearly in the ascendant in the 2000s produced many opportunities for alienation and disillusionment among intellectually curious and passionate young adults, in a way that would have been less potent when evangelicals could present themselves as a threatened subculture in the 90s.

From both directions, then, it was a perfect storm. And for a few years, things were very intellectually intense and exciting. But the vibe started to shift already as I was finishing up grad school. Part of it was a degree of attrition — people got jobs and got busy, or didn’t get jobs and dropped out. The impact of the Financial Crisis was especially damaging in the latter respect, and in cutting off the pipeline of younger participants. And of course there was social media, which cannibalized the entire internet. A big part of blogging culture were the comment threads, which fell virtually silent as people decided they preferred to comment on social media rather than on the post itself. For a time, I would exhort such people to comment on the blog if they wanted to join the conversation, and they inevitably dismissed the idea — or (since they tended to be left-leaning social media users) claimed that I was somehow violating the principles of social justice by suggesting that someone should comment in a space where they felt potentially “unsafe.” My reaction to such remarks, then and now, was: “Bullshit.” And in retrospect we can see how damaging it has been to shift all public discourse onto algorithmically-driven, profit-seeking platforms — which now even actively discourage the use of links that would take one outside the corporately-curated experience.

There were also factors specific to academic and particularly theology blogging. I am thinking here of the tendency toward institutionalization. Specialist journals, centers, and even departments started putting up blogs, which competed for everyone’s free writing time even as they squelched the free-wheeling fun of the blogosphere. Even among bloggers themselves, there were attempts to create quasi-institutions in the form of group blogs (like Long Sunday or The Valve in circles adjacent to me). Obviously this is somewhat hypocritical of me to criticize, since The Weblog and An und für sich were always group blogs. But they were also very clearly my personal blog, not an impersonal institution. Since I knew that few had the same writing stamina, my strategy was to provide the audience for whenever a friend or intellectual comrade wanted to put something out there. (In retrospect, I worry that my dominance might have dissuaded some potential contributors, but that’s a different problem than impersonal institutionality.)

In the theology blogging space, there were two attempted institutionalizations that I believe were particularly damaging. The first was Syndicate Theology, which stole the idea of doing book events on major new publications in theology (a stock in trade of The Weblog and An und für sich at their height) and sucked the life out of it by overproducing them. I know that saying “stole” may come across as loaded language, but I heard reliable reports that the creators of Syndicate had our practice specifically in mind when they developed the site. They did not consult with me in any way, nor did they solicit me to participate or offer to do an event on any of my books — all of which points to a guilty conscience in my opinion. I’m happy to burn that bridge publicly now, because of course virtually no one reads the site. Just like Borders, they put their independent competitors out of business before overextending themselves.

The other problematic institutionalization was the blog attached to the journal Political Theology. Reportedly they were forced to do the blog by the corporate owner of the journal, but even within that context they proceeded in an unethical way. In the early stages, they repeatedly attempted to “poach” writers from my blog — though, again, never me. Later on, they started apparently publishing anything anyone sent them, leading to some pretty embarrassing posts. Ultimately they put out something so egregious — accusing leftists of supporting jihad — that some friends and I, concerned with how the low quality of the blog and the offensiveness of that post might reflect on the field, requested that it be taken down. The editors were so stubbornly defensive that we were forced to publish an open letter on the issue. Along the way, they had offered that we could write a rebuttal piece for the blog or even take over some of the editorial duties — both insulting offers in context. I joked at the time that I would take over as their blog editor only if I would be allowed to shut it down altogether.

Obviously I still have some bitterness on the last two points, but as I said, this was a huge part of my life — and honestly, a lot of the institutionalization attempts seemed to involve stealing my ideas or poaching young academics I had supported, while cutting me out personally. Whatever may be the case with my own personal grudges, though, what is certain is that the atmosphere became much more cynical and careerist, which again militated against the fun, free-wheeling atmosphere of blogging. Blog posts became a chore, a CV line, a way of doing a favor that one might be able to cash in later — not a forum for community-building or intellectual exploration. If Twitter and Facebook were what killed off the blogosphere, maybe what made people less resistant to the change was that blogging had already become too much like LinkedIn.

In the best spirit of the classical age of blogging, I have been open and vulnerable to you, probably to an inappropriate and self-undermining degree. Please reciprocate in the same spirit by submitting any comments, questions, reminiscences, apologies, points of rebuttal, or cease-and-desist letters in the comment form below rather than grousing on social media about it.

[The following is a conference presentation delivered at the American Academy of Religion’s annual conference in San Diego, under the auspices of the Political Theology programming unit.]

The topic of this presentation began as a joke—an exceptionally niche joke, but a joke nonetheless. For many election cycles now, I have been declaring my intention to vote for the katechōn rather than the man of lawlessness. The reference, which I hope is clear to most attendees at a political theology session, is to the New Testament book of 2 Thessalonians. There, Paul—or, more likely, a later pseudonymous author trying to tone down or “correct” Paul’s apocalyptic teaching in 1 Thessalonians—writes that, contrary to the views that some people attribute to him, the apocalypse is not near at hand but has been indefinitely delayed. The passage reads as follows:

Let no one deceive you in any way; for that day [of Judgment] will not come unless the rebellion comes first and the lawless one is revealed, the one destined for destruction. He opposes and exalts himself above every so-called god or object of worship, so that he takes his seat in the temple of God, declaring himself to be God. Do you not remember that I told you these things when I was still with you? And you know what is now restraining him, so that he may be revealed when his time comes. For the mystery of lawlessness is already at work, but only until the one who now restrains it is removed. And then the lawless one will be revealed, whom the Lord Jesus will destroy with the breath of his mouth, annihilating him by the manifestation of his coming. (2 Thessalonians 2:3-8)

In contrast to 1 Thessalonians, which encouraged Paul’s readers to look forward to the apocalyptic fulfillment of the resurrection of the dead, the pseudonymous author focuses almost exclusively on the destruction that will be wrought by the “man of lawlessness” once the force or individual restraining him—namely, the katechōn—is removed. God is still going to win out in the end, but perhaps the restrainer is a better bet for the time being.

The figure of the restrainer has been the object of considerable reflection in the field of political theology. In Nomos of the Earth, Carl Schmitt argued that the katechōn was the central concept of Christian politics, allowing it to bracket its apocalyptic expectations and get to work creating political institutions in this present world, and many—including me, in The Prince of This World—have argued that the concept of the modern state is a secularized version of this figure who restrains the forces of apocalyptic destruction. Those forces of destruction are normally envisioned as coming from outside the institutional order, whether in the form of foreign enemies or domestic insurrectionaries. My joke about voting for the katechōn, presumably as a form of negative polarization against the man of lawlessness, expressed the sense that contemporary political rhetoric tends to figure the danger as coming from inside the house—that is to say, one of the two traditional parties of government is claimed to represent a mortal threat to the institutional order as such.

And now, of course, the joke is on me, because I have foolishly agreed to write a conference presentation analyzing what turned out to be a devastating election result. I do not intend to use this as a forum for punditry or prediction, genres that most of us have presumably consumed in excess in the last few weeks. Instead, I intend to carry out a political theological investigation of the apocalyptic rhetoric that has marked American political discourse in recent decades—and, it should be noted, almost equally on both sides. Just as Kamala Harris presented Donald Trump as a mortal danger to the American republic, so too did he paint her potential victory as the death of the nation. By pointing this out, I don’t mean to claim that both sides are equally justified in their use of this rhetoric, nor to discount the profound fears that Trump’s return to power have aroused—fears that I very much share. Even if this election turns out to be the time the rhetoric comes true, however, it is still worth reflecting on what it means that a nation split almost perfectly 50-50 between two institutional parties that are both more than 150 years old has developed such an apocalyptic political culture.

I will carry out my analysis in two steps. First, after briefly laying out what I understand to be the task of political theology, I will try to gain some critical distance from our desperate political situation by drawing on Giorgio Agamben’s reading of 2 Thessalonians in his short book The Mystery of Evil, where he claims that the passage is not an apocalyptic vision but instead reveals the deep structure of Western political institutions. With these concepts on the table, I will then plunge back into our domestic political hellscape, using the American situation to show the limits of Agamben’s reading of 2 Thessalonians.

I.

I should begin my analysis proper by clarifying what I mean by political theology. I do not use the term to designate a politically-engaged normative theology—for instance, one that would provide us with values and hopes that would help us to cope with our present political situation. Such work is necessary for faith communities, but I am not a member of any faith community and don’t presume to dictate their political action to them. Instead, I am a critic and scholar, and I view the task of political theology as that of exposing the theological roots of political concepts. As I define it in Neoliberalism’s Demons, “Political theology is a holistic, genealogical inquiry into the structures and sources of legitimacy in a particular historical moment. Political theology in this sense is political because it investigates institutions and practices of governance (whether they are defined as state-based or economic, public or private), and it is theological because it deals with questions of meaning and value (regardless of the form the answers take)” (128). Hence I believe that political theology is especially well suited to analyze the apocalyptic turn in American political rhetoric not solely or even primarily because that rhetoric is drawing on religious patterns of thought, but because it points toward a profound crisis of legitimacy. By the same token, Agamben’s Mystery of Evil is an especially fruitful point of reference for this analysis not only because it discusses 2 Thessalonians, but because it is fundamentally a book about crises of legitimacy—which Agamben believes to afflict all Western institutions.

The text itself consists of two short essays that heavily overlap. The first is a reflection on Benedict XVI’s abdication from the papal throne due to old age, which strikes me as uncannily timely given that the defining moment of this election cycle was Biden’s withdrawal from the race for the same stated reason. Agamben views Benedict’s decision as exemplary because it “forcefully calls attention to the distinction between two essential principles of our ethico-political tradition, of which our societies seem to have lost all awareness: legitimacy and legality” (2). By admitting that he was unable to carry out the duties of his office any longer and stepping aside in favor of a more vigorous leader, Benedict was, in Agamben’s reading, asserting the purely spiritual power of his office rather than asserting his legal prerogative to hold the position until death. More than restoring the legitimacy of the church in the public eye, however, for Agamben Benedict’s resignation serves to expose how much the church has given up all claim of legitimacy by descending into the machinations of money and politics.

To that extent, then, Benedict’s gesture was a messianic one in Agamben’s terms. This is one of the slipperiest concepts in his arsenal, not least because it seems to evoke hopes of political revolution or apocalyptic fulfillment. For Agamben, though, the messianic is ultimately a philosophical category rather than a political or theological one. The messianic is not concerned with any particular historical revelation and especially not with any arbitrary sequence of future events that is supposed to lead to the end of history. Instead, the messianic exposes the dynamics of history by providing a point of view from which the operation of the “political machine” that structures our lives is suspended so that we can actually understand it—and perhaps thereby transform it. Agamben’s reading of theological texts, especially the texts of Paul, is therefore a kind of secularization of their insights. In The Time That Remains, for instance, Agamben claims that the famous “already/not-yet” dynamic of messianic expectation is not tied to the postponed arrival of a particular messianic figure known as Jesus of Nazareth, but instead provides us tools to understand the experience of time through language. Hence it turns out that there is something fundamentally messianic about rhyming in poetry, for instance.

Agamben clears the space for this kind of reading by asserting—idiosyncratically and, in my view, falsely—that Paul is emphatically not an apocalyptic thinker and that apparently apocalyptic passages should instead be read “messianically.” In the case of 2 Thessalonians, such an assertion is especially counterintuitive, since the passage has almost universally been regarded as an apocalyptic narrative in which the katechōn is taken to represent a concrete historical individual or institution—most often the Roman Empire. Nevertheless, Agamben finds a productive minority tradition in the fourth century theologian Tyconius, who is often classified as a Donatist heretic but who had a decisive influence on Augustine (and the young Joseph Ratzinger). For Tyconius, the katechōn is not an external agency like the Roman Empire, but the Church itself, insofar as it is still mired in sin. Whereas the conventional reading positions the katechōn as good, or at least as a necessary evil, Tyconius opens up the space to see this restraining power as a negative thing—and, in one of Agamben’s characteristic interpretive tours de force, to understand what pseudo-Paul calls the anomos in a more positive valence, not as a wicked individual or force, but as something that is “outside the law” in the same sense that Paul can describe the messiah and his followers as being “outside the law.”

