We have lost sight of the key lesson of all politics, which is that origins of political order are either insupportable, mysterious, or both. To know everything about the US Supreme court, the Georgia Supreme Court, the Butts County Superior Court, the Georgia Pardons Board, prosecutors and protesters, is to still know nothing about why the state should ever have a monopoloy on the unpunished use of lethal violence.
after Mark Kingwell.
Unfortunately, it’s easy for all this higher-order meme-talk to fall into self-parody or self-indulgence. The Internet acts as a fertile new breeding ground for ideas, a huge throbbing brain that hastens the process of memetic infection — usually for ill, or at least for banality. The memetic warriors of my own acquaintance—media critics and culture jammers and techno-anarchists of various kinds—spend an awful lot of time writing elaborate e-mails but not much time actually changing the world.
Confidence in memes, though laudable, cannot be squared with global cultural software that is more and more in favor of profit-taking, resource delpetion, and blithe acceptance of yawning gaps between a prosperous few and an impoverished many. Spreading new memes is harder than it seems, because the other aspects of materialism, like who collects the profits in a consumer economy, are much harder to change than a dance move.
Mark Kingwell (in 1999) for Harper’s, review of Cultural Software, J.M. Balkin
"Consciousness is like the light trapped in the greenhouse of language."
— Mark Kingwell
The self as we experience it is like the graphic user interface developed by those proto-Macintosh visionaries at Xerox’s Palo Alto Research Center, a comforting and simplistic piece of make-believe that presents a friendly visage, the familiar illusion of the desktop, masking the intricacies of machine code buzzing away below, all those marching zeros and ones. The conscious self is no more the whole organism than the interface is the whole computational system.
Mark Kingwell (1999)
Suppose for a moment that there are three clear stages of capitalism, defined minimally as the dominance of markets by money.
The third stage, postmodern capitalism (for lack of a better label), is with us still. We witness both the cultivation and the manufacture of desire—and the wild proliferation of it. The market engine is still producing consumption, but now it is consumption of the self in the form of the consumer. We’re no longer interested in stuff, or even in the satisfaction that stuff promises; now we chase a certain idea of ourselves, as cool or fashionable or self-actualized. Thus the arrival of what we ought to call erotic capital, the most spectral form. I, with all my carefully constructed preferences for Pink shirts or Lululemon sweats, become the most desirable consumer product in the economy of taste. To paraphrase Slavoj Zižek, the superego is no longer a form of restraining conscience—Don’t do that!—but instead expresses the imperative of smarmy waiters everywhere: Enjoy! Consumption is both intimate and relentless: brand-conscious consumers cannibalize themselves, feeding on their jumble of layered identities.
Exemplary fiction: David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest.