Wednesday, 19 December 2018


Hi. Not posted anything for a while. Wrote the following in an hour as an experiment in loose associations and thought it would be nice to stick it up here (if you'll pardon the expresson). If it means anything to you, then that's what it means.

Regards. Rob 

Blazoned across a purple and golden sky, the finest arrangement of celestial notifiers announce the limits of human endeavour, from east to west, right ascending and declining, to admit minds less incongruous than they.

The finished effect clings to creation like a limpid to a sea mine, raising the possibility of no reordering this side of black. We hope, but ultimately we yield to what we must accept in a crimson dawn of irrelevance. All myths are self important and inept visions of where we lie, never at the centre, always at the edge; reacting to reactors, returning to dust and new light.

Livermorium in memoriam. Tennessine in tension and terror. Lithium for lethargy. Arsenic for old lace. Carbon cannot cancel the concerns of its own insistence on being the most abundant, the centre of all things, despite its rarity and its irrationalisation. Sands of time as sand in the dessert, unique and yet everywhere, rendering the very fact of sand redundant. Out of empty quarter is abundance when factored against the availability of dust.

We give it form. We offer it life. Primrose patterns against a winter sky. Staring into the void for ever and ever. Amyth. Minotaurs and unicorns like infinity and world weary infants. Potentiality is not existence. Nothing goes on forever. Nothing ever really stops. Life lived is life dreamt, a waking dream, sleepwalking through ages and eons, the passage of past and present in geometric expansion into the ever changing future. Even stones are not set in stone. Speak actively in the negative, or passively in the affirmative. Yes. No. Jein.

Inexactitude is the way. Skirting the shore of our ignorance. Dipping a toe in here or there. Languishing in obscurity between the devil and the big yellow ball in the sky, zoning out all endeavour modern, ancient, and to come.

God says you are important. The Universe says you are not.

Misogyny says you are mono. Flags say you think only for yourself.

I promise you disappointments say your social media pronouncements.
I’ll never satisfy another say your blather and your bluster.
My children will resent me say your twisty tweeting obloquy.
Will you please engage, say your anger and your rage.
I do not know, says everything that you show.
Mummy didn’t pay enough attention. Or daddy paid too much.

Indifference. Indifference. Thrice indifference. Dotting an invisible i on an invisible i. Departing soon, but yet to arrive. Farthings to your forebears and for your progeny, pence. Around, around the circle of life, the circle of death. Into a frothing ocean and back to the start. Circular yet sinusoidal. Consanguineously in the differentiated wheelhouse of turning fortune. Be as the base unit. Digitally divide in bits of torrents. Sing the song that is sung of soon. Paint the pic that punts to pain. Live the life that lights its loins. Grasp the goal that ghosts the gust. Enjoy the endeavour that enters extraneously, ex post facto et homo ex machina. Believe the boast that boots bravado to blazes. Winnow the window that wields the winch. Arrest all attempts at advocating amazement. Inevitably I inculcate innocence in ineptitude. I will still remain immortal. And dark.

Thursday, 11 October 2018

Becalmed Again

“I swim in a redundant pool of crimson despair, mind awash to the bold, barren wasteland of hypodermic nausea, to cut a swathe through the razor blade precision of isolation and cooled to the numbing certainty of a yawning chasm, a spiritless void, my curse; my folly; my existence.”

I wrote the above words in the mid-1990s. More than 20 years later and little seems to have changed. Yet even before I wrote Becalmed, I had been suffering from one form of undiagnosed mental illness or another for most of my life.

On Monday of this week, I rang in sick and ran away to Scotland to end my life. It’s been a rough year. 4am found me lying on the floor of a shower unit in a Glasgow hotel room (on Hope Street, for the comic irony), shirt off, the sharp end of a pair of scissors wedged between my chest and the tiling. I had written a note. I had left next of kin details. I even had the presence of mind to buy some blue tack to leave a note on the bathroom door, alerting the cleaning staff not to come in. Just because I’m suicidal, I thought, doesn’t mean I’m a barbarian.

I couldn’t go through with it (in case that wasn’t immediately apparent). Instead I wandered around Glasgow for the day. My father was a submariner in the Royal Navy and we spent many years of my childhood living in nearby Helensborough, where I had visited the day before. I was born not far away. I guess in my disturbed state I wanted things to come full circle.