Translating his extrapolation from Tyconius into more political terms, Agamben claims that “the katechōn is the power—the Empire, but also the Church, like every juridically constituted authority—that opposes and conceals the lawlessness that defines messianic time and in this way slows the revelation of the ‘mystery of lawlessness.’ The unveiling of this mystery coincides with the manifestation fo the inoperativity of the law and with it the essential illegitimacy of every power in messianic time” (33-34). Agamben applies this analysis directly to our present, “when the powers of state act openly as outside the law,” so that “the anomos does not represent anything but the unveiling of the lawlessness that today defines every constituted power, within which State and terrorism form a single system” (34).

Surely this last bit is evocative of all kinds of examples in all our minds, from police violence up to the president-elect’s solicitation of stochastic terrorism. Equally evocative is Agamben’s assertion that we cannot simply rely on the workings of the law to fix this problem of pervasive illegality. Here we might think of the attempt to solve police violence through improved training and procedures or the long-cherished (and now-thwarted) hope that the law will somehow save us from Trump. From Agamben’s perspective, however, we can see that this strategy was doomed to fail, because “the hypertrophy of law, which presumes to legislate over everything, on the contrary betrays, through an excess of formal legality, the loss of all substantial legitimacy” (3). Elsewhere he associates this excess of legality with “the paradigm of the self-regulating market [that] has taken the place of that of justice and [that] pretends to be able to govern an ever more ungovernable society according to exclusively technical criteria” (17). In either case, we are dealing with a legal or regulatory system that has dispensed with the need to establish its own legitimacy and has indeed attempted to collapse legitimacy into legality without remainder—in other words, to effect a final victory of the katechōn over the man of lawlessness.

The real solution, Agamben claims, is to find a way to hold in productive tension “the two coordinated but radically heterogeneous principles—legitimacy and legality, spiritual power and temporal power, auctoritas and potestas, justice and law—that constitute the most precious patrimony of European culture” (18). Rather than hoping for some ultimate end of history to arrive, we need to participate actively in the dynamic of history, recognizing that no constituted order can escape contestation over its legitimacy and that the attempt to shut down that contestation through purely legal means leads only to the worst forms of illegality and violence.

II.

Returning to the American political scene, we can see that both parties are engaging in their own form of apocalyptic speculation, in Agamben’s derogatory sense. Both are claiming, again and again, that they represent the katechōn over against the forces of lawlessness on the other side. Obviously the rhetoric is more plausible on the Democratic side, given Trump’s straightforward criminality and obvious ignorance of and contempt for the American constitutional system. But on the Republican side, Trump is taken to represent the avatar of a kind of natural order that is menaced by the Democrats’ supposed “woke” agenda. Both equally seem to imagine a final elimination of the lawless element. Democrats hope to defeat Trump once and for all, allowing a “strong Repulican Party” to rise from the ashes and begin the hard work of bipartisan dealmaking, while Trump supporters have more lurid fantasies of purging “woke” advocates from all positions of power and authority. Perhaps less obviously, I would also say that both sides share a kind of fetishization of the law. This is again clearest on the Democratic side, as they keep hoping that laws and norms will do their political work for them. But Republicans, too, seem to indulge in a kind of magical thinking where simply passing a law, or seizing a veto point, or locking in a permanent majority through gerrymandering, will simply be the end of the matter. That’s what I choose to hear in Trump’s declaration that his supporters will never need to vote again—not that he will somehow become dictator for life (or not only that), but that he will fix the system so completely and permanently that no one will ever be able to infect it with “wokeness” ever again.

If we return to the question of why the US should have such an apocalyptic political culture, Agamben’s analysis suggests that the reason is that American institutions are fundamentally illegitimate—hence menaced by the anomos. Neither side can fully admit that the anomos is coming from inside the house, however, so they project the lawless element onto their opponents, whom they then cast as foreign bodies to the republic that can and must be eliminated. And they have been in such a frustrating stalemate for so long because what they propose to do is impossible. The katechōn cannot finally win. Legality cannot finally swallow legitimacy whole. The attempt to make that happen is at best futile, as when Democrats allow their brief opportunities to govern to be fed through the woodchipper out of respect for “norms,” and at worst horrifically destructive, as with our worst fears about what Trump may actually be able to achieve this time around.

But what of Agamben’s prescription? What would it even look like to restore awareness of legitimacy as a principle heterogeneous to law? To me, the first step would be to break the taboo against even discussing major overhaul or even replacement of our absolutely abominable Constitution—but it’s difficult for me to imagine an actual overhaul or replacement happening without an intermediate stage marked by the old ultraviolence. And on a more conceptual level, I worry that Agamben is repeating, to a second degree, the same gesture he rightly critiques among the powers and principalities of our age. That is to say, I wonder if he is setting up the dynamic between legitimacy and legality, between the anomos and the katechōn, as a kind of meta-katechōn that staves off the decadence and violence that follows from the collapse of the tension between them. In other words, I wonder if he is offering us anything more than the naïve hope that we could make our existing order work if everyone would just act more in good faith, following the spirit of the law rather than weaponizing its letter. It is a telling sign of our predicament that such a seemingly obvious and even boring outcome seems roughly as likely as the coming of the messianic age.

Kamala Harris’s closing pitch to the American people was to highlight the threat to democracy represented by Donald Trump. I share that sense of threat — lying about a stolen election and fomenting an insurrection to disrupt its certification are certainly not the marks of someone with a deep and abiding respect for democratic norms. And yet I also understand why that pitch has fallen flat, even among people who acknowledge the 2020 election result and disapprove of the January 6 attacks. After explaining why I find the mainstream liberal rhetoric on this position so unconvincing, I will discuss the more profound sense in which Trump and his movement represent a threat to the possibility of a more meaningful democratic culture emerging in the US, then conclude with some practical tips you can try at home.

1. A Critique of the “Threat to Democracy” Rhetoric

On the one hand, America has always had a tenuous grasp on democratic norms. Disputes over voting procedure and eligibility have always been part of the normal range of political contestation; gerrymandering has been “a thing” since the founding of the Republic; state and local elections are routinely scheduled strategically to decrease turnout and thus accountability; money plays such a huge role in election races that people seem to regard donation as almost more important than voting itself; the Senate is insanely malapportioned and has adopted even more anti-democratic rules on top of that; the two-party system artificially narrows the range of political options in a self-reinforcing way; the separate election of two houses of Congress and the Presidency all but guarantees divided government and thus gridlock most of the time, preventing the implementation of any coherent political program; and of course the Electoral College has allowed the loser to win twice in our young century, to the point where the popular vote has basically disappeared from public discourse. There simply is not a robust culture of democracy in the US. No rational American adult expects their vote to lead directly to any specified outcome. We vote mainly to try to prevent the worst, but there is no sense in which the people at large have a hand in setting the political agenda.

Within that context, the Democrats have done virtually nothing to create the conditions for more authentic democracy. No voting rights legislation was passed or even seriously taken up under Biden — in part because Senate Democrats can’t (or simply don’t want to) discipline their own party even on the purely procedural question of the fillibuster rule. Al Gore conceded to his virtually unprecedented 2000 Electoral College upset almost immediately and Democrats since have done nothing to call into question the institution that has effectively stolen two elections from them, both with disastrous consequences. Indeed, they seem to be “leaning in,” running narrowly focused campaigns on swing states while making no effort in Republican-leaning states. Nor was there any attempt to counteract the extremely unpopular Dobbs decision — in part because they concede in advance that the Supreme Court would simply strike it down again.

And simply at the level of rhetoric, it cannot be the case that the only way to defend authentic democracy is to vote for one and only one party forever and ever amen. It cannot be the case that voters are not allowed to register their dissatisfaction with the omnishambles of the Biden administration because the only other option the system allows is illegitimate and unacceptable — a claim that the Democrats don’t seem to even believe themselves, since Kamala Harris called to “congratulate” Trump on his victory, just as Obama cheerfully agreed to meet with him before handing over the keys and Hillary attended his inauguration.

Certainly Trump is going to be more supportive of restricting voting rights than the typical Republican, and he is going to empower and embolden others on the state level to take more repressive actions. Republicans will likely further lock down their veto points and exploit all avaliable leverage to thwart the popular will — above all on the question of abortion. He may even concoct a rationale to run for a third term and find his hand-picked Supreme Court willing to legitimize it. But the notion that he is somehow going to abolish elections or appoint himself dictator for life strains credulity. And again, if Democrats really believe that, then they should be willing to take much more radical action to prevent him from taking power than re-running Hillary’s campaign with a slightly more charismatic and likeable candidate. Either the Democrats don’t really believe Trump is a burgeoning dictator or they are cowards and fools of almost unimaginable dimensions. (Or both!)

2. A Broader Concept of Democracy Than “People Periodically Vote”

There is more to democracy than just voting. First, the people who propose to rule themselves must have some sense of shared identity, embodied in shared practices and institutions. Second, the community must be able to hold itself and its representatives accountable with reference to some kind of reality principle — some shared empirical basis for judging the success or failure of policies and projects. In the narrow sense of “people voting,” Tuesday’s absolutely disastrous and devastating election result was undeniably democratic. Yet the other two conditions are obviously lacking.

In terms of the first condition, Trump and the Republicans have set themselves up as the sole arbiters of who really “counts” as American, and they have inculcated an attitude of paranoia and distrust in their supporters through false accusations of voter fraud. More broadly, they clearly have no investment in American political institutions except insofar as they can be weaponized to give them more power, nor do they value public goods such as public schools, public libraries, public health regulations, etc., etc. And this connects up with the second condition. For example, the result of the 2020 presidential election is an undeniable, brute empirical fact — yet a strong pluarlity of our fellow citizens believe the obviously self-serving lies of a life-long scam artist over the unanimous testimony of election officials and judges from all 50 states and both parties. And that is only the most extreme instance of an attitude that rejects factual claims from experts precisely because they are made by experts.

What unites both of these two anti-democratic tendencies is their rejection of the public in favor of the private. And to that extent, Trumpian populism is a radicalization of the neoliberal ethos. In the classical era of neoliberalism, from roughly 1991 to 2016, the general consensus was that the purpose of public institutions was to set the rules of the game of market competition and to provide a range of public goods — such as basic research, official statistics, and the conditions for turning young human beings into productive human capital — that market actors had no incentive to reliably provide. Already, the value of public goods and public knowledge was implicitly called into question. They were not ends in themselves, but means to economic growth. Indeed, they were often even viewed as necessary evils, and as many such public duties were entrusted to private profit-seeking entities as possible.

In our new populist moment, by contrast, even this notion of the public as the necessary handmaiden of private accumulation has been delegitimized. Public schools don’t exist to induct students into a shared secular democratic culture, for instance, but are treated as hired hands to provide parents with babysitting services and to inculcate only those values the parents favor. Public libraries are not treated as repositories of certified knowledge, but as reflections of whatever arbitrary values or beliefs the surrounding community happens to have. And public office is increasingly treated as a private possession — above all by Trump, who jokes that he should get a “do-over” because he faced too much opposition and scrutiny to fully enjoy his first term and who muses that perhaps he should not have agreed to leave office in January 2021 after all.

This preference for private power over against public goods goes hand-in-hand with the racism, sexism, xenophobia, and other oppressive views characteristic of the radical right. The unfettered exercise of private power will inevitably mean the reassertion of traditional forms of dominance in private life — the superiority of the man over his wife, the ownership of children by their parents, the various hierarchies of race, etc., etc. In reality, the neoliberal order was fully compatible with such hierarchies, which festered and worsened even as exceptional individuals from disadvantaged groups enjoyed spectacular success. But even that token representation was experienced as a humiliation by many of our fellow citizens — above all Trump himself, who first stormed onto the political scene to spread lies meant to delegitimize our first Black president and who arguably chose to run for president specifically because Obama mocked him in his remarks at the Presidential Correspondents’ Dinner.

Reaganite deregulation was ostensibly meant to unleash wealth creation. Trumpian deconstruction of the administrative state is meant to make sure that there’s no one who can tell the boss what to do — no one to give workers or customers or anyone else any leverage against the hierarchy of private domination. Something similar is going on with the destruction of any public consensus on a shared reality through algorithmic manipulation. Where before one might decry wasting money on “useless knowledge,” now the goal is to make sure no genuine learning or understanding occurs at all — by feeding everyone a customized stream of bullshit that targets their own personal weaknesses and insecurities, a tendency that LLM-generated text and images will surely only amplify.

