Review of Michel Houellebecq's "Serotonin"

Serotonin is the second novel I have read by Michel Houellebecq. The first, Soumission, perfectly demonstrated his penchant for telling controversial and outrageous stories, in that case Islam’s gradual and largely peaceful conquest of France. Serotonin continues this provocative approach with the story of Florent, a 46 year-old man who finds that he has reached middle age with little to show for it other than a series of failed relationships and a rather dull job at the ministry of agriculture. Like many people in developed countries who find themselves in similar situations, Florent tries to resolve his malaise with anti-depressants which artificially produce the hormone Serotonin (hence the book’s title). Although they help him function in the sense that after taking them he can get out of bed, eat breakfast and shower, they do not resolve his existential crisis. The underlying meaning of the book is that this medicalization of despair is ultimately a symptom of a much deeper disease, namely civilizational decadence and decline induced by social and economic liberalism. Of course, Houellebecq does not explicitly state this thesis; rather it is implicit in the story and particularly the characters, including Florent’s friend Aymeric, a farmer who is harmed by free trade and decides to revolt, and for which he pays the ultimate price. Although the text is ultimately full front assault on liberalism, it does not provide a viable alternative to this political order; yet there are hints in the text that Houellebecq’s ideal society is Sparta.

The great polemicist

 Frustration with Sexual Freedom

The book begins when Florent is in his umpteenth relationship, this time with Yuzu, a Japanese woman who, at 26 years-old, is two decades younger than him. Like many foreigners in Paris she comes from a well-off family who is able to finance her studies and living expenses abroad. She is attractive, worldly, educated, and displays the deference and respectfulness inculcated by Japan’s traditional culture. Many middle aged European men might be delighted to have a girlfriend like Yuzu, and Florent’s recounting the relationship suggests that it was initially enjoyable, particularly during the phase when sexual attraction is most intense. By the time the reader encounters them, they already stopped frequently sleeping together, and the relationship continues through inertia and economic necessity rather than love and commitment. Things go downhill one day when Florent opens her email account and finds that she is an amateur porn actress; in one of those typical Houellebecq scenes which shock and provoke the reader, Florent downloads some of the videos of her getting gangbanged and having sex with animals (a dog, to be precise). These videos are described in detail and leave an indelible mark on the incredulous reader.

At this point Florent is already out of love with Yuzu, but he is still upset about the betrayal, particularly because he finds that the videos were filmed the year before, that is, the period when he thought that the relationship was at its peak. He ponders how he should respond and decides to murder her. When Yuzu returns, he will propose that they have a few drinks, and when she is drunk he will throw her out of the window from their 30^thfloor apartment. He changes his mind only because he is afraid of going to jail and being raped by other inmates (not, um, because of the immorality of murder). Plan B is to leave everything—Yuzu, their apartment, his job—and disappear while trying to start a new life.

Florent inherited his parents’ estate, and this allows him to live without working. He finds a cheap motel and settles in, but his depression has worsened. Not only is he sad and pessimistic all the time, he has difficulty getting out of bed and showering. He visits a doctor who prescribes Captorix, the latest generation of anti-depressants, which help him function, but at the cost of losing all sexual desire or even the capacity to have an erection. 

As the story proceeds, the message becomes clear: it is society that is sick, and not depressed people. The target—unsurprisingly from Houellebecq—is liberalism (understood philosophically). But unlike Marxists, who only attack economic liberalism, or conservatives, who critique the social kind, his target is the whole package of individual freedoms which characterize contemporary society.  His frustration with sexual liberalism becomes evident when Florent reminisces about his past and introduces the reader to his series of failed relationships. One in particular is Clair, and he decides to reconnect with her after his break-up with Yuzu. They meet for dinner, and he discovers that she is in a similar situation as him—single and frustrated after having many failed relationships, and in a job she does not like. Even worse, he finds that she is profoundly self-absorbed. There is no real conversation during their meal, rather there is a monologue as Clair endlessly discusses her problems while not showing any interest in Florent’s life. A few bottles of wine nonetheless loosens them up and they go home together, but Florent is on anti-depressants which prevent him from having an erection, despite her best efforts to stimulate him. He tells her about the medication, and this is when, for the first time that evening, she actually becomes curious about his life.

Only one of his girlfriends gave him genuine happiness. She was not French, (perhaps unsurprisingly, from Houellebecq’s perspective), she was a Dane, and they met at Cite Universitaire, a place where non-nationals mingle and develop relationships. It was a period in their lives when optimism about the future reigned supreme, and both seemed destined for promising and fulfilling careers—she as a veterinarian, and he an engineer for the agricultural sector. They lived together and spent Christmas with each other’s respective families. This happy union lasted five years, and ended because Florent cheated on her. Even worse was that, from Florent’s perspective, the betrayal was rather meaningless. There was no emotion involved, and it occurred with someone who was much less attractive than Camille, while he was drunk and out with friends; the other woman happened to be there, and alcohol and a bit of sexual desire did the rest.

Perhaps countless relationships end this way, but in this case it occurred with the only woman who genuinely made Florent happy and with whom he could envisage spending his entire life. By the time the reader learns about Camille, Florent is in the pit of despair mentioned above, and he decides to look for her. He discovers her veterinarian office and stalks her, waiting for that perfect moment to make an encounter. But his plans for their getting together again are disrupted when he sees her with a small child, meaning her commitment to her son may compromise her devotion to Florent. At this point, Florent descends into madness: he plans to kill the baby, and rationalizes it by reminding the reader that males in other species frequently kill another’s offspring when mating. Why can’t humans do the same? Happily, he comes to his senses at the last minute and fails to carry it out.

Victims of Free Trade

Aymeric was Florent’s friend during their university years. He is of aristocratic lineage—one of his ancestors fought with Richard Lionheart during the attempt to recapture Jerusalem—and inherited land that for centuries was transmitted to each generation. After his studies, Aymeric married someone from his social class, and they had two children. They make use of his inherited land to produce goods for the agricultural sector, meaning his interests are now tied with those in the rural and peripheral areas of the country.

Florent decides to visit him, and by then Aymeric is in bad shape. His glamorous wife met a dashing pianist and moved to London with him, bringing their two children along. This separation is devastating, and Aymeric deals with it by consuming copious amounts of alcohol and marijuana. Meanwhile, cheaper products from poorer competitors, like Ireland, Poland, and India, cause economic pain to him and his employees. Protectionist barriers are slowly being removed, and hence farmers are left to themselves to respond what they perceive to be unfair competition. Serotonin emphasizes the human and social side of these economic developments—the need to give up heating the house in order to reduce daily expenses, family conflicts, the loss of dignity created by unemployment. Aymeric needs to find other ways to raise money to live, and decides to capitalize off intra-European tourism. One of his guests, Florent discovers, is a German pedophile who travels to France to satisfy his lust for little girls. Sensitive readers will be shocked by the scene when Florent discovers the videos of a 12 year-old girl performing fallatio on a middle-aged German tourist, in part because the reader knows that these things actually occur in the real world.

Aymeric’s attempt to find alternative sources of revenue is insufficient, and his business is rapidly deteriorating. The same is true for others in his community who work in the same sector. They meet and engage in "consciousness raising" and discover their shared pain, and its source, namely, the French state which has sacrificed the interests of farmers on the altar of free trade and European integration. The farmers decide to revolt, and these scenes solidify Houellebecq’s reputation for having the ability to capture the nation’s pulse and predict the direction in which it is going: the yellow vest protests, a revolt of the periphery against the elites in Paris, began just after Serotonin was released. Parallels are clearly there, particularly the class-based nature of the protesters, who come from those groups which have experienced economic decline and economic insecurity. Targets are also the same: free trade, European integration, and the classes which benefit from these economic developments. 

