The Ghosts of Monsters

In the political sphere there are monsters and there are ghosts and then there are ghosts of monsters.


By monsters you maybe he thinking I'm referring to the despotic and tyrannical figures whose crimes pollute the pages of every historical period; cruel emperors, savage monarchs, demented autocrats all bloated with egotism and constipated by paranoia. I will not honour them with a role call. Certainly the way these leaders have acted is monstrous, but they are not monsters, at least not by my definition. Monsters are more than human and these pompous bullies were not; indeed arguably they were often less.


The monsters of which I speak may be fed and fashioned by humanity but their reach is further, their power more potent and their potential longevity vastly superior to than of any individual, for these monsters are movements, political movements. Now this is not to say that all political movements will become monsters, any more than we would conclude that all leaders are destined to be monstrous. But some certainly will.


I'm thinking here particularly of the Behemoth and Leviathan of the twentieth century; fascism and communism, strident collectivist doctrines who became synonymous with the repression of individualism and the worship of uniformity. There is not time here to go into detail of their histories, but I would argue that communism, whatever the sometimes appalling reality, was born out of genuinely noble theory, whilst fascism was always more about feeding a fear than chasing a dream. Still they both ended up rotting in the same historical dustbin. Discarded social experiments which the respectable politicians which now operate in their wake have been all to keen to avoid the stench of. And understandably; for which progressive left wing party would want to be tarred with the unforgiving brush of Stalinism and which modern right wing party would wish to be tainted by the cancerous stain of the Nazi legacy. So our politics have marched on and away from those lunatic creeds with such determination that we now have great difficulty understanding how someone could or would get caught up in such a bizarre enterprise.


However monsters, even slain monsters, throw long shadows. We may believe we have escaped their sinister pull, but look more carefully and you will find their ghosts still walk among us and exert influence, only not quite in the way you might imagine. My belief is that so hasty has been our desire to expunge the memory of these two political monsters that we have jettisoned the very notion of collective politics itself. Right and left have inadvertently conspired in the dismantling of any sense of the body politic. The Tories may pay lips service to the concept of the nation, but it always feels that they're just going through the motions for old time's sake. The Labour Party may extol the need for social justice, but always stops short of admitting that a virile state is the only body which can deliver it. So what are we left with; a tyranny of the individual, a rending of the bonds of community, the slow fading of the ink on the social contract.


The monsters do not threaten us, but their ghosts do. So terrified are we that we may forget the lesson that ideological monsters are large and strong and can quickly become intoxicated by the adoration of a crowd, we now find the idea that there is value in standing together in the name of any common cause or common culture laughable. But it is a hollow laugh and if you listen to it carefully you may hear it crack with fear.

A Theory the Length of a Street

A few weeks back I found myself cycling up Whitehall. The lights ahead of me had changed in my favour, but a man was just starting to cross. I slowed down and making eye contact indicated he could pass safely. Was there...? There was something familiar about him. Bowl me over if it wasn't Will Hutton, economic pundit extraordinaire and former editor-in-chief of the Observer. Taller than I'd imagined, but otherwise undeniably the auger and savant who regularly graces the studios of the more analytical news programmes.

"You're Will Hutton" I observed pulling over and dismounting. He agreed warily and asked who I was. No one of any great import I assured him before, in a curious moment of spontaneity and eccentricity, I began to share with him my theory. It seemed the perfect opportunity for I had a theory and a theory is a thing to be shared. This particular theory had been born out of slow rumination, frantic dialectics, ugly events, abandoned philosophy and serendipitous dreaming . Together these elements had fused and fulminated within the roomy, gloomy seclusion of my mind into something which I felt almost certain was a theory. Almost.

The question was would it, like a pit pony, ghost train or roll of old film, turn out to lose its vision, power and purpose once exposed to the harsh light of scrutiny, once spoken out loud.

I only had the length of King Charles Street - the direction in which he was heading - to try and explain it and to discover the truth. I'm certain much of what I had to say had a garbled intensity which a lesser man might have found alarming. I think it took Will a moment to get over the fact that someone was advancing a bit of home wrought political philosophy with much the same intensity that one imagines Hollywood directors are from time to time subject when cornered by frustrated fans with screenplays to pitch. I babbled on blundering from one point to another and then back again, and on and up and back and then, well then I noticed that he seemed to be nodding; not you understand necessarily in agreement, but with encouragement certainly. "Go on" he muttered when I paused for breath and so I did go on, all the way to the door to which which his business drew him. Perhaps he only feinted interest, perhaps he was just humouring me but actually I think not. In a perfect world I would be able to recall exactly what he said, whereas in truth all I clearly remember now is him using the word 'tight' in reference to my theory and recommending that I read some Hannah Arendt by way of a supplement to my embryonic musings.

This may not seem to the reader a ringing endorsement of my jumbled notions, but then that was never the point. All I needed was a chance to take them out in public and see how they behaved in company. They may not have been perfect; rude, naive and quite possibly clumsy, but I found I was proud enough of them then, to  feel confident now that it is worth sharing them with you. I will, however, refrain from the temptation do it in a garbled hysterical torrent for I am hopeful that you will have the time to come with me a little further than the length of that august side street which runs off Whitehall. However, having done me the courtesy of coming this far I think it would be churlish of me not to give you any idea of what I attempted to impart that fateful day.  I will give my theory in it's simplest and most reduced form; it's essence if you will.

And it is this; that we have forgotten how to think collectively and that that is a very dangerous thing to forget.