On both these points, the Democrats are again poor messengers, because they don’t genuinely believe in public goods or the disinterested pursuit of knowledge. They remain neoliberal through and through, meaning that they can’t get past arguing that quality public schools actually help economic growth or that we need to learn stuff because it’s a knowledge economy — or whatever the fashionable corporate bullshit happens to be today. “Greening the economy will create jobs and help us compete against China!” Seriously: shut the fuck up.

3. It’s the Capitalism, Stupid!

We can fight these tendencies and create more livable conditions. People have done so in the past, to varying degrees of success. But all of these tendencies are intrinsic to capitalism. We may well be entering a new phase that will make us nostalgic for neoliberalism — a phase centered more on establishing economic autarky and zero-sum competitions between nations — but it’s still going to be capitalism, which means that it’s still going to be exploitative, racist, endlessly hungry from free reproductive labor, etc., etc. We can’t solve those problems in the long run with solutions that are fundamentally parasitical on capitalist production, such as the welfare state or universal basic income, even if they are financed through the vulgar online MMT magical thinking of “helicopter money.”

We need to figure out ways of organizing our communities and our values and our livelihoods in non-capitalist ways. That has been more or less off the table for a generation, in large part because the biggest large-scale experiment with doing that spectacularly collapsed and everyone decided that the system jerry-rigged between two world wars in a peasant society was the only possible way you could do anything other than capitalism. We need to stop letting our rejection of a society that is dead and gone (and that ever fewer people still alive even directly experienced) limit our imagination.

And we need to get the fuck off of social media as soon as possible. I know I am late to this game, having held out at Twitter way too long and then tried to make Bluesky work. The beginning of the end for me was a huge blow-up around a Financial Times column that averred that Bluesky was a liberal bubble, prompting much indignation. After I gave up actively contributing, I have occasionally taken a peek in there and — good grief, it is absolutely absurd. It’s like the liberal version of when we used to make fun of Fox News for suddenly lurching to Hillary Clinton’s ancient scandals while Trump’s trials were going on. The immense levels of cope, verging on the conspiratorial (one pollster in Iowa has figured out it’s going to be a Harris landslide), made me feel like I was on another planet.

We all need to read more — really read. We can’t keep getting our news in two-sentence bursts or trying to have serious discussions with decontextualized fragments. We need to keep some kind of intellectual culture alive, because public schools are dying and universities no longer care about such matters. We need to keep ahold of reality. Like Matthew Ellis — whose excellent post today I have had in the back of my mind as I wrote this — I would encourage you to read the financial press. I subscribe to the Financial Times currently, and find it refreshingly factual (complete with non-tendentious headlines, for my Bluesky bros!). I’ve subscribed to Bloomsburg Businessweek in the past and found it excellent. You would be unimaginably better informed if you just read one of those regularly and subscribed to the New Left Review than you will ever be from scrolling on social media.

We are in a really bad situation. I don’t know how to make it better, but I do know we need to stop making ourselves actively stupider.

To help promote my forthcoming book and to give me somewhere to put my many thoughts about Star Trek in general, I have started a new Substack, also entitled Late Star Trek. You can read the first post here.

I have been spending a lot more time thinking about logic and math than I ever would have anticipated even as recently as five years ago. I’ve read books that were essentially about the square root of two, or how many points are on a line, and my current train reading is a primer on non-Euclidean geometry. Meanwhile, formal logic has become a staple of my teaching, both in the philosophy department and in the Shimer Great Books program. And who do I have to thank for all of this? Hegel.

During the pandemic, I was part of an intense reading group on Hegel’s Science of Logic. I have seldom read a book so hard — reading the section for the next meeting (often as little as ten pages) multiple times over, poring over every page during our long discussions, even poking at the German text. It is well-known to be among the most challenging texts in the Western philosophical canon, and I found it to be among the most rewarding as well. I haven’t spent much time with the text since then, but it often feels like everything I do — or at least everything new in my teaching and reading — is somehow related to it. I initially volunteered to teach logic in the philosophy department both to prepare for the Shimer course on logic and math and to get a handle on the syllogism, which is so central for Hegel. I have increasingly been teaching history of science courses, and I am drawn to non-reductionist accounts of the emergence of life out of physics and chemistry that echo the final passages of the Science of Logic. I don’t know when or even whether I will ever have a level of expertise needed to write credibly on these subjects, but my encounter with Hegel has profoundly shaped the way I look at the world.

It has also shaped the way I teach logic. As I have grown more confident and fluent in my syllogisms, I have tried to give my students a sense of how and why they work — something that neither the Copi/Cohen or Hurley textbook is much concerned with. They just list the valid forms and provide a dense proof (which they all but invite the reader to skip) as to how all of them fulfill the syllogistic rules, which are in turn simply presented as brute facts to be memorized. By contrast, I try to show how all the forms are generated out of the famous Barbara (AAA-1) form, and why the figures other than the first are more limited in their range of possible valid conclusions. (An initial effort at such an explanation can be found in this post.) I don’t want them to simply recognize that the EIO form is valid in all figures, I want them to know why.

At the end of the day, though, this knowledge inevitably collapses into a merely mechanical memorized list. Once I created a kind of algorithm for how to generate the 15 unconditionally valid (or Boolean) forms, the list became a permanent possession for me. To get there, I spent many a walk to the train pondering the mysteries of three overlapping categories — once I “had it,” I lost all patience for further reflection. It became boring, inert.

That tendency is what Hegel is constantly fighting against in the Science of Logic. He wants to show us how logic emerges into life, and he injects genuine drama into the whole affair. Yet as we progressed through the massive tome, the past sections inevitably became subject to rote memorization: first Being, then Nothing, then Becoming, then Existence….. Remember, Quality comes before Quantity! Many people, including no less an authority than Jameson, will tell you that all you “really need” is the Encyclopedia Logic, but in that text, I feel that Hegel has already succumbed to the tendency toward mechanism. Each step becomes something to be rattled off, without bothering so much with the connective tissue. Symptomatic here is the conversion of the “Remarks” — so energetic and tightly argued in the Science of Logic, beginning with scornful and even sarcastic attack on anyone who would deny that Being and Nothingness are the same — into the more disconnected “riffs” (my translation of the German Zusätze) in the Encyclopedia Logic‘s lecture notes.

I keep trying to forestall that moment by giving myself fresh challenges — for instance, trying to teach basic logic directly “out of” Aristotle’s original texts, which is… super hard. I also continue to delve more and more into the project of modern logic and its interpentration with mathematics. In part this is to help my teaching in the Shimer course, which requires me to find a way to help the students through the difficult territory of non-Euclidean geometry or Gödel’s Proof. But in part it’s also to confirm my intuition that the entire project is, in a very real sense, insane. And not only that, but the most fervently held desire — namely, to develop a completely rigorous, self-contained, and autonomous axiomatic system with no necessary grounding in intuition or any external reality — has been rigorously proven to be impossible on its own terms.

Hegel’s approach to logic is often regarded as self-evidently misguided in modern terms, and a whole literature has arisen trying to “save” Hegel through a reductionist reading. The reason is that, from the outset, Hegel is clearly breaking some of the most basic rules of contemporary logic. Above all, he repeatedly violates the existential fallacy (indeed, that is one of his very first moves). Hegel died shortly before the Boolean revolution got underway, but I think it’s obvious that he would have rejected its terms completely. The purpose of logic isn’t to create a purely self-sufficient abstract system, but to found our understanding of the world, which we cannot finally understand without presuming that it is in some sense proto-logical “in itself.”

This is not to say that nature is governed by abstract “laws” or that it has an inherently “mathematical” structure. The concepts we use to grasp nature always have to be won through the struggle of our own understanding — they do not come ready-made. Indeed, I think Hegel would agree with Lee Smolin that the remarkable effectiveness of mathematical tools in grasping the natural world is grounded in the humble fact that at every level we know of, nature presents itself as an ensemble of discreet entities that we can count.

Hegel lived a bit too early to put it this way, but I would say that our logical categories cannot be divorced from our empirical intuitions because our minds evolved out of our natural environment in order to grasp it. Pretending otherwise — no matter how complex and rigorous the results — collapses into contradiction and, worse, triviality.

Even so, I do mostly stick to the Boolean system of syllogisms for the sake of my teaching, because there’s only so much world and time. And in case you’re curious, here is my method for generating the fifteen unconditionally valid forms. First, I presume that you have the forms in the first figure memorized, which is easy enough because they’re all pretty intuitive (see the above-linked post for more of an explanation):

AAA-1
EAE-1
AII-1
EIO-1

Then, starting again from AAA-1, you list out the same forms horizontally, incrementing the figure on each one:

In the second and third column, you then write a form with the premises reversed, and you add those “new” forms to the fourth column, incrementing the figure to 4 for each.

Returning to the second and third columns, continue both down by replacing the non-A lines with Os.

Complete the list by adding EIO to any column that doesn’t already have it:

And there you have it! Once you have this technique down, you will have the 15 valid forms in the bag and never need to think about it again!

A curious thing has been happening lately: I cannot use the popular left-leaning social networking site Bluesky for any length of time without becoming irritable and even angry. Every common trope annoys me. Most notably, if someone nitpicks a headline in the New York Times — one of the favorite forms of political activism over there — I jump down their throats. I get into pointless, hostile, endless back-and-forth exchanges where we both dig in more and more. Often one leads to the other. For instance, this morning I blocked a longtime mutual (and fellow academic) after a terrible fight about whether the NYT has appropriately used the word “mused” in a headline.

Clearly I’m part of the problem here! I could simply attempt to curate my experience more — set up lists, follow “starter packs,” and do all the many fun things that other users do to get things “just so” — but every time I do, the bullshit keeps coming back. My biggest success was blocking a major user who is obsessed with NYT nitpicking, and for a few weeks it seemed like he had been the only culprit. But it always comes back, just like the constant exhortations to block without mercy or hesitation keep coming back, just like everything keeps coming back. And that probably happens because Bluesky is, at the end of the day, a very small and insular site, whose culture of boastful hair-trigger blocking contributes to major groupthink.

The beginning of my more sustained frustration came early last week, when the entire site was aghast at a Financial Times column that said Bluesky was an echo chamber. I have been using a print subscription to the Financial Times as part of my efforts to wean myself off social media and have come to deeply respect it as a news source. Everyone was outraged at the FT’s “attack” on the site, and some journalists and editors even popped up on Bluesky to try to mediate the conflict. Multiple major accounts advocated blocking all the supposed “gaslighters” from what is, in all honesty, probably the best English-language news source on Earth.

I was aghast. I don’t much care for the columnist, nor did I think the column was a work of art. But everyone seemed to be mischaracterizing its point — which boiled down to “I get why liberals like Bluesky, but I miss the broader perspective Twitter had before Musk ruined it.” Again, not brilliant, but hardly a war crime. In fact, I’m pretty sure that most Bluesky users, deep in their hearts, would agree. And for “defending” the column (i.e., attempting to accurately summarize it), I was insulted and targetted for blocking. One person mused that I was trying to suck up to the columnist so I could hobknob with her wealthy friends. Another thought my response was par for the course for a “tank-adjacent contrarian.” The notion that I sincerely thought everyone was overreacting based on inaccurate information was not considered.

A big part of the problem is that we are all, of course, recovering from the trauma of late-stage Twitter. We are taking habits honed in an environment overrun by open Nazis and applying it to people whose politics are, at the end of the day, all within one standard deviation of each other. And that’s fine! There is definitely a place for people with similar politics to meet. That’s what I try to cultivate on Facebook especially, and I certainly didn’t seek out conservatives on the old Twitter. The problem is that no one is willing to admit that it’s an echo chamber. They want to imagine it’s an miscellaneous audience, that their critiques of NYT headlines can reach some reachable moderate, or that their exhortations that no one should blame North Carolina and Tennessee for the hurricane damage just because they’re red states could be heard by someone who may indeed be tempted to blame them. It’s like a “seeker-sensitive” church, always looking to convert outsiders who mostly aren’t interested and meanwhile providing nothing of substance to those who are showing up consistently.