Back to the farmers’ revolt in Serotonin: the confrontation turns violent, in part because of the despair of the farmers. Florent witnesses the protests and sees Aymeric’s face up close; he notices that Aymeric, for the first time in many years, seems happy. One reason may be that he is taking action rather than submitting to his distress. He also has very little to lose at this point—he has lost his wife and children, and is near bankruptcy; paradoxically, this gives him the freedom to take more risk, including risking his life during the faceoff with the French security forces. Readers expecting a happy ending, such as the protests effectively changing the direction of French politics, will be disappointed: Aymeric and many of his comrades die in a firefight with the police.

If not liberalism, than what?

Florent’s series of failed relationships leads to a major depression, and he deals with his despair by taking anti-depressants. As the book proceeds it becomes clear that their widespread use is a symptom of wider disease that is civilizational in character, namely, sexual freedom, the general lack of commitment and the desire for individual pleasure. Each failed relationship adds another layer of frustration, which accumulates and encrusts itself like the detritus slowly covering a barren landscape. Some are lucky to find stability, love, and commitment, but many end up middle aged and disillusioned. And not even the seemingly privileged classes are immune to these dynamics, as demonstrated by Aymeric; his aristocratic lineage did not protect him from the devastation of losing his wife and children. The latter’s despair was worse than Florent’s because he was also the victim of economic liberalism, in this case, free trade and European integration, which financially ruined him. Rather than turning to anti-depressants, Aymeric used alcohol and drugs, and only when he revolted did he once again have a glimpse of the happiness that was quickly extinguished by the repressive French state.

Liberals (in the philosophical sense) will be aghast at this thesis that social and economic freedom lead to disappointment and despair, and will critique Houellebecq for focusing only on the costs and not the benefits. For every Aymeric, there is perhaps a Claude or a Jean who has benefited from the new economy—perhaps by creating a successful start-up which caters to the needs of the tourist industry. Economic change is a fact of life, they say, and it is best to profit from it rather than complain. It would seem, however, that these views resonate in the big cities, like Paris (or London), which have been the main beneficiaries of the liberal order. The widespread popularity of Houellebecq’s books suggest that their views do not prevail.

What is the alternative? On this, Serotonin is much less clear. There are sections which give some hints, for example, when he says that traditional parties ignored the plight of French farmers, and only the French Communists and the Rassemblement National were sympathetic to their plight. But these two ideologies—Marxism and ethnic nationalism—are logically incoherent, and thus reconciling them is not plausible. There seems to be implicit nostalgia for a pre-liberal past, but which one? My reading of Serotonin is that Houellebecq’s ideal society was Sparta: martial, unified, and duty-based; where risk, danger, and heroism were valued; and where social action was determined by the good of the collective not the freedom of the individual (this is unsurprising, since another French critic of liberalism, Rousseau, essentially endorsed the same vision). If Houellebecq’s prescience is confirmed by future events, the end of liberalism may mean the return to Sparta, and future historians may identify him as one of the intellectuals who predicted or ushered in these fundamental changes. 

Review of Edward Gibbon's "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," Volumes 5 and 6

This summer I finally finished reading the last two volumes of Edward Gibbon's timeless text Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I made the commitment to read the entire book in 2017, but its length and density prevented me from finishing it in one shot; I therefore had to divide the six volumes over three summers, and completed the first two in 2017, the third and fourth in 2018, and in August 2019 I finally completed volumes five and six. Volumes 1-4 emphasize the events which contributed to, or characterized, Rome’s fall, particularly the Christianization of the empire. The last two focus on the rise of Islam and its existential battles with Christendom, the apex of which were the Crusades. The rise and fall of the Moguls, and the triumph of the Ottomans, also receive extensive analysis in these sections. 

Each empire and civilization is unique but from Gibbon's detailed analysis one general pattern stands out: the role of rare and extraordinary individuals in permanently transforming human history. This blog post will focus on that theme with particular attention on the Prophet Mohammed, Charles the Hammer, Peter the Hermit, Genghis Kahn, and Mohammed the 2^nd, all of whom impacted human history in ways which are still being felt, from the borders which divide civilizations to the character of political orders in Europe and beyond. Decline and Fall ends on a realist and sombre note, namely, that the triumph of empire and civilization ultimately parallels the achievements of individuals—ephemeral, vain, and destined for the graveyard—which raises questions about why men would expend so much effort for the attainment of power and domination. Gibbon does not provide an answer to that fundamental question but Decline and Fall’s bird’s eye view of a large sweep of human history suggests that it is a universal trait which is independent of culture, epoch, or geography. 

The Purple goes East

In the fourth century, the Roman capital was transferred to Constantinople. The Papacy remained in Rome but the Western part of the empire was in a state of secular decline. Eastern Rome, or Byzantium, became the seat of imperial and political power. This geographical and cultural separation led to the development of national differences. Eastern Romans spoke Greek, while those in the West spoke Latin, and their separate legal and educational institutions produced divergent interpretations of Christianity. A dramatic example emerged in the eighth century, when Greeks realized that believers, by worshiping images and relics, had insensibly reintroduced paganism and had strayed from the austere and pure faith of the founders. To reverse the tide, Byzantine Emperor Leo banned the practice, but the Latins refused to obey this injunction. Believers in Italy—and this does not surprise me—were particularly outraged at this attempt to ban the use of sacred images, and with the Roman pontiff’s support they threatened to invade Constantinople. The decision was eventually reversed but it was perhaps the opening salvo in more divisions to come which would culminate in the historic schism of 1054. 

As Gibbon outlines in previous volumes, when Christianity emerged on the world scene it was led by individuals motivated by ideals rather than lucre or political power. This was one of the secrets of its success; many were converted precisely because of the pure morals of the first Christians, which represented an alternative to the decaying state of Rome’s pagan civilization. Its inclusiveness made it attractive to society’s lowest members; by declaring faith in Christ the slave and the emperor were, at least of the metaphysical and moral levels, equal subjects’ in God’s kingdom. Christianity was eventually corrupted by its own success, particularly its reaching the summit of temporal power. At this point, the papacy’s influence extended across vast territories, and the pope’s consent was necessary for the assumption to the imperial office. Consequently, the Vatican—as in all other realms of politics—became a site of human avarice, pride, ambition and intrigue. We should not be surprised that some of the worst rose to the top. Gibbon cites the example of Pope Marozia (A.D. 890-937), who turned the Lateran palace into a school for prostitution and whose rapes of virgins and widows deterred women from visiting the tomb of St. Peter. 

 

Gabriel's visit to Mohammed

Islam emerged in the human pageant when Christianity was far from the ideals of the founders, and the Roman world was already divided. Gibbon devotes much space to the Prophet Mohammed because his distinct qualities help explain how a faith which emerged in an obscure corner of Arabia led to the creation of one of history’s dominant empires. Pre-Islamic Arabs were, like pre-Christian Romans, pagans; in part because of their fierce devotion to national independence, they were one of the only peoples who had not been subdued by either the Romans or the Persians. But they maintained trading relationships with both empires, and this exposed them to foreign ideas, particularly monotheism. One individual who was influenced by these ideas was Mohammed, who was the offspring of two prominent and wealthy Arab tribes: the Koreish and the Hashemites. The early part of his life was rather uneventful, but on A.D. 610, at the age of 40, Mohammed received a visit from the angel Gabriel who brought from heaven a resplendent and jewel studded silk version of the Koran, which he proceeded to recite to the obscure Arab. The Koran was uncreated and eternal; its fundamental message was the unity of the God, the necessity of submitting completely to God’s law, and the absolute interdiction of representations of the deity, subversive ideas which challenged the Christian idea of the trinity and their worship of images and idols. 