Then I headed to Sunderland, from where I write these words, to stay with my brother and sister-in-law. I collapsed in tears as soon as I was through the door. After days of feeling numb, raw emotion had returned with avengeance. I had been holding on to it all for the entire day and couldn’t hold it any longer.

The worst part about depression is not the depression itself. The worst part about depression is the shame, humiliation, and embarrassment that come from having to admit to anyone that one is depressed. Which is ridiculous. Does a runner feel shame at pulling their hamstring? Or a singer feel humiliated when they get a throat infection?

Mental illness is, by its very definition, irrational. Unlike a hamstring injury, or throat infection, the very thing that is injured is also the thing that is assessing its reaction to the damage done. Mental illness is circular, and it is cumulative. One finds oneself trapped in a spiralling loop of bad thoughts and unhelpful images. Hating oneself for being weak and for negatively impacting on one’s friends and relatives. It is exhausting, and it is draining.

I would like to say at this point that I am fine, and you don’t need to worry about me, but that would be a lie. It’s the same denials that I have allowed myself to believe for far too many years. I’ve always lived too much in my head, avoiding talking about my issues, living a life of perceived independence, but being unable to take care of myself properly. I’ve not been to a doctor regarding anything, let alone my mental state, in nearly fifteen years. I’m drowning in debt. I’ve been single for a decade to avoid inflicting me on anyone else.

Clearly things can’t go on as they are. The centre cannot hold. I am now in the process of registering with a doctor to see about getting a proper diagnosis. I’ve started looking at consolidating the debt. I am even toying with the idea of actually leaving the house and doing this thing I’ve heard about called, socialising.

I can also see the funny side of it all, which is often the case in the immediate aftermath of an ‘episode’. As the fictional Alan Partridge once had a breakdown and drove to Scotland without any shoes, I ran away to Scotland on the train without enough socks. I should have fled to Dundee, not Glasgow, and gorged myself on Toblerone.

As a person who has lived and worked in Great Britain my entire life, I have been brought up to believe that it is vulgar to talk about oneself. Which it is. However, today is World Mental Health Day (if nothing else, my timing for once is impeccable), and I wanted to write about what’s going on with me, partly because writing helps soothe the savage beast, but also as a beacon of hope for anyone else that suffers from the same malfunctioning psyche.

These things can be difficult to talk about, because depression usually doesn’t leave any visible, physical symptoms like a torn hamstring, or vocal cord. The fear is that one will be accused of faking it or being a malingerer. I am extremely blessed to have family who are supportive and loving. I will always have somewhere I can go. I will never be forced into homelessness, or destitution. I don’t drink alcohol. Not everyone is so fortunate. You just have to trust that there are people who will understand what you are going through, whether they be family, friends, or organisations such as the Samaritans.

Mental illness is like carbon monoxide; poisoning silently when left undetected. No one should suffer and die in silence. Get the help you need. It’s taken me long enough to come to this realisation. Be well.

See Also

An English Sloop Becalmed near the Shore - Francis Swaine 

 Becalmed (full version)

I swim in a redundant pool of crimson despair, mind awash to the bold, barren wasteland of hypodermic nausea, to cut a swathe through the razor blade precision of isolation and cooled to the numbing certainty of a yawning chasm, a spiritless void, my curse; my folly; my existence.

These are my fears, daydreams of grandeur that exist in but the mind eye, passionate kingdoms where none are to be found, not even I, and what's left to do when faultless clarity is all that I have and ears bleed from the silence.

None else swim here and none will, for I am a creature of habit, a habit of addictive self-destruction, deprived of even the energy to engage this agony and all that's left to do is sink, drown in the becalmed mistress of singular euphoric demise. And none being in attendance, none will grieve, none will care, not even I, for this is the way of things. To achieve but one terminal ambition, as all others are lost to the black.

Thursday, 27 September 2018


The long corridor yawned high above her. The olive green paint of the imposing walls was cracked and peeled in countless places. A rough smell of disinfectant hung on the air.

She leaned uncomfortably. They'd made her wait now for more than twenty minutes. One cheek had gone to sleep from sitting in the remoulded plastic seating. She heard they did this on purpose. It injected a sense of sombre reflection into the Attendee. Made them pliant to the intensive questioning.