I’ll admit that the old Twitter was often annoying in the same way. It did periodically bring out an unattractive combativeness in me. And sometimes it seemed like it could become actually life-threatening, as in my multiple waves of systematic right-wing harassment. But it had other rewards. There was much more genuine intellectual diversity among left-wing posters. There was much greater chance of stumbling across interesting links and articles or hearing about something cool. And it was funny — funny like nothing else. There was just something about the meme culture of Twitter at its prime, with its multiple layers of referentiality and irony, its nihilistic love of the absurd. Even in the late days of Twitter people were becoming more literal and less receptive to that kind of humor, but on Bluesky it’s entirely dead. The absurdist poster “dril” made a big show of switching to Bluesky and people took his nonsensical posts deadly seriously, sometimes even going so far as to report him for harmful content. I myself get a very literal response to almost every joke I post. It’s heartbreaking.

It’s as though everyone decided to take my article Jury Duty, where I said that the purpose of social media is primarily to pass judgment on each other, as an instruction manual for building out the new culture of Bluesky. The constant reminders that everyone is on a hair trigger to block every stranger exacerbate the effect, to the point where it feels like the first social network whose primary purpose is actually to cut off social contact.

When I ask myself why I let it get to me, it is probably because I am still grieving for what Twitter was. It didn’t always bring out the best in me, but it was rewarding on net, because it was so often surprising. That’s what’s so frustrating to me about the endless repetition of a handful of moves — it’s so predictable. I get angry at the NYT headline nitpickers because they’re boring, and because they’ve convinced themselves that it’s politically necessary for them to be boring. In reality, though, the recipients for the messages they insist on sending out so repetitiously are not here. I am. Or at least I was. I know I was annoying, I know I had my hangups, I know I often disagreed with the site consensus — but I am a human being, I am genuinely open to discussion, and I admit when I’m wrong much more often than anyone else I’ve ever seen online. All I wanted out of the site was some kind of halfway interesting discussions and links and jokes. I don’t think that was too much to ask.

Whether I will return again remains to be seen. As a long-time Twitter addict, I’m likely to relapse. I publicly pledged myself to take a week off, just to make it embarrassing to come back sooner. But what makes it less likely is the sense that no one will miss me. I pop into Twitter every week or so to check my replies and see if I have any DMs, and every so often I see someone saying that they miss me and wish they would return. By contrast, Bluesky has felt hostile and unwelcoming from the very start. I know that hurt people, hurt people. I’m guilty of that as well. I just wish we could all work through it and try to build something that can be more informative, more challenging, and more fun — and I’m increasingly convinced that will never happen.

The Devil in Miss Jones (1973) is one of the classics of the ‘Golden Age’ of porn films. It was written, directed and produced by Gerard Damiano one year after the success of Deep Throat. The film takes inspiration both from Sartre’s No Exit – a play length exposition of the existentialist’s famous claim that ‘hell is other people’ – and from the Marquis de Sade’s Justine – whose titular character embodies the ideal feminine virtues of the 18th century, and is repeatedly punished for it; her innocence, piety, and honesty rewarded by a series of violations, as well as the torture, death, or betrayal of everyone she trusts (its sequel, Juliette, tells the story of Justine’s sister, who rejects both God and virtue, embraces corruption, and thrives).

The Devil in Miss Parton was released towards the end of a quiet period for angel film. After a glut of releases over the 1930s, 40s and 50s, barely anything was released between 1956 and 1968, when the genre gets going again with a series of films which deliberately play with its well-established cliches. If you’re familiar with angel films as a genre, it’s clear that The Devil in Miss Jones is written as a knowing parody of the standard tropes. The film’s protagonist Justine – having lived a perfectly virtuous life – dies by suicide, only to awaken into an afterlife where heaven is forbidden to her, yet she has not sinned enough to truly merit hell. The only solution, she is told by the angel Abaca assigned to judge her, is to go back to earth and earn her eternal damnation. She doesn’t seem enthused about the opportunity for theft, robbery or murder. What about lust, she asks?

Most of the rest of the film plays out as a series of explicit sex scenes, beginning with Justine’s encounter with ‘the teacher’ whose role is to cure her of her inhibitions, so as (he says) to make his work easier and hers more pleasurable. In each of the scenes – involving various other people, animals, and objects – the focus is on Justine. Both her pleasure and her voice are centred. At the end, she returns to Abaca, asks to be allowed to stay, only to be told that no such thing is possible, and to find herself, in the end, trapped in a small white room with a man (played by Damiano) raving about flies as she begs him to touch her.

Many of these narrative moves are easily recognisable from earlier angel films: a person awaking after death to find themselves with a lowly functionary responsible for overseeing their time in the space in between death and final judgement (Outward Bound (1930), Heaven Can Wait (1943), Here Comes Mr Jordan (1941); wishing to make up for the opportunities they had missed in life and hoping to do enough to be granted passage through judgment into everlasting life (Liliom (1934), remade as Carousel (1956), Angel on my Shoulder (1946); being tempted by the charms of the world they have temporarily been sent back to (The Bishop’s Wife (1947), The Horn Blows at Midnight (1945)). What’s striking about The Devil in Miss Jones is that it brings together these familiar tropes into a new format which seems, in turn, to become the template for two later angel films: 1990’s Almost an Angel, starring Paul Hogan/Crocodile Dundee and 1996’s Unlikely Angel, starring Dolly Parton. Both films share with The Devil in Miss Jones a very precise formula, here inverted: a protagonist whose entire life except for the manner of their death would seem to destine them for one of heaven and hell, and an opportunity to return to earth so as to make good on the promise of that very final moment, a moment of realisation about the kind of life they missed out on whilst alive, and then a final glimpse of their passage into their eternal destiny.

In Almost an Angel, Paul Hogan’s Terry Dean is a career criminal whose first move on getting out of prison is to try to rob another bank. As he does so, however, he spots a small girl about to be hit by a car and dies whilst saving her, only to find himself in a meeting with God (Charlton Heston), who describes himself as Dean’s probation officer, and tells him that while his entire life he never did anything but take, his final act of selflessness means that he’s earned a chance at heaven by dedicating his life to others; by giving instead of taking. While it takes him some time to unlearn his bad old habits, he manages to perform a series of selfless acts: befriending a terminally ill man named Steve and helping out the youth centre he runs with his sister Rose by clearing out some local drug dealers, convincing a tight-fisted evangelical that God is calling him to greater acts of charity, and comforting Steve as he dies. Whilst his attraction to Rose makes him regret the fact he cannot stay on earth, the film ends with a cross miraculously lighting up, Terry discovering that he cannot die, and a voiceover assuring Rose that Steve is with God now.

The sins of Dolly Parton’s Ruby Diamond are never quite as clear, but seem to be related to singing in bars, flirting with men, dating men who cheat on her, and never settling down to get married or have children. Driving home from a gig one night, she swerves to avoid hitting a death, and dies, only to find herself in a meeting with a man in a white suit who introduces himself as Peter and tells her that she’s lived an entirely selfish life, and that it’s only because at the very end she sacrificed herself for another living then that she will get a chance to make up for it. She’s then sent back to earth where she has to reconcile a family in the wake of their mother’s death by helping the father to recognise that his children need him and need a proper Christmas, helping the children to forgive their father, and pushing the father to marry his secretary, all while resisting her own desire to stay and take her place in the family home. As the film ends we see Dolly walking through the pearly gates, receiving her wings, and joining in the angelic chorus singing praise to God.

It’s interesting how precisely Almost an Angel and Unlikely Angel invert the plot of of The Devil in Miss Jones, itself a much looser parody of the angel film genre. While I can’t find any existing scholarship which connects the three the parallels are so precise – and The Devil in Miss Jones such a classic – that I’m convinced it must be a relatively direct influence on the two later films. The Devil in Miss Jones relates to Almost an Angel and Unlikely Angel like Justine to its sequel Juliette, mirrored narratives of virtue and vice, reward and punishment whose precise inversions reflect, however, a much more conventional moral universe than that of de Sade. It’s Unlikely Angel which more perfectly parallels The Devil in Miss Jones. Whereas Terry Dean ends by walking off out into the world, the promise of both further earthly adventures and of possible romantic consummation hanging in the air, both Justine and Ruby return in the end to their previous condition, albeit transformed by the lessons they have learned during their brief return to earth. Justine is only now able to fully appreciate the horror of the lonely, untouched life she already hated enough to want to kill herself; Ruby only now unable to sing in praise of God and in service of the middle class nuclear family rather than the dive bar circuit which she came from. Both films ultimately offer us a vision of the pleasures of sexual liberation once more safely enfolded into a narrative which sets desire against the care and self-sacrifice by which the white family is made and remade, in which sex can be recuperated as long as we do not acknowledge, as de Sade did, the pleasures of power, pain, and violence.

“Have you seen this?,” a friend recently messaged me. She was referring to this article on awkwardness, which hit some points familiar to readers of my 2010 book on the same topic. The author does cite me, and judging from a quick Google Books search, she does so even more in the full book, of which the article is a précis. And yet, one does feel “some kind of way,” as they say, especially since the title is identical (simply Awkwardness) and the subtitle is even in a very similar style (A Theory vs. my An Essay).

My friend felt defensive on my behalf, as did several other people with whom I shared the article. And yet my own mind wandered back to two awkward occasions, many years ago. One centered around a story published in the late lamented The Awl entitled “I Can Awkward.” Awkwardly, I cannot find it right now [though commenter Matthew Bertucci helpfully shares a Wayback Machine link], but the basic point was that maybe we should not be so scared of awkwardness because it could be empowering. Yikes! Sitting in my living room stewing, feeling that I had perhaps enjoyed fewer writing and career opportunities than I deserved, I talked myself into the idea that this article had somehow deprived me of something by not citing my work. I wrote to the editors, who were more gracious than they strictly had to be and who pointed out that academic and journalistic standards are different. There was no reason to believe the author had read and ripped off my book. There was also no reason to believe that it would have made any difference to my life if he had cited it. In the end, I just wound up making a fool of myself in front of a couple of the coolest people ever to internet.

And who woulda thought? It figures — a couple years later someone emailed me about Awkwardness (my book, not the more recent one). They were concerned that I may have ripped off the author of this 2007 book, whose existence I had indeed noted but which I did not read, because it appeared to be a memoir rather than a theory of awkwardness. Lo and behold, my ideas about awkwardness arguably echoed those of this author, a coincidence I could only explain by noting that sometimes when people address a similar topic, they come to similar conclusions. (I still have not read the book, because I have this bizarre sense that doing so would somehow represent a concession to my accuser.)

So for those keeping score, here are the three books under discussion:

1. Awkward: A Detour (2007), by Mary Capello
2. Awkwardness: An Essay (2010), by Adam Kotsko
3. Awkwardness: A Theory (2024), by Alexandra Plakias

I note that I have not used the name of any other author before this listing, and the author of “I Can Awkward” remains unnamed even now. [UPDATE: Based on the Wayback Machine link above, it turns out his name is Matthew Wollin. I cannot find any evidence that his Awl piece catapulted him to the greatness that I should have enjoyed.] Similarly, I do not recall the name of the DePaul philosophy student who, in the course of a drunken conversation, stumbled upon the same joke connecting Heidegger to awkwardness that I had been honing for months — prompting me to stake my claim by finally putting together a book proposal.

It’s as though the idea is simply in the air, floating around, and all of us are always already too late to claim as our own. Writing a para-academic book, I didn’t feel I needed to do my due diligence of first reading everything potentially related to my idea — though of course I was also offended when someone treated me equally neglectfully. As for Plakias, it was doubtless strange to stumble across my oddball little text on ancient pop culture examples, and I’m glad she followed genre constraints nonetheless. Hopefully she will handle it gracefully when, some time in the next 5-15 years, someone else inevitably comes along and writes a book entitled Awkwardness with a two-word subtitle that puts forward the idea — perhaps not so creative after all — that awkwardness could be a positive thing if we attend to it in a certain way.

For ease of reference, here are the links to the entire series:

Part 1: Faust the Innovative Throwback
Part 2: Faust and the Preemptive Crisis of the Professions
Part 3: Faust and the Tragedy of Misfired Modernity
Part 4: Faust and the Redemption of Modernity
Part 5: Faust Beyond Faust

I hope the unaccustomed pace of posting was okay, especially for my email subscribers. For my part, I was excited simply to have new material to post for a week straight! It felt like old times.

As I mentioned in the note to the first installment, this was my first attempt to write out some thoughts on Faust that have been percolating over many years as I have regularly taught a course on the Faust legend called “Deals With the Devil.” (You can see the most recent iteration of the syllabus here.) This means that I was trying to squeeze a lot of thoughts on Faust into a relatively short piece — a problem that was exacerbated by the unexpectedly short timeframe I had available to write it, due to severe disruptions in my travel back from New York.