Had Gabriel visited an average individual, this event might have been lost in the dustbin of history, and Islam would never had been born.  But Mohammed was extraordinary; according to Gibbon, he was a very good looking man, “with a commanding presence, a gracious smile and piercing eyes, a capacious and retentive memory, and a rapid and decisive judgement.” 

The first converts were his wife, servants, and cousin. A major milestone was the conversion of some of Mecca’s most illustrious citizens. At this point, Mecca’s power structure, and particularly his tribe the Koreish, accurately saw the new religion as deeply subversive, and tried to extinguish it, forcing Mohammed and his companions to escape to Medina. During the chase, two tribesmen from the Koreish confronted Mohammed, but the latter’s life was spared; here Gibbon helpfully reminds the reader that “the lance of an Arab might have changed the history of the world.” But Mohammed arrived safely in Medina, and there, the people were seduced by the purity of his message and by the charm of the person delivering it. After their conversion, the people of Medina made Mohammed their prince; this was a pivotal moment because Mohamed went from being a preacher who employed the tools of persuasion to a statesmen with the coercive powers of government. Meanwhile, the Koreish continued their campaign to stamp out the new religion and tried to conquer Medina. Mohammed led the fight and was severely wounded, but the Koreish were not yet defeated. They surrounded the city and an unexpected storm overturned and destroyed the tents in their camp, creating chaos and leading to Mohammed’s triumph. He returned to his native Mecca and subdued it; the people converted and declared the prophet to be their leader. Now, Mecca and Medina were united under Mohammed’s rule.

These events go far in explaining three sources of Islam’s success: Mohammed himself, the simplicity and seductiveness of his message, and military success in defeating those who were determined to destroy it. Gibbon emphasizes the unique genius of Mohammed, as well as his leadership qualities. He cites one of his companions who observed Mohammed preaching and said: “I have seen the Caesar of Rome and Chrosoes of Persia but never did I behold a king among his subjects like Mohammed”. Secondly, practicing the faith was rather simple: accepting a simple formula (the unity of God and Mohammed as his prophet), prayer, fasting, and alms for the poor and indigent. In so doing, the slave, the servant, and the captive became the free and equal member of the Islamic community. This equalizing aspect elevated the weak and humbled the strong (at least initially).  Third, when Islam faced existential threats from those who wanted to perpetuate the pre-Islamic status quo, Mohammed’s sword and the bravery of his followers saved the new faith, a triumph which allowed him to return to his native Mecca seven years after his escape. An important lesson was learned which would play a major role in his successors subsequent conquests: “The defense of religion by the sword”, said Mohammed, “is the key to heaven and is more avail than two months of fasting and prayer.” 

Another reason for Islam’s success was external to the religion, namely, the weakness and division of its main contenders. The first in Mohammed’s sights were the Romans. He sent an emissary to the Roman emperor Heraclius to invite him to accept Islam. After the emissary’s murder, the decision was made to invade Palestine. The fierce and redoubtable Omar, Mohammed’s companion and second caliph, easily conquered the Holy Land and established the caliphate, ensuring Muslim rule of the holy city of Jerusalem for the greater part of the following 1400 years. Next in the cross hairs were the Persians, who were weakened by divisions and exhausted from their wars against the Byzantines. Omar ordered the invasion and by A.D. 652 the Sassanid empire was no more.

Divisions began immediately after Mohammed’s death, which still reverberate today. The main dispute was on the selection of his successor. One faction wanted Ali, Mohammed’s cousin to be the next caliph on the dynastic principle that Mohammed’s bloodline should be the main determinant. The other faction was more democratic and wanted the selection of the Caliph to be determined by vote. This dispute was temporarily supressed by the fierce and redoubtable Omar, who became Mohammad’s immediate successor and the second Caliph. The followers of Ali rejected Omar’s decision and the dispute turned violent, sparking a civil war. Fourteen centuries later, the dispute has still not been resolved and the animosity between the Shiites (Ali’s followers) and Sunnis (Omar’s adherents) remains one of the key fault lines of the Islam world.

Despite these divisions, Mohammed’s successors carried out successful campaigns and notable conquests include Egypt, Syria, and Spain. The last was meant to be a beachhead for the conquest of Europe in its entirety, including Rome, the capital of Christendom. Muslim commander Abdalraman amassed an army for this purpose, and had he succeeded, Gibbon says in one his memorable lines, “the interpretation of the Koran would now be taught in the schools of Oxford, and her pulpits might demonstrate to a circumcised people the sanctity and truth of Mohammed’s revelations.” Abdalraman’s designs failed because of the actions of a remarkable Frenchman of the Carolingian line, Charles the Hammer, grandfather of Charlemagne (the emperor who would eventually unite the Christendom). The Hammer confronted Abdalraman’s army in the centre of France, between Tours and Poitiers. Six days of fighting in this historic battle were inconclusive, and Islam’s armies still had the potential to triumph, but on the seventh day, Muslims were crushed by the strength and stature of Charles and his men, whom, says Gibbon in one of his poetic lines, “with stout hearts and iron hands asserted the civil and religious liberty of their posterity.” 

Meanwhile, Muslims founded a successful and wealthy caliphate in Spain. Like other conquered peoples, Christians of Spain were invited to accept Islam, but if they preferred to preserve their faith, they had to pay a tax; in return they enjoyed freedom of conscience and religious worship, although this toleration coexisted with discriminations including the requirement that they ride on donkeys (not horses) and restrictions on building churches. Jews, meanwhile, were rewarded by the new administration in part because they preferred Muslim to Christian rule, and consequently assisted in the establishment of the Caliphate. Spain became the seat of the Omayyad dynasty, and industry and commerce flourished under their rule, as demonstrated by a construction boom which included 900 public baths, 600 mosques, 200 thousand houses, and 70 public libraries with 600 thousand manuscripts.  A similar pattern occurred in the capitals of the other Muslim dynasties, like the Abassides in Baghdad, who used their immense wealth to collect the treasures of Greek science, translate them into Arabic, and make them available to scholars by building public libraries. 

We can now begin to see parallels between Islam and Christianity. As Islam became powerful and wealthy, it more and more distanced itself from the pure and austere ideals of Mohammed and his companions. Leaders were now concerned with wealth, luxury, and the pleasures of life, rather that the martial and austere virtues practiced by the founder. Factionalism developed, and although the initial divisions between Shiites and Sunnis did not prevent Islam’s successful conquests, by the 8^thand 9^thcenturies they hindered further triumphs. Gibbon recounts the Abbasside dynasty which successfully conquered Sicily, and which used this territory to launch raids against Rome. Local emirs in Sicily soon asserted their independence from Baghdad and rejected the Caliph’s authority. Had Islam been united at this point, they might have successfully used the island as a beachhead to capture Rome and the entire Italian peninsula; this might have fatally weakened Christianity and led to Islam’s universal dominion. 