Scattered on either side of the never-ending olive peel were other expectant Attendees, all sat in the same uncomfortable seats in ones and threes and fours. She furtively checked no-one was looking and rubbed the tender cheek, shifting the weight to her other side. She readjusted the pattern dress about her knee and replaced a strand of jet black hair that had come free in the move.

She touched the corner where her Aye-Budd would usually be. They made you surrender all electronics as you entered the building. She felt alone without the constant projection of other people's thoughts and creations into her field of vision. Naked even. This also served to a purpose.

"Ms Meagher?"

A woman in a suit stood over here, consulting a DABB in the crook of her arm. She envied the woman her skin. Her eyes were brown though. Not green like hers.

"That's Meagher."

"If you'd like to follow me."

She followed red pumps and ankle chain down the olive corridor, through a door in the wall to another olive corridor, smaller and more foreboding, then through several more doors and corridors, each the same immutable shade of green and dread.

Finally they arrived at one door in particular.

"In here please. Mr Strike will see to you." She made to object. The woman smiled thinly and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Just tell him everything he wants to know and you'll be fine. Ok?"

"Ah, Ms Meagher, is it? Take a seat. I'll be with you in one moment."

A man sat behind a desk. About her grandfather's age. The way he manipulated that DABB though. Sharp operator.

"Now a few preparatory questions. Your name is Serena Meagher, is that correct?"

"It's pronounced Meagher."

"And you turn 18 in two weeks."

"Wednesday, March 3rd, yes."

"It says here that you identify as female. Would that be a fair assessment?"

"It would."

"It also says that your father is of Irish origin and your mother Iranian."

"Is this relevant?"

"In the grand scheme of things, perhaps not. But it does help to calibrate the results you see."

"Fine. My dad is Manchester born and bred from Irish stock. My mother's people were forced into exile for fighting for political reform in Iran. They're still at it to this day. They've just moved on from Iran. Does that answer your question?"

He placed the DABB to one side.

"You know, sometimes I get bored with this job. I can see this one's going to be a lot of fun. Shall we begin? Other Interrogators have their methods for leading the Attendee into the Interrogation. I find it's best to just crack on. The sooner we begin, the sooner the unpleasantness is at an end."

"Sure. I'm not arsed."

"Now come now. Let's not begin with a lie."

And so it began:

Questions about her education, politics, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, hopes, aspirations and ambitions. Questions about policing. Questions about the homeless. Questions about public transport. Questions about the rate of taxation and the division between education, health and military spending. Questions about sanitation and refuse disposal. Questions about sport and the arts. Questions about space exploration. Questions about space tourism. Questions about immigration. Questions about her attitude towards other women. Questions about her attitude towards men. Questions about her attitude towards the trans and pan communities. Questions about her attitude towards the disabled. Questions about prejudice. Questions about homophobia. Questions about racism. Questions about paedophilia and paedophiles. Questions about rape. Questions about sexism. Questions about public works and mass transportation. Questions about childcare. Questions about provisions for mental health care. Questions about genetic research. Questions about religion. Questions about belief in an afterlife. Questions about the many world's interpretation of quantum dynamics. Questions about technology. Questions about literature, film, TV and music. Questions about crop rotation, organic and sustainable farming, and chemical pesticides. Questions about irrigation and agriculture. Questions about reproductive rights. Questions about justice and the criminal prosecution system. Questions about punishment. Questions about the death penalty. Questions about the elderly. Questions about culinary tastes. Questions about social structure and upwards mobility. Questions about unemployment support and financial assistance for nascent artists. Questions about adult literacy. Questions about animal welfare. Questions about meat eaters, vegans, and vegetarianism. Questions about the countryside. Questions about cities. Questions about megacities. Questions about the moon. Questions about Mars and the outer planets. Questions about gynaecology. Questions about murder. Questions about theft. Questions about guilt, regret, broken promises, broken hearts, unfinished assignments, and unfulfilled dreams. Questions about sleep patterns and recurrent themes when dreaming. Questions about colours, flowers, fragrances, and scents. Questions about alcohol; wine, beer, and spirits. Questions about drugs; opiate, synthetic, and weed. Questions about interest rates and the borrowing rate. Questions about reparations for crimes committed by historic regimes. Questions about disaster preparedness and prevention. Questions about the nature of reality. Questions about zombie apocalypse. Questions about precious metals and stones. Questions about language, spelling and usage. Questions about pornography. Questions about advertising. Questions about tattoos, piercings, and genital mutilation. Questions about individualism versus interdependedness. Questions about fight or flight. Questions about flight versus the hyperloop. Questions about her expectations for life. Questions about her personal ambitions. Questions about her career aspirations. Questions about her idea of perfection. Questions about utopia. Questions about nirvana. Questions about hell. Questions about redemption and self-judgement. Questions about being a responsible a citizen. Questions about answers given in answer to questions asked in earlier sessions. Follow up questions about answers given in answer to questions asked about answers given in answer to questions asked in earlier sessions.