Looking back over the whole thing over the course of the week, I feel that the effect was most pronounced in the ending, where I just kind of… stopped. Hence this follow-up post! The main thing that I would like to do is to flesh out the connection with the Anthropocene dilemma. I emphasize the Christian baggage in specific in our moralized way of thinking about climate change. One further step I would take in that direction is the attitude toward geoengineering, which feels like “cheating” to many. We should take the more painful and difficult method, not a quick fix! I once did a poll for my Twitter followers, a carefully curated group of mostly leftists and liberals, where I posited that there was a button they could push that would return atmospheric carbon to pre-industrial levels instantly with no adverse consequences. A surprising number said no! Presumably many of them were expressing their rejection of my absurd scenario, but at least some of the negative response is a Christian-esque moral masochism. The fact that — as a Bluesky follower whose post I cannot now find pointed out — geoengineering is sometimes referred to as a “Faustian bargain” also indicates a certain reluctance to make intentional interventions into the climate, as though we would illegitimately be “playing God.”

There’s another area where the Faustian situation sheds light on the dilemma of the Anthropocene, and that is the attempt to put new wine in old wineskins, discrediting both. The fact that capitalism is unable to deal with climate change and seems to relentlessly discover new ways to make it worse (tax credits for SUVs! a fake currency made of wasted carbon emissions! a bullshit machine that basically sets fire to a small village in order to generate an image of Garfield smoking pot!) discredits the system. Yet like Christianity, it hangs on through sheer inertia and we can only view solutions through its lens. We must somehow solve this urgent problem in a way that (a) guarantees continued capitalist profits, including for people who have invested in the very fuels that are causing the problem, and (b) maintains “fair” competition among the various nations into which we have divvied up the earth’s surface. Those conditions are literally impossible to meet! And compared to what’s at stake, making sure Exxon shareholders get their expected value or the EU remains “competitive” with China in battery production seems incredibly petty and stupid!

There’s a first as tragedy, then as farce dynamic here. At the dawn of modernity, scientific knowledge — with its claim for human empowerment and autonomy apart from divine revelation or ecclesiastical tutelage — appeared dangerous and demonic. At the twilight of modernity, it has become little more than an annoying wet blanket that no one wants to think about. Far from building a society on genuine knowledge that empowers us to master our world, we are letting archaic moral intuitions and discredited institutions permanetly ratchet down the life chances of future generations even though we know exactly what needs to be done and have the ability to do it. I remain haunted by an interview with Kim Stanley Robinson where he lays out the worst-case scenario (which is broadly what you’d think), but then also lays out a more optimistic scenario:

The best-case scenario is also completely possible from our current situation, despite the trajectory we are on. It would be a just, sustainable world in which the energy flows in the biosphere were in balance, such that the extinction rates would be normal, ecosystems everywhere restored to health, and 10 billion humans ― shrinking quite naturally in number as all the women in the world began living in complete gender equality ― were all living with adequate food, water, shelter, clothing, health care, education, and work.

This best-case scenario, the utopian turn, is physically possible if it were the goal of human civilization and became what we were all working toward together. The crucial technologies involved are not so much physical as they are social, which is to say, we have to have ecologically guided economics and politics. It is by its very nature a leftist vision, in that it foregrounds justice and welfare for all.

It is physically possible, and as Keynes — surely no socialist! — tells us, anything we can actually do, we can afford. But we won’t allow ourselves to do it because it would disrupt this system of claims and this weird zero-sum competition that we’ve set up among ourselves. In fact, many of our fellow humans regard the best-case scenario as the end of everything they value and are willing to fight to the death for their right to doom us all.

Here I am reminded of a version of Faust I don’t mention in the talk — Murnau’s amazing silent film (which you should all drop everything and watch if you haven’t already). There Faust uses his demonic power initially to try to cure a plague, but everyone turns on him once it becomes clear where his power is coming from. At that point, he embraces sheer nihilism and asks for Mephistopheles to give him youth — presumably so that he can relive a life he now believes to have been wasted. If the cure can’t be squared with Christianity — the same Christianity that will drive them to burn Gretchen alive at the end of the film — then they don’t want it. In the end, all Faust can strive for is some kind of personal satisfaction and personal connection, because any avenue to use his formidible knowledge in a meaningful way has been shut down. In a contemporary adaptation, what could Faust be but a climate scientist?

[See Part 4 here, or go back and read the series from the beginning.]

I have compared Faust’s utopia to the American dream, although admittedly the notion of social solidarity in the face of disaster hits a sour note from that perspective. What makes it feel so American to me is that it is so profoundly capitalist. It presupposes that life demands constant labor and striving, that true freedom requires exposure to danger, that nature’s power is wasted unless it is conquered and redirected by human interests. This connection is far from hypothetical. Long passages of Part 2 revolve around Mephistopheles’s plot to introduce paper money into the German empire, and as Marshall Berman notes in All That is Solid Melts Into Air, Goethe himself was fascinated by vast world-shaping projects like the Panama Canal, which finally assert humanity’s mastery over nature.

In our current moment, it is ironically this very triumph of modern developmentalism that appears most naïve and even retrograde in Goethe’s Faust. Capitalist domination over nature has proven more profoundly world-shaping than Goethe ever could have anticipated—delivering potentially every nation on earth to the condition of Faust’s ocean-threatened utopia. If Goethe expected Faust’s project to evoke something like the Panama Canal, to me it seems anachronistically to evoke science fiction images like the half-flooded city of Kim Stanley Robinson’s New York 2140 or the vast flood walls around New York City in the dystopian future of The Expanse. From this perspective, it feels like no accident that the most recent major adaptation of Faust, Life and Trust, is precisely about the collapse of capitalism. Even more telling is the fact that in this immersive theater experience, the Great Crash does not open out onto the future of the New Deal and postwar economic miracle, but promises only a return to a lost past that is, if anything, even more riven by hierarchies of race, class, gender, and sexuality than the present.

Perhaps even more than the promise of freedom and abundance through capitalist development, Faust’s goal of seizing state power to build a better society for everyone is likely to strike the contemporary reader as sinister than redemptive. Of course, it doesn’t help that Goethe decided at the last minute to insert the story of the poor old couple whose humble abode is spoiling Faust’s perfect view. Even if Faust did not intend for them to die, his order to Mephistopheles to remove them is both callous and reckless—surely by now Faust must understand who he is dealing with.

I would suggest that Goethe may have added this unsavory episode precisely so that Faust would have something to be redeemed from. Certainly his seduction of Gretchen turned out to be destructive, but at that point he was as naïve about Mephistopheles’s motives as Gretchen was about Faust’s. All the most fatal moves (the poisoning of Gretchen’s mother, the stabbing of her brother, the escape to Walpurgis Night) were at Mephistopheles’s initiative rather than his. With the old couple, there is still a small sliver of plausible deniability insofar as he did not explicitly tell Mephistopheles to kill them—but his motives are also much more purely selfish, even petty. With Gretchen, he was a rejuvenated man in love for the very first time. One can imagine behaving irresponsibly in that situation. With the old couple, however, even if he did not directly wish them to die, he is still acting like a tyrant who values his own idle whims over the wellbeing of others.

I previously emphasized Goethe’s free adaptation of Christian materials in the conclusion. There I think he more or less succeeds in using those materials to craft his own idiosyncratic theology in a way that is not finally shaped or predetermined by Christianity. But if I am right about his motivation for inserting the death of the old couple, the denoeument of Part 2 is nonetheless profoundly determined by Christianity—specifically the Christian notion of the felix culpa, the happy fault. The phrase comes from the Easter Vigil liturgy: “O felix culpa quae talem et tantum meruit habere redemptorem” (“O happy fault that merited such and so great a Redeemer”). The notion here is that the sin of Adam and Eve, with all the vast suffering it unleashed, is nonetheless a net positive because it enabled the even greater event of redemption.

With this idea of the felix culpa in mind, we can see that the transition from Marlowe to Goethe is not, as it initially appeared, a transition from entrapment in the Christian framework to an escape from it. Rather, it is a shift from a more simplistic to a more sophisticated theology. In Marlowe, Faust’s sin is simply useless and meaningless within the Christian framework, petering out into pointless pranks. In Goethe, by contrast, Faust’s sin is a necessary step toward a greater redemption—not only for himself, but on a social, economic, and political level. This is not orthodox Christianity—insofar as Faust seems to fuse the first and second Adam, the sinner and the redeemer—but its moral economy does grow out of a profoundly Christian impulse.

Now, at last, it is time for me to justify my title. If we limit the “man” or anthropos of the Anthropocene to modern man in specific, and if I am right that Faust is in some sense the myth of modernity, that it supplies a stage on which modernity can enact its deepest tensions and contradictions, the connection between the Faust legend and the Anthropocene dilemma become much more profound than the kind of easy parallels I threw out and dismissed at the beginning of my lecture. The Anthropocene is the Faustocene—it is the dilemma of a modernity that remains profoundly shaped by Christianity at its foundations, and in particular in its moral instincts. Think, for instance, of the primary complaint about the term “Anthropocene,” namely that it attributes blame incorrectly, implicitly grouping in the largely innocent Global South nations with the real culprits. Better to call it the Capitalocene, blaming the specific system that caused the destruction rather than indulging in clichés about “human nature” in general. These observations are all correct as far as they go, but why is the most important priority to attribute blame? What will be changed by the sheer fact of knowing whose fault it is? One also thinks of the tendency to say that “we” are all to blame for environmental degradation and therefore “we” all deserve the punishment. Either case represents what we might call Marlowe’s Faustocene—a moral vision in which using the illicit powers unleashed by modernity leads to an inevitable punishment.

More profound and more insidious are the patterns of thought that we could characterize as Goethe’s Faustocene—the notion that environmental destruction is a felix culpa, a necessary step to development as such. Think of how often we hear that it is unfair that poorer nations should be deprived of the opportunity to destroy the environment themselves, as that is presumably the only path to prosperity. Think, too, of how often we on the left gesture toward the notion that the environmental crisis will finally force everyone to abandon capitalism as unsustainable and create a more holistic and communitarian way of life.

The Anthropocene is also the Faustocene in another sense, insofar as it represents a profound crisis of all the distinctively modern forms of authority. Science seems to betray its promise of ever-greater abundance and mastery, instead warning us that we must restrain ourself in the face of forces we can never fully control. Law—along with the liberal democratic institutions that generate and legitimize it—seems increasingly disconnected from reality, as even the most environmentally savvy nations are enacting what amounts to de facto climate change denial. The promise of the modern professions to guide and empower state instutitions with accredited knowledge is shattered—all the moreso in the wake of the pandemic, which has discredited the medical establishment and the entire enterprise of public health in the eyes of many (even if for mutually contradictory reasons depending on who you ask).

I will admit that it’s very unclear to me what we are supposed to do about this situation. It should be clear that I think the Faust legend probably has more resources for thinking about how we got where we are than how to move forward. But it may be worth pondering what it would look like if we reimagined a contemporary Faust who is trying to escape from the Faustian dilemma itself. And my first suggestion along these lines would be that such a Faust-beyond-Faust would give up the gestures of subversion, resistance, and even rebellion in favor of an affirmative creation.

[Continue on to the Coda.]

[See Part 3 here.]

When Marlowe adapted the Faust story for the stage, it is only a slight exaggeration to say it was “ripped from the headlines”—the original German chapbook had been published only a few years prior, followed by an English translation. By the time Goethe took up the same material over two centuries later, Faust was an established legendary figure in a much more assertive and confident modern world. Far from being an edgy countercultural tale that had to be wrapped up in traditional piety for plausible deniability, the Faust legend in Goethe’s Germany was a story for children, commonly performed in puppet shows. (Indeed, Goethe himself seems not to have read Marlowe’s play until very late in his life, when he was already working on Part 2 of his massive drama.)