Meanwhile, a young, virile and martial nation, the Turks, arrived on the scene, and eventually replaced the Arabs and the Byzantines as masters of the East. They easily conquered the decaying and feeble Byzantine territories of Asia Minor (modern day Turkey). Their conquests included the holy city of Jerusalem, and their rule, says Gibbons, was brutal. Under Arab dominion, minorities, including Christians, were protected and had free access to their sacred sites, such as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. After the Turkish conquests, Christian pilgrims were assaulted, persecuted, or killed, while sacrilege against churches was common. This set in motion a train of events which would culminate in an existential clash between Islam and Christianity, the Crusades, and in this instance, we see once again how the actions of a remarkable man can change the course of history.

Peter the Hermit

 

Peter preaches to the crowds

In the middle of the 11^thcentury, a diminutive and unsightly monk from Amiens, France went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. By then, Turks had ruled Jerusalem for 20 years, and Peter the Hermit was outraged by his experience—not only did he witness the sorry state of local Christians, he himself was a victim of violence. But unlike others he possessed, says Gibbon, “the vehemence of speech which seldom fails to impart the persuasion of the soul.” On his return to Europe he preached about the evils of Muslim rule and the necessity of recapturing Jerusalem to crowds in churches, on the streets, and highways, and his listeners were convinced of the righteousness of the cause. Among the people who heard the message was Pope Urban 2^nd, who, like Peter the Hermit, was a native of France. Urban subsequently summoned a conference to discuss the matter. Bishops from across Christendom attended, including the Greeks, the main victims of Turkish domination. At the conference Byzantine emperor Alexis Commenus warned fellow believers that Constantinople, the capital, would be next to fall if action was not taken. 

The first crusade was called at Clermont in front of thousands of believers, who in return cried “God wills it!” In the year 1099, Christians recaptured Jerusalem, 460 years after Omar’s conquest, and engaged in promiscuous slaughter: 70 thousand Muslims were massacred, while harmless Jews were burned alive in their synagogue. Leading the fight were Latins of French and Germanic origin, and after their victory they quickly set up a new regime which discriminated, not only against Muslims and Jews, but also Eastern Christians, whom, the Latins believed, were heretics and schismatics. The Latins’ persecution of their Christian brethren, it turns out, was a fatal mistake; when Saladin reconquered Jerusalem in 1187, he enjoyed the assistance of oriental Christians who preferred Mohammedan over Latin dominion. 

The recapture of Jerusalem was perhaps among the most dramatic event of the Crusades, but this religious war was much broader. At least 7 crusades were called, over a period of four centuries. They were directed against Muslims, but in some instances Eastern Christians were also targets. Every spring and summer saw a fresh batch of soldiers willing to leave everything they adored to march thousands of miles under the banner of the cross. On the way, they sometimes died of famine or disease, or they pillaged and massacred innocent victims, including Jews and other Christians. The call to arms unified the Latins, from Italy to Scotland, despite differences in culture and language. “Europe” as an identity that transcends nations, was born by the Crusades, an identity that was clearly religious in character. 

The legacy of these events continues to reverberate today, and one in particular stands out: large numbers of Europe’s martial aristocracy were wiped out by the campaigns, and the weakening of this class fatally undermined the feudalism, the social order they presided over. As feudalism declined, property rights for peasants expanded, leading to increases of production and commerce. And political authority was transferred from the feudal barons to powerful monarchies which were embryonic nation-states. Hence two core features of the modern world—capitalism and the nation-state—were the unexpected and unintended consequences of this existential clash between Christendom and Islam.

In part because of the importance of the Crusades in transforming history, scholars have extensively debated its causes; realists would argue that they were caused by those factors that explain every other war, namely, the universal human drive for conquest, material resources, power, and domination. Constructivists would impute symbolic or ideational factors, particularly religion. Gibbon did not use the language of realism and constructivism (concepts which did not exist in his time), but he would squarely fall in the latter camp, and he makes a rather convincing case. Palestine, Gibbon says, could add nothing to the strength and safety of the Latins, and hence the exorbitant costs were not justified. He calculates that six million Europeans participated, and many were members of the aristocracy who sold everything in order to finance a two-thousand-mile voyage to recover a tomb (or the Church of the Holy Sepulchre). Religious ideas mattered in other ways. Gibbon documents how this practice led to an oversupply of houses and the collapse of property prices; consequently, other sources of funding were required, and one in particular was the indulgence, i.e. for a sum of money or for committing to the campaign against Islam, Christians could expiate their sins and avoid eternity in hell. This promise of absolving sins went far in raising revenue and in mobilizing fighters, and Gibbon aptly says that “the cold philosophy of modern times is incapable of feeling the impression that was made on a sinful and fanatic world.”

Genghis Kahn

The Mongolian conquerer 

The Crusades were ultimately a failure, and Islam re-established its dominion over the Holy Land; they tolerated Greeks but ordered all Latins to leave. But neither Muslims nor Christians were any match for the ferocious Mogul hordes which descended from Mongolia and destroyed everything in their path; Gibbon compares their rapid conquests to the “convulsions of nature which have agitated and altered the surface of the globe.” The most notable was Genghis Kahn, an illiterate man with 500 wives who subdued China by surrounding and starving 90 cities, including Peking. In his vast empire, he established a system of perfect monotheism and religious toleration which was way ahead of his time, although a hierarchy between his own nation and the conquered peoples remained. Moguls had the duty to bear arms for the defense and expansion of the empire, while subject peoples were engaged in essential menial labour. Within 68 years of his death Genghis Kahn’s successors conquered almost all of Asia, including Muslim possessions, and large parts of Europe. One Mogul in particular stands out: Timour, who conquered Persia, Georgia, Russia, India, Syria, and Asia Minor. Aleppo and Baghdad were both razed to the ground by Timour, and even more shockingly, he created pyramids of severed heads to satiate his thirst for blood and to instill terror in the hearts of his enemies. 

Moguls eventually converted to Islam and assimilated into the civilization of their subjects; their decline led to the rise of the Ottomans. Gibbon dates the beginning of this empire on 1326, when they conquered Prusa (in modern-day Turkey) from the Greeks. Their campaigns against the Byzantines were successful in part because of the military institution of the Dervish: after the Ottoman’s successful European conquests, young male captives of the Bulgarian, Serbian, Bosnian, and Albanian nations were educated by Ottomans to be faithful Muslims and loyal to the Ottoman chief. According to Gibbon, ethnic Turks were excluded from civil and military honours because Ottoman leaders preferred to recruit “the hardy and warlike” Europeans. The Dervish went on to play an instrumental role in successful Ottoman conquests, including of Constantinople, which permanently erased the Roman Empire off the face of the earth.

Islam had first targeted Constantinople in A.D. 674, only 46 years after Mohammed’s escape to Medina, but it was one of the few cities which successfully resisted, in part because after Islam’s conquests Roman refugees fled to Constantinople and valiantly defended the independence of their imperial capital. By the early 15^thcentury, the Ottomans had taken large swaths of Greek territory and had almost surrounded Constantinople; this city was a prize that they could not long resist. The wealthy and pusillanimous Byzantines were able to purchase their independence with an annual tribute of 30 thousand crowns of gold. Nonetheless, they recognized that it was only a matter of time before walls of their sacred capital would be breached by the Turks, and the Byzantines appealed to the Latins for assistance. Under these circumstances, Pope Eugenius organized a synod in Florence to unite the Greek and Latin churches. An unexpected and transformational consequence of this synod was that Greeks travelling to Florence brought with them the philosophical treasures of their ancient ancestors. They were written in the original Greek, in Gibbon's words, “a musical and prolific language that gives a soul to the objects of sense and a body to the abstractions of philosophy.” In Florence, and particularly among the Medici’s, this reignited the passion for the learning of the ancients; consequently, Florence became the centre of the renaissance which would eventually culminate in the rise of modern science.