For days it went on like this. Weeks it seemed. How long, she never knew. Even when they told her. Even later, when she could work it out for herself, it still seemed unreal. There were no windows. No clocks. Even in the canteen. Even when they guided her to the banks of cots where Attendees fell exhausted into instant sleep.

(and even here the questions followed them, like a continually moving panorama burned onto the back of the retina from a day spent in continuous travel - questions about the borrowing rate of child poverty, questions about mauve repatriation to u-taupia, questions about the way to west a wren with wrath).


Questions about love. Questions about hatred. Questions about recycling. Questions about dairy products. Questions about the virtual word. Questions about imaginary numbers. Questions about printed media. Questions about IVF. Questions about adoption. Questions about mega corporations. Questions about self-sacrifice. Questions about suicide. Questions about guns. Questions about the famous. Questions about passive consumption. Questions about the Undead. Questions about fascism. Questions about communism. Questions about socialism. Questions about capitalism. Questions about anarchism. Questions about Existentialism. Questions about Platonism. Questions about freedom of choice. Questions about equality of choice. Questions about social justice. Questions about slavery. Questions about madness. Questions about eternity. Questions about the abyss. Questions about the past. Questions about the future.

"Finally Ms Meagher, we come to the final question that I have for you for now." She nodded out of relief and that he'd finally got her name right. "What do you know of what's gone on here? What do you know of what this is about?"

"Is that not two questions?"

"No, it's the same question stated in two different ways." He leant back in his chair. "Still not bowed. I said we'd have fun. No come. What's this all about?"

She thought for a moment. "It's preparing us for good citizenship."

"Good. Go on."

"You test us to see what we like and what we believe in and then you feed that into the cloud and the cloud makes decisions about what's best for the country based on the average of whatever everyone says."

"It's a little more sophisticated than that, but yes. Once upon a time important decisions were left to what were called 'Elected Representatives'. These Elective Representatives were elected to represent communities, often tens of thousands at a time, and to vote on important matters at a centralised location on behalf of those people."

"But how could one person accurately reflect the wishes and beliefs of so many people?"

"They couldn't. The system was open to mass manipulation and corruption and the majority of elected representatives behaved in exactly the way in which we now know human beings are programmed to behave."

"You mean they abandoned the communities wishes in favour of their own desires?"

"Often exploiting the people they were meant to be representing as they did so, yes."

"What changed?"

"The cloud. The cloud brought stability, after many a shaky start. Elected representatives became obsolete once human beings could transmit their every thought and opinion to the entire solar system in real time at the speed of light. Earlier versions of Nephocracy (from the Greek, meaning to rule through the cloud) were stormy. Decisions then were made based on opinion on social media. The result was pandemonium, and led to at least one gruesome incident where three men were found guilty and publically executed for the crime of being what were back then known as 'Hipsters'."

"I've seen people cloud that they used to have organised groups back then."

"You mean political parties. Yes, well they were a very backward people. Not nearly as independently minded as today's population. Which is why the present system was devised. Shortly before a person's 18th birthday they are brought in for Interrogation and subjected to rigorous questioning in order to build up a 4-d map of their life choices and moral centres. This is added to the Wise Owd Cloud, the central map of all preferences across the system, and it is this master brain that ultimately regulates everything that we do today. It has maintained stability for more than two centuries, granting freedom of equality and choice to all, whilst being able to accommodate, facilitate even, most life choices that don't actively involve harm to others."

"But surely my opinions and interests will change?"

"Which is why everyone is retested every nine years.

"What if my ideas change so radically that I want to be retested right away?"

"You can request a retest at any time."

"And you'll grant that request?"

"It shouldn't present a problem. Retests are common. It's only the vexatious retesters that we have to turn away."

"What if my ideas are subversive?"