In many ways, as with our contemporary glut of adaptations of established cultural legends, Faust is an exercise in nostalgia—nostalgia for a lost naïve faith, nostalgia for the pure emotional receptivity of childhood and youth, even nostalgia for itself, given the fact that Goethe composed the play over the course of many years. The opening poem, skipped by many readers and only added at the very last stages of composition, connects the play to Goethe’s own lost youth, and Faust himself is preoccupied with childhood. When he is on the verge of suicide after his failed encounter with the Earth Spirit, Faust is saved by a children’s chorus that reminds him of his youthful faith and, even more, his immediate connection to nature in those days. His trip to town on Easter morning brings up painful memories of childhood, as the praise he receives for his role in his father’s medical practice reminds him only of the deadly effects of the dangerous poison they unwittingly distributed as medicine. And of course much of what attracts him to Gretchen is precisely her youth and naivety, which he believes will help him reconnect with that more authentic part of himself. (This is, incidentally, an aspect of the play that renders it somewhat difficult to teach to undergrads.)

As should be clear by now, Goethe freely reworks the material, most notably by revising Faust’s background (giving the former orphan a physician/alchemist father) and introducing a love interest. At times, he seems to be almost embarrassed to be adapting the Faust legend, introducing “meta” elements to highlight the silliness of previous versions. The clearest example is the scene at “Auerbach’s Tavern in Leipzig,” where Mephistopheles plays elaborate pranks on a group of drunks and Faust has only one line: a request to go home. This is a way of having his cake and eating it too—including the pranks that were such an integral part of the legend, while at the same time marking his distance from that vision of Faust. Indeed, by the end of Part 1, we seem to have forgotten the devil’s bargain altogether, as the story has become the tragedy of Gretchen more than that of Faust. In the unforgettable scene where Gretchen refuses to accept Faust’s offer of escape even knowing that she will be executed the next morning for the death of her baby, only an over-literal pedant could possibly be concerned with the dangling thread of Faust’s soul.

This displacement of the central element of the legend is surprising in light of the fact that Goethe’s own reworking of that theme is what gives his version such philosophical depth. As with his pranks in the tavern, Mephistopheles’s attempt to secure Faust’s soul represent an attempt to enact the script of the traditional legend, which this Faust continually derails. Scorning earthly pleasures, Faust seeks something more profound—a holistic grasp of the full range of human experience, of which he has been deprived in his life of scholarly isolation. In my favorite exchange, Faust declares (quoting David Luke’s excellent translation):

Poor devil! What can you offer to me?
A mind like yours, how can it comprehend
A human spirit’s high activity?
But have you food that leaves one still unsatisfied,
Quicksilver-gold that breaks up in
One’s very hands? Can you provide
A game that I can never win,
Procure a girl whose roving eye
Invites the next man even as I lie
In her embrace? A meteoric fame
That fades as quickly as it came?
Show me the fruit that rots before it’s plucked
And trees that change their foliage every day! (ll. 1671-1688)

Clearly something very strange is going on here, but Mephistopheles simply responds: “I shall perform as you instruct; / All these delights I can purvey” (ll. 1689-1690). Can you give me worthless, self-undermining pleasures? Yup, can do!

In place of the traditional devil’s bargain, Faust proposes a wager: if he ever ceases striving, if he ever allows himself to rest in full contentment, Mephistopheles can take him. Mephistopheles should presumably be more suspicious in this moment, because he has heard similar rhetoric before. In the “Prologue in Heaven,” Goethe had staged a dialogue between Mephistopheles and the Lord much like that found in the Book of Job—except this time, it is Faust whom God declares to be his servant. Mephistopheles is understandably puzzled, and God clarifies that it is precisely Faust’s implacable striving that he admires so greatly. When Mephistopheles again echoes the more traditional story by offering a wager, God responds with absolute confidence in Faust and even claims that Mephistopheles’s constant negativity will productively spur him from his stagnation and complacency.

Again, all of this is seemingly forgotten by the end of Part 1. Yet when Goethe returned to Faust late in his life, he apparently felt constrained not to leave this divine wager unresolved forever. In the end, Goethe famously—or infamously—engineers Faust’s redemption, in part through the intercession of the late Gretchen’s spirit. The path from Gretchen’s jail cell to this unexpected outcome is a long and winding one. Part 2 is much longer than Part 1, and much more allegorical in its storytelling. On the one hand, this approach allows Goethe to radically reimagine the Faust legend as an epic encompassing all of European modernity—including the rediscovery of Greek antiquity, as suggested by Faust’s famous encounter with Helen of Troy. On the other hand, the result is a self-indulgent slog that—if the two parts are taken as an integral work—retrospectively ruins the effect of the fragmentary but unforgettable original.

Be that as it may, for the sake of my goal of connecting Faust to our Anthropocene predicament, Part 2 is more relevant. The main plot—leaving aside various fanciful digressions and the entire interlude with Helen—reminds me of a scene from the classic HBO police procedural The Wire. After months of surveilling the cautious and methodical gang leader Stringer Bell (played by Idris Elba), an investigator has an epiphany: “He’s worse than a drug dealer, he’s a property developer.” The same could be said of the Faust of Part 2—he’s worse than a demon-summoner, he’s a property developer.

Act 1 opens with Faust quite recovered from the trauma of losing Gretchen and ready for new challenges. Contemplating a waterfall, he has an epiphany: the ocean is constantly churning, but it all amounts to nothing. Dismayed by the waste, he determines to conquer the sea and turn all that wasted energy toward human ends. Mephistopheles hatches an elaborate plot to fulfill this ambition: Faust will present himself as a powerful wizard who can help the emperor defeat his foes, in exchange for land rights that are currently located under water. Faust can then reclaim the land from the sea, creating a utopian kingdom on soil truly untouched by humanity.

This plot obviously pushes the fantasies of settler colonialism to an extreme. Although it also seems to evoke the unique topography of one of the most successful colonial and mercantile states, namely the Netherlands, Faust’s vision of life in his new kingdom sounds more to me like the idealization of the American dream:

I see how
To give those millions a new living-space.
They’ll not be safe, but active, free at least.
I see green fields, so fertile: man and beast
At once shall settle that new pleasant earth,
Bastioned by great embankments that will rise
About them, by bold labor brought to birth.
Here there shall be an inland paradise:
Outside, the sea, as high as it can reach,
May rage and gnaw; and yet a common will,
Should it intrude, will act to close the breach.
Yes! to this vision I am wedded still,
And this as wisdom’s final word I teach:
Only that man earns freedom, merits life,
Who must reconquer both in constant daily strife.
In such a place, by danger still surrounded,
Youth, manhood, age, their brave new world have founded.
I long to see that multitude, and stand
With a free people on free land!
Then to the moment I might say:
Beautiful moment, do not pass away! (11559-11582)

The last phrase echoes Faust’s original wager. Even though it is a hypothetical statement about a future possibility, Mephistopheles seizes upon it, but, as I have said, his plans are ultimately foiled. And implicitly, this final labor, which actualizes Faust’s endless striving on the social, economic, and political plane, is part of the justification for Faust’s redemption. Regardless of its human costs—not only Gretchen and her baby, but also an elderly couple who are killed when Faust orders Mephistopheles to remove them from their land so he can have a better view of his kingdom—Goethe expects us to admire the grandeur of Faust’s project and to agree that he deserves the chance to continue striving eternally through the heavenly spheres.

Though this may initially seem like a reversion to the Christianity Faust dismisses early in the play, it is really a free reworking of Christian concepts and images (particularly Catholic ones, which do not reflect Goethe’s own religious background) to craft his own personal mythology of the “Eternal Feminine,” much as he had reworked Greek mythology to his own purposes in the Helen interlude. Finally, it seems, the Faustian modern man has triumphed so decisively over his Christian baggage that he doesn’t even need to reject it—instead, Goethe can treat it as indifferent material for his own goals, just as Faust treats nature itself. Where Marlowe had used Faust to dramatize the fraught transition to modernity, then, the Goethe of Part 2 recasts Faust as not only the embodiment but apotheosis of modern man.

[Continue on to Part 5…]

[See Part 2 here.]

This dynamic plays out almost literally in the opening monologue of Marlowe’s Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, which was written only a few years after the publication of the original Faust chapbook. When we meet Faustus, he is surveying the fields of human knowledge to determine which is of most value. He starts with Aristotelian logic, which claims foundational status and yet achieves no more than to help one “dispute well.” Faust is dissatisfied: “Is, to dispute well, logic’s chiefest end? / Affords this art no greater miracle? / Then read no more; thou hast attain’d that end” (1.1.8-10). Already we can see the mismatch—surely disputing well is not miraculous, but neither does it claim to be. He then moves on to medicine, again quoting and rejecting this field’s promised result: “The end of physic is our body’s health. / Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain’d that end?” (1.1.16-17). He then lays out an impressive résumé of his achievements as a physician but concludes: “Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. / Couldst thou make men to live eternally, / Or, being dead, raise them to life again, / Then this profession were to be esteem’d” (1.1.22-24). Again, Christian presuppositions are producing inappropriate expectations. Faustus then dismisses law as a matter of “paltry legacies” that “fits a mercenary drudge, / Who aims at nothing but external trash” (1.1.28 and 32-33). In place of an explicit comparison to Christian standards—the obvious source of his contempt for mere worldly possessions—Faustus then turns to the study of divinity itself. Apparently flipping through the Bible at random, he turns first to Romans 6:23, “for the wages of sin is death…” and then 1 John 1:8, “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and / there’s no truth in us” (1.1.38-42). In combination, these verses seem to Faustus to indicate that his situation is hopeless—he is constained to sin and therefore to die, a prospect that seems to render life meaningless.

One is tempted to say that the way out of the deadlock he points out can be found in the second half of the verse from Romans—“the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord”—but surely we must give a theology PhD the benefit of the doubt that he knows the Bible. Rather than assuming he is simply making a mistake, I propose that he is lodging a deeper objection to Christianity when he claims that it amounts to a doctrine of “Che serà, serà” (1.1.46) The issue isn’t that there is no hope of salvation, but that the believer is rendered completely passive and powerless. By contrast, his books of magic seem to promise “a world of profit and delight, / Of power, of honour, of omnipotence” (1.1.52-53)—rather than relying on God’s arbitrary gift for his salvation, by becoming a magician Faustus can “gain a deity” of his own (1.1.61).

Yet when Faustus reaches the pinnacle of the magical art by allying himself with Mephistopheles, he spends his life squandering his supposedly divine power on a series of stupid pranks. The sense of pointless dissipation is echoed on the formal level by a plot that never seems to cohere into anything meaningful—defying Aristotle’s prescription of tragic unity in favor of a formless concatenation of episodes. On the level of plot and character as well, Marlowe’s Tragical History seems to defy Aristotle’s standards for tragic drama from the Poetics. There Aristotle defines tragedy as follows (quoting from the Joe Sachs translation):

Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action of serious stature and complete, having magnitude, in language made pleasing in distinct forms in separate parts, imitating people acting and not using narration [by which he means that it is a play], accomplishing by means of pity and fear the cleansing of these states of feeling. (1449b)

As we have seen, far from being serious and complete, the play is a disjointed collection of mostly comic anecdotes. While Marlowe does hit the marks of using pleasing poetic language and literally writing a play rather than a prose narrative, it is not clear to me that we really experience pity and fear in relation to Faust’s fate. The apparent disconnect deepens when we consider Aristotle’s definitions of the tragic character and tragic action. For Aristotle, the tragic hero should be “the sort of person who is not surpassing in virtue and justice, but does not change into misfortune through bad character and vice, but on account of some missing of the mark,” and the action of a tragic play should depict “changing not into bad fortune from good but the opposite way, from good fortune to bad, not through badness of character but on account of a great missing of the mark” (1453a).

In Greek, the term for “missing of the mark” is the famous hamartia, which Christianized interpretations of Greek tragedy have construed as a “tragic flaw”—often pride. In reality, though, Aristotle means that the tragic hero should have made an understandable mistake. Oedipus doesn’t suffer because he’s a bad person—he’s a smart and capable guy who is trying his best to carry out his royal duties, but he got caught up in something really terrible through understandable ignorance. I don’t know how rigorously Marlowe read Aristotle or whether this distinction would have been available to him, but I do think it points toward two possible readings of the play—both of which turn on how we interpret Faustus’s objection to the doctrine of original sin. If we accept the Christianized notion of a “tragic flaw,” we would have to say that Faustus’s pride blinded him to the true nature of Christianity, leading him down his demonic path. If we think more in terms of Oedipus, who was attempting to do good things (e.g., avoiding murdering his father and marrying his mother, or looking out for his city) without realizing the trap he was in, the play becomes more interesting.