 

The end of Rome

Unity between the Latins and the Greeks was declared at the Synod, and in exchange for Latin military support, the Greeks promised obedience to Rome. But upon hearing the news the patriarchs of Jerusalem and Alexandria were unwilling to let go of their orthodoxy and obey the Latins, who they perceived to be heretical. They denounced their representatives who went to Florence, and the latter broke the vows made to their Latin brethren; consequently, the historic schism, which would fatally weaken the Greeks, remained, and at the worst possible time: Ottomans would soon be led by the ferocious Mohammed 2^nd, who Gibbon aptly calls “the great destroyer.” Unfortunately for the Greeks, Mohammed 2^nd was unsatisfied with his predecessors’ agreements with the Byzantines, and he was determined to finally bring Constantinople into Islam’s dominion. The city’s surrounding thick walls were one reason for the difficulty of accomplishing this task, and the caliph found a solution: he hired a Hungarian engineer to construct the largest canon ever produced. It took several months, hundreds of men, and many trials and errors, but when complete it could launch a 600-pound projectile, and not even Constantinople’s walls could withstand its force.

The memorable siege transpired on April 6^th1453. Before this fatal event, large numbers of inhabitants fled to Italy, but those which remained fought valiantly for 40 days, in part because of the courageous example of the last emperor, Constantine, who fought and died on the front lines. After the walls were breached, many Greeks fled into the Holy Saint Sophia, and hoped for a miracle, but heaven was deaf to their entreaties. The Turks stormed the church and the Greeks surrendered; many of them were subsequently sold into slavery, while young and pretty females ended up in the Caliph’s harem. Shortly after, the Ottomans turned the Saint Sophia into a mosque, and, because of Islam’s interdiction of images and idols, they removed all visible manifestations of the deity, including statues and the cross. They also washed away the priceless and irreplaceable Byzantine mosaics which adorned the walls. The Turks then marched to the Byzantine imperial palace, which for centuries housed one of the world’s most powerful men who ruled over a vast empire, and found that the pusillanimous Greeks had already abandoned this imposing structure. At this moment, says Gibbon, Mohammed 2^ndcould not help reflecting on the vicissitudes and transience of human greatness. His own life would confirm this observation. After the fall of Constantinople, Mohammed 2^ndhad his sights on Rome, and he very well may have succeeded had he not died prematurely from illness at 51 years old. 

The final lessons of Decline and Fall

Decline and Fall took Gibbon 20 years to write, and during this period he was utterly devoted to the project, rather than, as most of his peers, to the pleasures and responsibilities of love and family. Posterity is eternally grateful for this sacrifice, since Gibbon has produced a timeless text that leaves an indelible mark on the reader, for several reasons. One is the wide learning that seeps through every page. Decline and Fall is a work of history, but Gibbon is a product of another time, when intellectuals were expected to master many languages and disciplines; consequently, his deep knowledge of foreign languages, religion, anthropology, geography, philosophy, the classics, and even economics shines throughout the text. When juxtaposed with the hyper specialization of intellectuals today, many of whom only know English and almost nothing of civilizations outside their own, the depth of Gibbon's work is all the more dramatic. Another remarkable feature is Gibbon's objectivity, which is evident in the way that he praises and criticizes in equal measure. Early Muslims are praised for their bravery, and the simplicity of Islam is recognized as being more consistent with reason and nature than other religions. But Gibbon also reminds readers that Mohammed was a man, with all of men’s defects, particularly pride. He also asserts that Islam’s union of the political and religious offices is one of the main reasons for its eventual stagnation; had these spheres been more autonomous, a critical spirit would have developed, and it might have been Islam, not Europe, which gave birth to modern science. Byzantines receive similar treatment: Gibbon praises them for preserving the treasures of antiquity, but he is also clearly contemptuous of their inability to build off these great works rather than, say, endlessly debating metaphysics and theology. He also implies that their downfall was a merited consequence of their pusillanimity and their renouncing the union with the Latins.

With his signature beautiful prose, Gibbon helps the reader to distill patterns which are universal to human nature and to political order. One is the importance of rare and extraordinary individuals who permanently transform history in ways that cannot be foreseen without the benefit of hindsight. Islam’s success depended largely on the person of Mohammed, whose charm went far in convincing the Arabs to embrace the new faith. Had Mohammed been killed by his tribe, the Koreish, history would have unfolded very differently, but as fate would have it, he was destined to triumph over his enemies and consequently Islam became one of the world’s dominant political and cultural forces. Charles the Hammer’s defeat of Abdalraman in France prevented Islam’s conquest of all of Europe; had another, less remarkable leader, led the fight, Islam might have prevailed, all of Europe would have been subdued, and the first European to sail to America would have brought Mohammed’s revelations rather than the gospel. It is questionable that Europe would have been roused out of its lethargy and disunity if not for the persuasive powers of Peter the Hermit, and had the Crusades not occurred, feudalism might not have collapsed and ushered in the world of capitalism and nation states that we know today. And finally, the emergence of Mohammed 2^ndon the world scene ensured the fall of Constantinople and permanent extinction of the Roman Empire, leading to the rise of the Ottomans; the provinces of this empire were destined to become the nation states in today’s Middle East. 

The empires and civilizations Gibbon discusses show other patterns, particularly regarding cycles of rise and decline. In all cases there is an early period when the founders of a movement display a purity of thought and action, motivated by ideals and conviction which seduces others to join the cause and which is a major source of strength; success contains within it he seeds of its own destruction, since followers soon dispute the distribution of the spoils, and particularly the commanding heights of political power. This factionalism is not always fatal, but when combined with wealth and luxury, often signals the early stages of a decline. Leaders become more concerned with the comforts of the palace or the harem; inequality increases between them and their subjects; inevitably, while these weakening trends proceed, other movements rise which will soon replace them, and they, too, will eventually succumb to the same vices which destroyed their rivals and will also eventually end up in the graveyard of history. 

The drama of this cycle is captured by Poggius, the learned servant of Pope Eugenius (A.D. 1430), who observed the Roman ruins in the city and reflected that 

The hill of the Capitol, on which we sit, was formerly the head of the Roman Empire, the citadel of the earth, the terror of kings; illustrated by the footsteps of so many young triumphs, enriched with the spoils and tributes of so many nations. This spectacle of the world, how it is fallen! How changed! How defaced! The path of victory is obliterated by vines, and the benches of the senators are concealed by a dunghill. Cast your eyes on the Palatine hill, and seek among the shapeless and enormous fragments the marble theatre, the obelisks, the colossal statues, the porticos of Nero’s palace: survey the other hills of the city, the vacant space is interrupted only by ruins and gardens. The forum of the Roman people, where they assembled to enact their laws and elect their magistrates, is now enclosed for the cultivation of pot-herbs, or thrown open for the reception of swine and buffaloes. The public and private edifices that were founded for eternity lie prostrate, naked, broken, and the ruin is more visible from the stupendous relics that have survived the injuries of time and fortune.”

Gibbon does not ultimately provide an answer to the puzzle of why men pursue imperial glory even though it is destined for the graveyard. On this subject, we can conjecture that Gibbon might give the final word to the Omayyad Caliph Abdalraman, who reigned over a wealthy and powerful empire and who died peacefully in his bed. After his death, a diary was found in his closet which says:  

I have now reigned above fifty years…beloved by my subjects, dreaded by my enemies, and respected by my allies. Riches and honours, power and pleasure, have waited on my call…in this situation, I have diligently numbered the days of pure and genuine happiness: they amount to FOURTEEN [emphasis in original]. O man! Place not thy confidence in the present world!