"Subversive? I don't understand. If your ideas are out of step with the general consensus, they will be too ineffectual to alter very much. And if they're in step with the general consensus then they can't be subversive now, can they?"


"I wouldn't worry. It'll take a few days to get the results back, but you seem like a good person. Not everyone is so conscientious; another reason why we drag people in here for days at a time. To show and remind them that there is quite a bit of the universe that doesn't revolve around them. That actually water doesn't just fall out of the sky, or spaceships just rise into the air. Our decentralised society didn't just happen. No one individual is more important than any other, but it couldn't operate without those individuals having some sense of the whole and finding their place within it."

"So the Wise Owd Cloud is not all."

"Even the most perfect instrument can only enhance life, not replace it. All the Wise Owd Cloud can do is store your beliefs and choices to allow you to travel away from them. It does not abnegate personal responsibility. It is not a short cut to intellectual enlightenment. All it really does is tell the Wise Owd Crowd what actions need to be taken to clear a path for your particular world line to move forwards unobstructed. The rest is up to you."

She nodded. "What next?"

"You go home and get some rest. In a few days the results will come back and we'll be in touch to make a follow-up appointment to come in and review the results and see if there's anything with which you disagree."

"Will it be you reviewing the results?"

"It will."

"And then I'll be a full citizen?"

"You will. With all of the rights, responsibilities and privileges to match." The possibilities were endless. "I'd bring a night bag. There's still a bit to go, but we're through the worst of it. And first time is almost always the longest session. Ms Levoulle will show you out. Oh, and Happy Birthday."

Red shoes and ankle bracelet seemed a lifetime ago from first crossing these corridors. Personal items returned in a brown legal envelope. Harsh sunlight. The first in eons. A towering city skyline slowly resolving into outline. The sheer enormity and complexity of it all. She rolled the Aye-Budd slowly between finger and thumb, delaying its reattachment to her cornea for an instant or an eternity as she relished the sound of a single voice inside her head.

Then with barely a conscious thought it was done and her left eye felt heavy under the extra weight. She held her breath for a moment, then closed hers eyes and looked hard down to the left. A shudder in her skull told her the Aye-Budd was resetting itself. It told her to wait. She waited.

Je Dirai Enfin Par Votre Bouche - Existentialist Visions of Hell, Redemption, and Self-Possession in Albert Camus's La Chute (The Fall)

"Avez-vous remarqué que les canaux concentriques d'Amsterdam resembient aux cercles de l'enfer?[1]" (Have you noticed that the concentric canals of Amsterdam resemble the circles of Hell?)

[Warning: Contains spoilers and references to self-harm. Read-on at your own discretion.]

Albert Camus's 1956 novel, La Chute[2], is an attempt to weave into a narrative structure the ideas and opinions of the French Existentialist movement. How well does it succeed in this attempt?

In order to begin, we must expand our definition. La Chute is better described as an attempt to overlay the ideas and opinions of the French Existentialist movement upon the general landscape of Dante's Inferno. The present-day action takes place in Amsterdam, which here serves as a metaphor for the Inferno in three distinct ways. The nested horseshoes of concentric canals encircling the centre of Amsterdam represent the nine concentric circles that shape Dante's vision of the underworld. Amsterdam can hardly be said to have the climate or average annual temperature commensurate to being an apt stand-in for Hell. Yet Amsterdam also represents a specific location within the Inferno:

"Ici, nous sommes dans le dernier cercle. Le cercle de... Ah! Vous savez cela? Diable3, vous devenez plus difficile à classer." (Here we are in the final circle. The circle of... Ah! You know that. Damm it[3], you become harder to classify.)

The ninth and final circle of Dante's Inferno is the circle of traitors. Frozen to his waist at its centre is Satan, the ultimate traitor in Christian mythology. His wings beat the air in torment, chilling the air about them, turning the River Cocytus to ice and leaving him trapped, together with all the other traitors to their kindred, country, guests, and lord that inhabit the ninth circle.

In the eight circles above, everything is as hot, humid, and hellish as popular culture tends to conjure in its collective imagination. The ninth circle is Hell's dungeon; the place where are kept all those so beyond hope or redemption that they aren't actively tortured. Rather their souls are encased in the ice at varying levels of immobility and ignored. Virgil and Dante can discern little more than vague shapes in the ice as they pass that way. They move on down the legs of Satan and up onto the island of Purgatory.