This second reading challenges us to look for what is admirable in Faustus, and when we do that we realize that it all hinges on his thirst for knowledge. Among the conditions of his devil’s bargain is the demand that Mephistopheles must answer all his questions—the only power that Faustus actually tests out before signing on the dotted line. We are also told that Mephistopheles takes Faustus to see both the heavenly spheres and a good chunk of the earthly sphere as well, though presumably Marlowe’s special effects budget was insufficient to show those actions directly. To the extent that Faustus seeks eartly power, it is as a servant to the king who helps enrich the kingdom—an ironic echo of the figures of Joseph or Daniel from the Bible, as well as an enactment of exactly the promise that the modern professions and academic disciplines made for themselves. Despite his initial dreams of domineering power from the opening monologue, he never commits irreversible violence and never seeks power for his own sake. Aside from petty amusements and some sexual satisfaction, the only thing he really desires is knowledge—which I personally find to be an admirable desire.

From this perspective, the tragedy of this Tragical History is not that Faustus has chosen damnation but that he was, like Oedipus, born under the wrong circumstances. His mistake is to seek out pure disinterested knowledge in a world where it can only appear as demonic and can only lead to damnation. Marlowe may not have succeeded in crafting a cohesive play, but if my reading does not miss the mark, he did intuitively, and profoundly, grasp the potential of the Faust legend. The original Faust chapbook amounted to a salacious gossip rag laundered with a superifical moral lesson (“don’t sell your soul to the devil, kids!”). In Marlowe’s hands, it becomes an existential meditation on the deadlocks of a world where Christianity appears as a legacy that is at once “paltry” and inescapable.

[Continue on to Part 4.]

[See Part 1 here.]

So far I have emphasized how Life and Trust embodies the unique combination of forward- and backward-looking elements that have made the Faust legend such a fertile ground for reflecting on the dilemmas of modernity. In terms of its narrative frame, this immersive theatrical experience’s portrayal of Faust as a disillusioned banker also draws on a more understated theme. Again and again, we see Faust (or the stand-in character) as a member of one of the professions. In the film The Devil’s Advocate, for instance, Keanu Reeve’s Faustian character is a high-powered lawyer. Goethe’s own version winds up making a transition that I’m sure many of us have considered, moving from professor to political fixer and property developer. And both Goethe and Marlowe, drawing on the earliest versions of the Faust legend, agree that their hero mastered all of the professions of his day and held doctorates from all four major faculties of the university: divinity, law, medicine, and philosophy.

From the very beginning, then, Faust embodies a uniquely modern form of authority, that of the credentialed professional. It is worth pausing to reflect on this association, which seems to prefigure the growing distrust of professionalism and professionals in our contemporary society. What is it about the traditional professions that could seem so suspect, so sinister? Perhaps one hint is another persistent association with Faust, aside from the obvious wickedness of seeking alliance with the devil. I am thinking of the view that Faust is a deceiver. Already in the original chapbook legend that compiled the stories that gathered around the historical Johann Georg Faust, we see Faust identified as a magician and alchemist. Later variations on the theme build on this association with charlatanism and deception. One of the most interesting examples is István Szabó’s film Mephisto portrays the Faust figure as an actor who, ironically, made his name by playing Mephistopheles in Goethe’s Faust. Not only is his profession intrinsically deceptive, but the Faustian character decides to pose as a committed Nazi in order to protect the theater from Hitler’s regime. Thomas Mann’s Doctor Faustus centers on the growing madness of Adrian Leverkühn, who is a master of the most seductive yet ungraspable of the arts—namely music. It does not seem like a stretch to say that both of these more modern Fausts are performing a kind of secularized magic, a disenchanted alchemy.

Going back to the most formative versions of the legend, both Marlowe and Goethe present these two sides of Faust—the credentialed professional and the magical manipulator—as intrinsically linked. In Marlowe’s play, Faust’s dissatisfaction with the power on offer from his four fields of study is what leads him to his magical and demonic pursuits, as though there is a continuity of aim between the professions and sorcery. Indeed, the Latin truisms that Marlowe’s Faust rattles off in the opening monologue seem almost like spells in themselves. Goethe characteristically pushes this Faustian theme even further, staging the assessment of the different fields of study as a dialogue between Mephistopheles (disguised as Faust) and a student who is trying to choose his course of study. In Mephistopheles’s cynical descriptions, the various professions are intrinsically false. Not only do they derive their power from obfuscation, but they license abuse—most notably when Mephistopheles suggests that the student choose medicine in order to have the opportunity to take advantage of his women patients. Even worse, earlier in the Goethe’s play Faust himself dismisses his father’s medical knowledge as worse than useless, claiming that his alchemy-derived drugs, far from curing victims of the plague, effectively euthanized them.

Life and Trust’s banker, driven to despair by the impending collapse of the fraudulent financial system he has presided over, is thus a natural extrapolation—Faust is, in essence, a credentialed expert who no longer finds himself credible. I use terms related to belief or faith advisedly here. If Faust is about a modern crisis of faith, it is also about a Christian crisis of faith. The trope of the deal with the devil contains a fatal paradox. In order to believe that such a deal is possible, that such an entity exists, one must accept the framework of Christian belief. But within that framework, such a deal can only lead to disaster and damnation! At the cusp of modernity, then, Faust simultaneously embodies a corrupted and self-undermining Christian faith and a corrupted and self-undermining professional authority. The most simplistic Whig narrative of modernity holds that medieval superstition was discredited and replaced by authentic modern rationality. In the Faust narrative, by contrast, the authority of Christianity has certainly seen better days, but its hold remains tenacious and insidious enough to damn Faust—and condemn the alternative modern forms of authority in advance. One is reminded of the classic Seinfeld episode where George claims God is cursing him. When Jerry reminds him that he doesn’t believe in God, George retorts: “I do for the bad stuff!”

So far I have spoken primarily of Faust as a professional and of the strangely preemptive collapse of professional authority in the legend. If we view the various professions through Mephistopheles’s cynical lens, there may seem to be no problem. Who cares if lawyers and bankers are consumed with self-doubt? Yet Goethe’s focus on Faust’s status as a medical doctor does point to a deeper problem. The credibility of modern professional credentials is not—or at least professes not to be—grounded solely in the empty self-assertion of a power-hungry clique. The modern credentialed profession claims to have a special knowledge that the professional guild exists to safeguard and expand. As the example of medicine shows, we all must hope that that knowledge is not purely invented or self-referential. We associate medicine more closely with scientific knowledge in the narrow sense, but ultimately all professions claim to have a knowledge that is scientific in the broader sense of the German Wissenschaft. Even if non-specialists are typically not in a position to assess the knowledge claimed by modern professionals, their knowledge is or should be rational, objective, and publicly verifiable. That association with science or Wissenschaft is why the university has always been the site of modern credentialization—and hence why Faust, as the professor who is fully credentialed in all fields, represents such a distinctively modern crisis of faith.

Here one may detect the influence of Hans Blumenberg’s monumental tome The Legitimacy of the Modern Age. As is well known, there Blumenberg forcefully rejects the claim of political theology that secular modernity is determined by its Christian roots. As a political theologian myself, I personally find his critique a bit beside the point, because he is not talking primarily about the political concepts and institutions that are political theology’s stock and trade, but about an institution that political theology mainly ignores: namely, modern science. For Blumenberg, modern scientific knowledge is at once genuinely new and genuinely authoritative—to use the German word for modernity, it is what is neu in the Neuzeit. Where the political theologian, in Blumenberg’s telling, is constantly seeking to undermine modernity as founded on the shifting sand of a disavowed legacy, Blumenberg insists that modern science is fully legitimate on its own terms.

This does not mean that modern science has nothing to do with Christianity, however. Science does not arise from Christianity, but it does arise in the midst of Christianity. And just as Christianity found that it had to provide some kind of answer to the questions raised by the most sophisticated and prestigious discourses of its time, namely Greek philosophy, so too does modern science have to respond in some way to the Christian milieu in which it happens to have arisen. In both cases, the attempt to answer the existential questions posed by the old regime is a case of putting new wine in old wineskins. In the extreme case, questions that were urgent in the context of the earlier paradigm become simply irrelevant in the new era—except that the handoff is never so neat and tidy. Even if those who inaugurate the new paradigm are able to cast aside the old values themselves, they must convince others who are still immersed in the old world.

One of Blumenberg’s clearest examples of this dynamic is the Christian theological conviction that the only knowledge worth having is knowledge about one’s relationship to God, or more abstractly, knowledge about the meaning and purpose of existence. As is well known, that is not the kind of knowledge modern science supplies—nor is it trying to. Yet the inertia of Christian expectations transforms that category error into a persistent disappointment, as though modern science is constantly trying and failing to supply a form of meaning that it in fact has no means or ambition to supply. And that disappointment always threatens to curdle into suspicion and hostility, because traditional Christianity—with its accustomed binary thinking—views knowledge that falls short of its standards not as indifferent or irrelevant, but as actively wicked.

[Continue on to Part 3.]

[Editor’s note: I was invited to give a keynote address for this year’s Romancing the Gothic online conference. Given that the theme was “Devils and Justified Sinners,” I chose to discuss the Faust legend, which has been a big part of my teaching for many years but not something I have devoted any concentrated writing to. Since it is my first experiment in writing about Faust, it is closer to a blog post than a formal article in spirit, and so I will be posting the talk here in serialized format over the course of the week.]

It may initially seem strange that I am proposing to connect the two themes in my title. What could the story of a deal with the devil have to do with our contemporary ecological crisis? Here I could invoke any number of superficial parallels—we “made a deal with the devil” of capitalist growth and now the bill is coming due, etc., etc. That would doubtless be a satisfyingly clever way of saying the things we already know to be true about climate change, but it would not shed much fresh light on either the Faust legend or the Anthropocene.

Instead of jumping right into the comparison, then, I will largely take everyone’s knowledge of climate change for granted and focus initially on an analysis of the most fundamental themes of the Faust legend.  I observe first of all that the Faust legend has always provided a way to use the old to think through the new. In its demonological themes, the legend seems initially to be grounded in “medieval superstition.” Yet it is based on a historical individual—a fact that I can never quite believe—who lived at the very cusp of modernity, and its many later interpreters and appropriators have always used it to think through distinctively modern dilemmas. This is true even at the level of medium. The original Faust chapbook was one of the first runaway bestsellers of the print era, and Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus was among the most iconic showpieces of the Elizabethan era’s secular theater.

The Faustian fusion of innovation and old-timey-ness continues even to this day. This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to travel from Chicago to New York City to see the latest adaptation of the Faust legend, called Life and Trust. (In fact, I wrote a good portion of this talk in the hotel lobby after being stranded by a major storm that surely arose to punish me for so extravagantly indulging in my obsession with devils and demons.) Life and Trust belongs to an emergent but increasingly popular genre that we could call the immersive theatrical experience. The goal of this unique format is to break down the barrier between the audience and the players. Instead of watching events unfold on stage, the audience is thrown into the same space as the actors—a sprawling, even confusing space where everyone is free to wander. Even more radically, it shatters the unity of theatrical action by dispersing the actors and scenes throughout the space. Though many of the scenes play out in a kind of repeated loop, it is functionally impossible to see everything in one performance. And you have to work for what you do see, chasing after the incredibly athletic actors as they wind through a labyrinthine and stair-filled venue.

Life and Trust was developed by the producers of the best-known previous entry in the genre, the Macbeth adaptation Sleep No More, which recently completed a ten-year run. In the waiting area before the show, we talked to a young couple who had attended Sleep No More multiple times in the hope of seeing as much of its sprawling plot as possible. Some fans attended upward of a dozen times so that they could explore every nook and cranny of the elaborate set—audience members are allowed to dig through drawers, for example, which often include surprising background information or Easter eggs. Though Sleep No More had some limited dialogue, it was primarily a dance-based experience, something like a fragmentary narrative ballet. Life and Trust took that even further, all but dispensing with dialogue in favor of intense choreography.