Review of Victor Hugo's "Toilers of the Sea"

In March of 2019 it was my turn to host a book club meeting, which meant I also had the privilege of choosing the book. Generally, when selecting a text, I am guided by three criteria: its historical importance, philosophical depth, and the aesthetic quality of the prose. I decided that we would read Victor Hugo’s Toilers of the Sea, one of his lesser known works. Unlike, say, Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame (my review of the latter can be found here), it did not go on to influence a whole generation of artists and hence it did not meet the first criterion. But the second and third were not only met; in Toilers of the Sea Hugo reaches heights of literary beauty that easily match that of his other works. It is an emotionally powerful and intellectually enriching work which recounts the adventure of Gilliat, a reclusive and yet extraordinary character who, motivated by his love for the beautiful Deruchette, embarks on a dangerous voyage to recoup her uncle’s valuable steam engines which were lost at sea. This endeavour, and Gilliat’s battles with nature, take up most of the text, and Hugo beautifully narrates these episodes while distilling from them the deeper meanings about the sea, the natural world, human nature, and man’s capacity to triumph in the face of existential struggle.

Out of Disaster, Opportunity

The setting of Toilers of the Sea is the Island of Guernsey (between the French and British coasts) in the mid 19^thcentury, and a significant part of the text includes Hugo’s anthropological observations of the inhabitants.  He was exiled to Guernsey by Napoleon the 3^rd, and lived there for fifteen years. This allowed him to observe the local traditions and to compare them with those of Paris. Two features of the inhabitants stand out: they are people of the sea, and of mixed ethnic heritage derived from their Gallic and Norman ancestry and the continuous intercourse (broadly understood) between French and British peoples. The islanders are semi-isolated, fiercely independent, and entrepreneurial. Lethierry, Deruchette’s uncle and adopted father, combines these elements, which leads him to be the first to introduce the steam engine to shipping between the island and the British and French mainlands. He becomes rich because this technology drastically reduces the cost and hence increases the productivity of transport. But when he is betrayed by Clubin, his business partner and the captain of Durande (Lethierry’s steamship), his destiny becomes entangled with Gilliat, the main character of the book.

Gilliat is also unique among the inhabitants of the island. He is raised by a single mother who came to the Island from continental France. As the islands are a source of refuge and asylum, the reader gets the impression that they are escaping something terrible. The fact that they do not attend church or participate much in broader society augments the sense that they have skeletons in the closet. Perhaps because of this solitude, Gilliat becomes a kind of jack of all trades, and masters multiple skills; his brilliance and ingenuity increase the air of mystery that surrounds his household, which naturally leads to gossip. Some of the more superstitious residents of the island (apparently untouched by the materialism of the French revolution just across the Channel) suspect the devil’s machinations at work. 

At one point, Gilliat has an encounter with the immeasurably beautiful and charming Deruchette, and falls in love with her, but because of his life-long solitude, he lacks the basic social skills required to develop friendship or romance. Consequently, he is unable to communicate a word or express his love to her. He is in the painful position of recognizing that he would do anything for this woman while overwhelmed with fear, giving her complete power over him. His upbringing did not prepare him for this possibility, and so he is essentially paralyzed. Rather pathetically, therefore, all he can do is watch her from afar, indulging in his most puerile fantasies, overwhelmed with terror at the thought of actually speaking a word to her. 

An opportunity for Gilliat arises out of disaster when Lethierry’s masterwork, the steamship Durande which made him fabulously rich, is lost at sea because the captain, Clubin, hatches a scheme to destroy the ship and run off with a large sum of money that belongs to Lethierry. This betrayal portends Lethierry’s bankruptcy and collapse into penury, an outcome which, of course, would mean impoverishment for his adopted daughter and the object of Gilliat’s desire, Deruchette. While the townspeople are gathered around Lethierry to express remorse for his misfortune, he expresses his wish to retrieve the steam engines, the most valuable part of the ship, and Deruchette offers to marry anyone who is willing to take the risk of such an adventure. What Gilliat lacks in social skills he more than amply makes up in talent for navigation and engineering, as well as bravery and daring vis-à-vis the sea. He therefore unhesitatingly takes up the offer even though it genuinely put his young and promising life at risk.

Shortly after, another character enters the scene and complicates Gilliat’s scheme. Just as he departs, Lethierry, in a state of despondency, is visited by the local rector and his associate, a junior priest named Ebenezer. The latter happens to be, like Deruchette, stunningly beautiful. According to Hugo, the most striking thing about Ebenezer “was his personal beauty… as he was a priest he must have been at least twenty five, but he looked eighteen. He showed the harmony, and also the contrast, between a soul that seemed made for passion and a body made for love…he was all charm, elegance, and almost sensuousness.” At the end of this scene, Ebenezer’s and Deruchette’s eyes lasciviously meet. 

Hugo’s purpose, of course, is to tease the reader’s imagination. Gilliat has just embarked on his dangerous voyage, a decision motivated by his overwhelming desire for Deruchette, and she has promised to marry him if he succeeds. And yet a betrayal of this promise already seems to be in the cards. At this point, the reader is midway into the book, and the next one hundred fifty or so pages recount Gilliat’s extraordinary efforts when faced with the unforgiving and merciless forces of the natural world. This is one of the more enrapturing sections of the book, but while the reader is savouring Hugo’s literary virtuosity, he or she cannot help wondering how this love triangle between Gilliat, Deruchette, and the priest Ebenezer will pan out. Before examining that, it is worthwhile to explore Hugo’s narration of Gilliat’s perilous voyage.

Man, Nature, and God

Gilliat sets out on a sailboat to the site of the shipwreck, the Dover reef. He brings with him tools and survival gear which will allow him to brave the elements while he accomplishes his objective, namely, reach the location, separate the steam engines from the hull, transfer them into his boat, and sail back to Guernsey. Reaching the destination is rather straightforward, but the challenges begin when he must set up camp and devise ways to detach the engines from a shipwreck which is resting on a rocky and protruding section of the site. Almost immediately, disaster strikes when he loses his food supplies; he therefore must improvise and feeds off the crabs and other natural detritus found on the rock. The process takes longer than he envisages, and eventually runs out of fresh water, forcing him to depend on the rain to quench his thirst. Meanwhile, he is faced with a violent and ferocious storm which threatens to destroy his boat; in that scenario, he would fail and be stranded, ignominiously dying on the reef. 

The Durande

But, as often is the case, it is in the face of existential danger that man’s extraordinary abilities are revealed. When the storm hits, Gilliat’s talents and his determination to succeed unleash creative solutions to the imminent danger. For example, he must protect his boat from the violent waves, but lacks the tools and equipment to construct the necessary barriers. He spontaneously concocts a scheme to use material from the shipwreck and the rocks to create makeshift tools—rope, wood, hammer, nails, knife, sharpener. From these  he erects a water breaker which prevents the violent waves from entering the area of the reef where his boat is anchored. 

Gilliat survives the storm, but more challenges lie ahead. A riveting scene is his fight to the death against an octopus which he encounters while looking for crabs to satiate his hunger. It is a hideous creature which kills its prey essentially by strangulation; if Gilliat loses the fight, he will die a slow and painful death. As the combat proceeds, the octopus’s tentacles are wrapped around Gilliat, slowly tightening and choking him, and forcing him into its orifice, which is part mouth, part anus. Gilliat has his hunting knife in his left hand which was free from the monster’s grasp. The moment before he is about to be consumed, Gilliat stabs the creature between the eyes and twirls the knife so as to maximize the damage and expedite the kill.

The dangers of the natural world are not without irony, and Gilliat, after defeating a storm, hunger, creating shelter in the most inhospitable environment, and defeating a monstrous creature, must face his most dangerous challenge yet: a trickle of water through a leak in his boat. When it is discovered, two feet of water have already entered; at that rate, the boat would sink in about 30 minutes, destroying any hope of returning home. He lacks the material to fix the leak, and so must improvise, using his clothes and tarp, but these provide only a temporary fix. Meanwhile, he must empty the water that has entered the boat with a small bucket, which would require an enormous physical effort; he lacks the strength to carry this out because he has been on the reef for almost six weeks and is exhausted. Gilliat was never religious, but in desperation he falls on his knees and appeals to God, asking for mercy. Evidently, Hugo seemingly wants to say, even ubermen like Gilliat are powerless under certain conditions, and can be saved only by divine intervention. But for Hugo, and pace Nietzsche, this does not represent weakness or defeat: “to be powerless is a strength. In the presence of these two blind forces, nature and destiny, man in his very powerlessness has found support in prayer.” God answers Gilliat’s cry for help by ensuring that the leak is sufficiently blocked to permit him rest which gives him the strength to empty out the water; consequently, he can sail back home in triumph.

Up until now, I have examined Gilliat’s encounters with nature’s cruelty, but throughout his adventure he has moments of sublime transcendence from experiencing the beauty of the natural world. In one scene, while exploring the many sides of the Dover reef, he swims into a cave and discovers a cavern that seems like a temple created by the gods, replete with natural colours and formations which resemble man’s most majestic monuments. In Hugo’s incomparable description of the cavern: 

“one stretch of wall was cut into square shape and carved into rounded forms suggesting the attitudes of figures…contemplating it, one might think of a roughly sketched piece of sculpture prepared by Prometheus for the chisel of Michelangelo. It seemed as if human genius, with a few strokes of a hammer, might complete what the giant had begun…there were panels that looked like Corinthian bronze, arabesques such as are found on the doorway of a mosque…it was a union of the wildness of nature and the delicacy of goldsmith’s work in the awe-inspiring and misshapen architecture of chance.” 

Hugo continues: 

“These deformities, mysteriously adapted to one another, combined to create a strange sovereign beauty. The works of nature, no less supreme than the works of genius, contain a quality of the absolute and have an overwhelming presence. Their unexpectedness impresses itself powerfully on the mind; they have a feeling of premeditation, and they are never more striking than when they suddenly produce something exquisite out of the terrible.” The water in the cavern was the colour of emerald green, a result of the limited light which entered through the cave and penetrated the cavern while mingling with the natural vegetation. These elements combined to create “a feeling of sacred awe, enhanced by the gentle restlessness of the weeds that grew in the depths of the water.”

The Gods of Nature

One discursive technique that Hugo frequently utilizes in his writing is anthropomorphization, i.e., ascribing will and agency to the natural elements. In so doing, he enriches the story immensely, an observation shared by others in the book club when we discussed Toilers of the Sea. Perhaps this technique resonates because there is an innate psychological tendency to ascribe agency to the external world, since it allows us to project categories—choice, emotions, behaviour—that we are familiar with. The polytheism of the ancients perhaps arose out of humans’ natural inclinations to comprehend mystery by deifying the natural world. Hugo continues this ancient practice while narrating Gilliat’s struggles with the sea; his purpose, successfully executed, is to enhance the story by incarnating, as it were, the power of nature. When Gilliat arrives at the Dover reef and discovers the twisted and mangled shipwreck, Hugo observes that 

“no wild beast is as ruthless as the sea in tearing its prey to pieces. Water has countless claws. The wind bites, the sea devours, waves are voracious jaws…everything was collapsing and falling away…what remained of the vessel’s powerful frame, once so triumphant, was split wide open at various points, revealing the dark and mournful interior. Down below the sea foamed, spitting in contempt of this wretched object” [emphasis mine]. 

In another scene, while on top of the rock, just before the storm, Gilliat sensed, in the wind, the sea, and the clouds, its imminent arrival. The storm is still not visible, but “for those [like Gilliat] who are on familiar terms with the sea, its aspect at such moments is strange; it is as if it desired and at the same time feared the cyclone. Some nuptials, though strongly desired by nature, are received in this fashion. The lioness in heat flees from the lion’s pursuit. The sea, too, is in heat: hence its trembling motion…impulsions have to be given to the waves, to the clouds, to the emanations; night is an auxiliary, and use must be made of it. There are compasses to be led astray, beacons to be extinguished, lighthouses to be masked, stars to be hidden. The sea must cooperate in all these.” And when the “vomiting of the tempest arrives, rain, hurricanes, fulgurations, fulminations, waves reaching up to the clouds…roars, frantic torsions, whistling—all at the same time.” The storm lasts twenty hours, and almost destroys Gilliat, but when he prevails, he “felt the immemorial need to insult an enemy that goes back to the heroes of Homer”.

From Triumph to Tragedy—Sort of

Gilliat successfully reaches his objective because of his exceptional talents, sheer force of will, bravery, and divine intervention. When he returns to Guernsey, and Lethierry sees that his valuable steam engines are saved, the latter—who throughout the text frequently expresses his contempt for religion—praises God for the miracle. What an abrupt turn of fortunes! From certain bankruptcy and penury, the middle-aged Lethierry can now look forward to rebuilding the steamship and re-establishing his profitable business, and having a serene and comfortable retirement. Lethierry also looks forward to having the heroic seaman Gilliat as his future heir; after all, Deruchette promised to marry him were he to successfully return with the steam engines. It is now only a matter of organizing the wedding, getting married, and embarking on a new, prosperous, and happy life.

Hugo has primed the reader to want this outcome; after all, Gilliat is a heroic figure who triumphed in the face of danger and who arose from humble beginnings; consequently, there is a sense, instilled by Hugo, that he deserves his reward. But the beautiful priest Ebenezer has complicated things. While Gilliat was away, Deruchette becomes more religious (what a surprise!) and frequently attends Ebenezer’s church. What is more, Ebenezer’s rich uncle has just died, meaning that he will inherit his estate and become wealthy; he can now provide Deruchette with all the material comforts her heart desires. The two finally meet privately, the evening of Gilliat’s return, and Ebenezer’s expresses his love to Deruchette, a feeling reciprocates. Gilliat is hiding by Lethierry’s house when this encounter occurs and hears the whole thing.

At this point, the book is impossible to put down because of the need to know what happens next. Lethierry hates the church and hence would never consent to Deruchette’s marrying the priest; Gilliat is madly in love with her, and in fact it was she who motivated his decision to embark on the perilous voyage; she is now in love with another man, but her adored adopted father, to whom she is unquestionably obedient and loyal, wants her to marry Gilliat. Gilliat, therefore, could still marry her even if she did not want to because she would ultimately bend to her adopted father’s wishes. Unexpectedly perhaps, Gilliat displays a heroic self-abnegation and refuses to marry Deruchette. Even more, despite loving her madly, he arranges for her to marry Ebenezer by forging documents that confirm Lethierry’s consent (without this act of deceit, the marriage could not proceed). He then gives himself to the sea, quite literally, by drowning, while Ebenezer and Deruchette blissfully sail off in the sunset.