In keeping with the tradition of Faust adaptations, this innovation was paired with a look backward—not to the early modernity of Faust, but to the Gilded Age and the Great Crash of 1929. For Americans, those events are a kind of pre-history, the threshold to the “American century” that began with Roosevelt’s New Deal, which profoundly transformed the American state and economy and laid the foundation for the postwar boom. But it is a past that continues to haunt the neoliberal era, where skyrocketing inequality and degraded state capacity threaten to return us to a new Gilded Age and recurrent economic crises inevitably raise the specter of a new Great Depression. The Faust avatar is a banker who is about to go bust in the Great Crash and sells his soul for the opportunity to relive his youth in the late 1800s. Once transported back to that era, the audience has the chance to follow any number of side characters from a variety of social backgrounds. One plot we were able to follow was that of a lesbian romance between a wealthy aristocrat and a servant girl, presided over by a demon who—as far as I was able to discern—was actually trying to get them to deny their love and conform to social norms, rather than egging on their supposed “sin.” This strikes me as a brilliant adaptation of the demonological theme for a world where the most serious sins are those against authenticity.

The audience in Life and Trust isn’t left completely rudderless. The drama is framed by two shared experiences, the opening scene that establishes the outline of the narrative and a dramatic conclusion. Even in those performances, it is impossible to take in everything at once from any particular standpoint within the theatrical space. But the basic outline of events is clear, especially in the final scene, where Faust’s side of the bargain inevitably comes due. As Faust pleads for his soul, dancers in demonic masks throw fake money down on the audience—and at times tear the bills to shreds, enacting the nearest secular equivalent to the death of God. Faust’s fate is also secularized. Instead of being pulled down into a literal hell, he is fitted with a strait jacket and consigned to an insane asylum, a potent image of being reduced to a non-person. For good measure, he is also drowned in a way reminiscent of magicians’ clones from the film The Prestige—an apparent reference to themes of uncanny doubles and echoes of The Picture of Dorian Gray that unfolded in parts of the theater I was unable to find. There is, in short, a lot going on.

[Continue on to Part 2….]

I’m gratified at the response yesterday’s post has received. It always makes one nervous to criticize what we used to call “political correctness,” because it can both open one up to unfair attacks and make one “sound like” bad political actors. The fact that I only really saw one response that appeared to conflate my critique of “political correctness” with a South Park-style advocacy of using offensive terms for their own sake was promising in this context. It seems like people really are tired of — quite literally exhausted by — this style of ostentatious self-righteous nitpicking. Nevertheless, for my own peace of mind I’d like to make it a little more explicit where I “draw the line” between the kind of common-sense courtesy and sensitivity we should all display and the kind of self-defeating signalling that we should try to avoid.

One clear case came out of a Facebook thread where one individual shared their gut-level offense at the term “moron” and their disappointment that I used that term as an example of PC overreach. In point of fact, I have eliminated “moron” from my everyday language, because I’m aware that those sensitivities exist. I believe they have been actively cultivated in a way that is ultimately counterproductive, but I can’t undo the fact that people have those sensitivities and there is no reason for me to offend them needlessly. I apologized for causing offense to that individual. By contrast, there was one time several years ago that I slipped up and used the word “moron” in a tweet, and a stranger — with no apparent connection to the disability community — direct-messaged me that such language could be offensive. When I shared my view that disability activists had actively cultivated those associations and created an occasion for offense where one needn’t exist, this person said they actually agreed with me.

To me, these two conversations are a teachable moment. One person was speaking on their own behalf, sharing that their experience and situation made a certain term hurtful to them. The other was speaking on behalf of a purely hypothetical other person who may potentially take offense. Basically, I think we should all respond with generosity and compassion to the former and we should stop doing the latter. We can perhaps think of other examples along these lines. For instance, it’s clear to me that all white people should treat the N-word as completely forbidden and taboo. There is no circumstance under which they should utter it, and they should call out their fellow white people if one of them breaks this taboo. By contrast, for a white person to correct a fellow white person who is still using the slightly outdated “African American” instead of the more current “Black” strikes me as not worth it.

Obviously in some sense the taboo against white people using the N-word is speaking on behalf of someone else — but it’s also speaking on behalf of oneself. We should all be offended by racism. It is a false and destructive pattern of belief and behavior that has no place in our shared life. We should not want to be racist and we should create conditions under which others do not feel comfortable being racist. It’s not only about not gravely offending Black people — though that is also urgently important. It’s also about what kind of person you want to be. Not keeping up with whether “Black” or “African American” is the preferred usage does not seem to have the same moral weight. (In fact, many older white people probably lived through a time when “Black” seemed vaguely insulting and “African American” was meant to signal greater respect.)

The case is clearer when some new coinage or practice is instituted. The odds that these innovations are responding to actual demands or even desires of the group in question are, in my experience, very very small. Even if members of thoses groups contributed to the proposed new norm, they likely represent an elite, unrepresentative strata of that community. A term like “Latinx,” for instance, clearly does not emerge organically out of the self-understanding of communities of Latin American descent. It is an ugly neologism that aims to “solve” the perceived problem that “Latino” does not appear sufficiently gender-inclusive from an Anglophone perspective. (I’ve also seen “Latin@,” which… a crucial aspect of words is that you have to be able to say them.)

Similarly, I’m not convinced that most land acknowledgments actually arise from genuine dialogue with the affect indigenous peoples — presumably many of them are based on internet searches for which tribes used to occupy a certain area, etc. If no one is asking for these acknowledgments and if no concrete change in practice results (is anyone doing land acknowledgments in the Chicago area actually reimbursing the Potawatomi People for the use of their unceded land, for example?), then I’m not sure what we’re trying to accomplish other than performing a certain “best practices” of righteousness. Of course, I can only assume that some land acknowledgments do result from such dialogue and engagement — but the awkwardly ritualistic nature of the practice leads me to believe that the vast majority of them represent a form of trend following.

I don’t presume to be the final arbiter on such matters. But that’s kind of my point — there can be no final decision of “where to draw the line.” We’re all just human beings and we need to negotiate a way to live together. The “politically correct” style of social justice denies that. It tries to set up in advance what the rules of engagement will be, often unilaterally on behalf of the very people it is supposedly empowering. But there is no system that is not gameable, no language that can’t be used to hurt. We all know people who have used politically correct categories to shame and silence others for individual gain or simply for the enjoyment of a power trip. We shouldn’t be afraid to call bullshit on that kind of behavior, and for too long we mostly have been.

To be sure, many people who reject political correctness (and especially those who deploy the term “woke”) are bad actors who simply resent that they aren’t allowed to make racist and sexist jokes anymore. But many are potentially reachable people who were turned off by the alienating neologisms and bad faith power plays — and when we can’t acknowledge that, especially when we conflate such excesses with “common sense” courtesy and respect, we are hurting the cause.

Again, to my mind the current messaging from the Democrats is well on “this side” of that line. They hold Trump, Vance, and their cronies up to ridicule for their blatant racism and sexism and homophobia. They presuppose that such attitudes and behaviors are unacceptable and expect their audience to agree — and the vast majority of Americans do agree. But more than that, rather than associating them with an inescapable all-pervading power, they present such attitudes and behaviors as ultimately pathetic. Look at these fools — why are they like that? Why would anyone want to be like that? In short, they respond like humans and invite their audience to respond like humans. That’s what makes it such a breath of fresh air compared to the kind of HR-inflected social justice jargon that has dominated such discussions for too long.

In the wake of Biden’s withdrawal from the race and Kamala Harris’s shockingly rapid and decisive ascension, I have begun feeling emotions that I haven’t allowed myself to feel in connection to politics in a long time: hope, excitement, even enjoyment. As many commentators have noted, there is a joyfulness, even a level of fun, to Harris’s campaign that is an almost shocking contrast to what came before. The fact that they are playing along with the JD Vance couch meme may be the clearest sign that they are in tune with contemporary culture, but the more general pattern of calling conservative leaders “weird” and “creepy” feels like a major turning point — not just in terms of political tactics, but in terms of liberal political culture. It marks the end of a certain fatalistic defensiveness on the one hand, and also of the joylessly self-righteous habits of policing and shaming allies on the left.

For all my life, conservatives have been the norm. Everybody (who matters) feels at best very uncomfortable about abortion and non-normative sexuality. Everybody (who matters) resents the burden of funding high-quality public service. Etc., etc., etc. Tactical observations from the early 90s hardened into inescapable truisms, even as they became less and less true. This produced a permanent defensive crouch, as Democrats seemed to believe that Republican rule was the norm and they could at best eke out a narrow win to take their turn — at passing a more nuanced and “smarter” version of Republican policies. Priority number one after each victory was to get bipartisan support, as though Democrats didn’t believe it was legitimate for them to legislate on their own. Attachment to the fillibuster rule among the older cohort of Democratic senators is the most destructive example of this built-in defeatism.

So the new confidence of the Harris campaign is refreshing, as is the contempt and puzzlement they express at conservatives’ increasingly unpopular and downright bizarre beliefs. More specifically, what is refreshing here is their willingness to be mean, to insult, to reduce their opponents to sputtering speechlessness. I cannot emphasize enough how much of a break this is with the joylessly self-righteous policing of language that has been the norm among liberals and leftists for my entire adult life. From that perspective, the parody responses write themselves — “we shouldn’t kink-shame JD Vance…” or “Republican leaders won’t read your post calling them weird, but your friends who could be viewed as weird for completely unrelated and totally harmless reasons will…” — and the fact that it’s so easy to come up with them shows how that mode of engagement has reduced itself to self-parody.

A key shift for me when I saw a white man worrying aloud about the tendency to refer to Vice President Harris as “Kamala” — there is of course a whole history of belittling people by refusing the respect of their last name, it’s especially fraught since she’s a Black woman, etc., etc. And I will be honest with you and say my first response was that this person should simply shut the fuck up. “Kamala” is a very distinctive name, whereas “Harris” is not. Her own social media team is called “Kamala HQ.” We do not need to get out ahead of the supposed “victim” herself.

More broadly, though, my strong gut reaction reflected my belief that we have just got to be done with this style of whiny preemptive strike against any hypothetical offense that may one day be perceived. Political correctness is a strategy that has failed. Aside from eliminating the grossest slurs and overtly bigoted jokes — which even conservatives themselves know not to share in mixed company — it has produced only irritation and insecurity.

People like to present it as simple common sense, but the euphemism treadmill and, more than that, the constant incentive to find ever more nuances of linguistic “oppression” ensure that the politically correct linguistic norms can never actually settle into a coherent common sense. It produces bristly defensiveness in those who can’t keep up and an unhealthy and counterproductive readiness to be offended among the avant-garde. My favorite example of the counterproductive nature of such language policing is the fact that disability activists are more or less singlehandedly keeping alive the etymological association of words like “moron” with disability. Linguistic usage moves on — take the win! But no, etymology is destiny when it gives you something to nitpick and alienate potential allies over.

Related here, I think, is the culture of constantly nitpicking headlines from the New York Times on social media. Again, the belief is that politics will take care of itself if everyone agrees to speak in just the right way. Obviously, the New York Times is a bad actor in many ways and the media establishment is artificially propping up Trump through the application of double standards. They are worthy of critique, but the obsessiveness and detail-orientation of the critique is what raises my hackles. It bespeaks a whiny wounded entitlement, as though we all believe that the New York Times should be a liberal actor or that a simple description of reality would automatically favor our politics.

In reality, to do politics, you have to do politics. The media is not an umpire, it is a terrain of struggle. The Harris campaign is engaging that struggle much more effectively than Joe Biden ever could because it does not embrace the false premise that the New York Times is or should be on her side by default. And she has received overwhelmingly favorable coverage! Not 100% — there is always something to whine about, of course. They don’t always put the word “falsely” in the headline, and sometimes they take too long describing Trump or Vance’s claims before debunking them. They achieved that not by whining about how unfair the Times has been, but by actively setting the agenda and setting the tone.

And that tone is mean. It is contemptuous. It aims to harm Trump and Vance and their reputations. It aims to make them personally angry and make people question their loyalty to such deeply flawed men. To achieve these goals, it is not overly concerned about petty details like whether JD Vance really engaged in an elaborate form of masturbation involving his furniture and described it at length in his memoir — much less whether other furniture-masturbation enthusiasts might be collateral damage of the joke. The joy and humor and fun of the Harris campaign, the way that it acknowledges the Republicans as enemies without setting them up as all-powerful, hopefully marks a decisive end to that kind of idiocy. From now on, entitlement and prickly defensiveness can remain in its more natural home — among the washed up losers who have coasted on white male privilege so long and spent so much time in the “safe space” of their ideological bubble that they don’t realize how pathetic they appear to anyone halfway normal — because eventually everyone complaining about unfair media coverage and moaning about how they aren’t being shown the proper respect will realize that… they sound like Trump.