My first reaction to this ending was sadness and disappointment; after all, Ebenezer gets the girl because of unmerited and arbitrary circumstances: he was born beautiful, inherits his uncle’s wealth, and because of Gilliat’s self-denial. Gilliat’s successes, in contrast, are the product of effort, sacrifice, and skill. Even more, Gilliat’s humble origins give him the aura of an underdog, another feature which primes the reader to want Gilliat’s success. But Hugo’s purpose is evidently not to satisfy the reader’s desire for a happy and just ending; rather, he wants to depict the harsh and arbitrary reality of the real world. In Hugo’s own words: 

“man is at the mercy of events. Life is a perpetual succession of events, and we must submit to it. We never know from what quarter the sudden blow of chance will come. Catastrophe and good fortune come upon us and then depart, like unexpected visitors. They have their own laws, their own orbits, their own gravitational force, all independent of man. Virtue does not bring happiness, crime does not bring unhappiness; our consciousness has one logic, fate another, and the two never coincide.”

Upon second reflection, I concluded that Gilliat did, in the end, get his reward because of his exceptional qualities. He may have not gotten the girl and died before his time, but he was a Jesus-like figure who indelibly etched his pursuits in the history of the island. Ebenezer, in contrast, will quickly be forgotten; after all, beautiful young priests who abscond the clergy to marry beautiful young women can hardly be said to have done something extraordinary or heroic. Moreover, the marriage is likely doomed because it was born in deceit; in fact during the marriage ceremony (which only occurred because Gilliat selflessly forged a document with Lethierry’s consent) Ebenezer feels a “vague sense of oppression,” in my view because it was Gilliat, and not he, who displayed the genuinely selfless qualities one expects from men of the cloth. Gilliat’s sheer strength of will, courage, bravery, and talent will forever be remembered, and perhaps inspire others to feats even greater than his. It is men like Gilliat and not Ebenezer who leave a permanent and often transformational mark on history even though their lives are often tragically cut short.

Reflections on Quitting Facebook

I haven't actually eliminated my Facebook profile, but I now only log on once a week, from my computer, for about five minutes, primarily to scroll my newsfeed to see whether academic friends have shared any interesting articles. I no longer "like", comment, or share any posts. In this blog entry I will recount the reason for the decision, as I am well-aware that many friends have considered leaving Facebook or other social media but have been reluctant because there are still some benefits, such as keeping updated about friends and family, or organizing events. 

I joined Facebook in 2008, when I was beginning my doctoral studies. Like other young students I was passionate and full of righteous indignation about the world's injustices, but before social media these sentiments were expressed face to face—in seminars, or over coffee with friends. Facebook provided a new and exciting outlet for these disputes, and many Facebook debates were very engaging and stimulating. It did not take long for some to get out of hand and become personal; I'll never forget the humiliating feeling of being unfriended by someone I actually liked because of a trivial political dispute. The awkwardness was magnified when I would encounter this person on campus; we'd politely greet while silently expressing contempt. This was when I first considered whether to forever delete my profile, but I chose not to because there was still value in having a separate way to connect with people and keeping in touch with them—especially since I am an academic who travels widely and frequently meets new and interesting people.

 

Alone together

My attitude towards Facebook became more critical when I realized that people used it to create a kind of parallel universe which aimed to satisfy personal vanity or the need for esteem. For the most part, mine and others' posts were motivated by maximizing "likes" and comments. This meant sharing only the prettiest selfies, or happy events like vacations, or sentiments that appeal to one's tribe. The plutocrats at Facebook encouraged these kinds of posts because the "like" function triggered the part of the brain associated with being liked in the real world. Moreover, they exploited humans' tendency for reciprocity by allowing us to see who "likes" our posts, thereby creating a strong obligation to "like" their posts in return. After doing this daily for many years, and trying to untether myself from it, I realized that I was, in a certain sense, "hooked". I did not "crave" Facebook the way I used to physically crave nicotine. Rather, there was an ingrained psychological habit which, through the force of inertia or routine, was hard to arrest.

It wasn't only me who felt and behaved this way on social media. The vast majority of my friends did the same, and many were spending more time than me doing essentially pointless activities. As time passed, I became increasingly aware of the cultural effects of this development. One I found particularly objectionable was the tendency of people to always look at their phones. When walking on sidewalks, for example, rather than looking straight or sideways, peoples' heads were pointed downwards, focused on the screen, expecting others to move out of their way. Eye contact and silent acknowledgement, friendly or otherwise, mostly disappeared. Now, there was a ubiquitous body language-based communication among those in the same public space which expressed a kind of isolation; I found this to be inconsistent with the republican ideal of public spaces being sites of citizen interaction. 

Many have blamed the recent rise of political extremism on the isolation and group-think associated with social media, and particularly Facebook. That is a convincing argument with much empirical support, but here I'll focus on my personal experience of social media in the aftermath of Trump and Brexit. After these political earthquakes, my social media feed was almost always full of posts which can be characterized as hysterical and unhinged (Slate magazine aptly called this "outrage porn"). The need to share angry posts, and the need to see the posts of others who felt the same, increased the time spent on social media, creating more dependence which benefited the oligarchs in Silicon Valley who profit from people’s addiction to their devices.  After some reflection, I concluded that there was something ethically questionable about this economic model. Standard economic textbooks I studied in university taught that the market functions by mutually beneficial exchanges which make both parties—and society—better off.   But a system that allows firms to make billions of dollars from rage and addiction seemed to produce negative externalities, some of which are hard to quantify but that nonetheless are very real.

 

Pretty much sums up my view of social media

In early 2018, I became determined to quit Facebook. Initially I wanted to delete my profile completely but was reluctant because there were still some benefits. An important one is organizing events. I have been a member of a classics book club for 10 years, and it has its own Facebook page with information on upcoming meetings and books we will read. I also enjoy dancing and often attend events in the city which include old-school hip hop and house music; many of the organizers of these events use Facebook to advertise and provide information that is useful. The second benefit is intellectual: many of my Facebook friends are academics who often share interesting articles that I otherwise might not have seen. I did not want to lose these two features, and so I had to find a way of quitting Facebook without deleting my profile. My compromise was to drastically reduce the time spent on the platform. First, I had to free myself from the habits of "liking" posts and feeling obligated to "like" others in return. To do this, I simply stopped sharing any posts about anything (as of this writing, I have not posted anything in six months). The logic is simple: by not posting, I would not get any likes or comments, and hence would not feel obligated to like or comment on others’. The next step was to stop the habit of logging on once or several times a day, and so I decided to check Facebook only once a week (on Sundays, to be precise). I succeeded, and as of this writing, it has been two months since I last checked Facebook daily. Now, my social media activity amounts to scrolling my newsfeed for a few minutes on Sunday mornings. And since I do not have Instagram or Twitter accounts, I am pretty much free from social media influence. 

The sense of accomplishment is gratifying, and is perhaps comparable to the elation felt after one successfully quits smoking (as an ex-smoker who struggled with the habit for many years, I'm very familiar with that feeling). Moroever, the time not spent on Facebook is time spent doing things that are actually meaningful, such as reading literature, or hip-hop dancing, or just walking outside, with my head looking straight ahead or side to side, or meeting with friends over coffee, communicating the way we were meant to—in person, while making eye-contact, and fully absorbing the other's presence—their scent, facial expression, bodily language, tone and tempo and inflections.