Amsterdam, with its temperate climate, situated on the coast of the North Sea, is an effective substitute for the cold of the ninth circle. Snow is falling in the final chapter of La Chute and settling on the "dark jade canals" and the 'little snow-covered bridges". Our narrator idly speculates about second chances and jumping into the water to save another soul. This would leave him trapped in the icing over canal, like those frozen in the ninth circle. He goes back to bed.

As with the ninth Circle, the characters of La Chute are anonymous and go unheard and unseen. The novel's only voice is its narrator, one Jean-Baptiste Clamence. Even this, he tells us, is not his real name. Clamence's narrative is told to another man, principally in a bar near the red light district of Amsterdam. All that we know of this other person's contribution to the conversation is in the phrases that Clamence echoes back at him ("You are in business, no doubt? In a way? Excellent reply! Judicious too."). The true nature of this second presence is obscured until the novel's final page.

The third and final way in which Amsterdam serves as Hell in La Chute is as a personal Hell for Jean-Baptiste Clamence. At the centre of Clamence's narrative is his confession and profound regret for a transgression committed when he was younger. For this he cannot forgive himself, and for which he condemns himself to self-exile as a result.

Clamence had years before been a lawyer in Paris. One night, crossing a bridge in the early hours of the morning, he passed the figure of a woman contemplating the river from the middle of the bridge. He carried on to the other side, but hadn't gone far down the bank when he heard a splash. This splash was quickly followed by a scream. Clamence surmised that the woman had jumped into the Seine to end her life, but changed her mind once in the river. He had a second in which to take action and jump in and save her. He remained frozen on the bank. The screams subsided. He carried on walking.

As Clamence tells it, the incident fades from his mind until one night, crossing a different bridge in Paris, he hears a laugh that seems to come from someone on the river, moving along its waters. The laugh haunts him, as the facade of respectability of his life as a lawyer begins to unravel, like Nekhlyudov in Tolstoy's Resurrection, faced as a magistrate with the woman he'd condemned to prostitution by getting her pregnant and dismissed as a maid in the household of a family friend. In failing to jump into the river and save her, Clamence wonders what shame caused this woman to take her own life. He comes to see himself as the last in a long line of men to have failed her.

Nekhlyudov sells his possessions and retreats from respectable society, as Tolstoy himself did (Resurrection was Tolstoy's final novel). Clamence closes his practice in Paris, and drifts by accident and by design to places and situations that represent variations on the upper circles of Hell, including their infernal heat. He is interned in a North African Prisoner of War camp during the Second World War. He climbs the active volcano, Mount Etna, on the Island of Sicily, to look into the heart of the volcano. He travels around the Greek archipelago, where myths of the underworld were first written down, becoming the bedrock for western literature for the next two and half thousand years.

"[L]e hasard, la commodité, l'ironie, et la nécessité aussi d'une certaine mortification, m'ont fait choisir une capital d'eaux et de brume, corsetée de canaux, particuliérement encombrée, et visitée par des hommes venus de monde entier." (Chance, convenience, irony, and also the need for a certain mortification, made me chose a capital of water and fog, corseted by canals, particularly crowded, and visited by men from all over the world.)

In moving to Amsterdam, Jean-Baptiste Clamence finds the ultimate representation of personal Hell, like Room 101 in Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, laid out across a city. Not only do the concentric canals and climate of Amsterdam suggest the ninth circle of Hell, but with its innumerable bridges, Amsterdam is shaped to remind Clamence of his failure in Paris any time he wishes to travel across the city centre. To cross Amsterdam is to pay a heavy psychological toll for his sins: So heavy that Clamence will not cross a bridge after dark.

The dystopia of Hell is reflected in other ways within La Chute. Clamence draws his companion's attention to the premises of a former Amsterdam slave trader, complete with African heads carved into the woodwork. The bar in which much of the action takes places is called Mexico-City. Its name recalls the Aztecs and their ritual blood sacrifices on the killing floor. The bar itself is situated in the old Jewish Quarter that existed before the ethnic cleansing perpetrated by the Nazis during the Second World War, and the deportation of its inhabitants to the Hell-on-Earth that awaited them at Auschwitz, Belsen[4], and Sobibor[5].

Dante also makes a personal appearance in La Chute:

"Connaissez-vous Dante? Vraiment? Diable. Vous savez donc que Dante admet des anges neutral dans le querelle entre Dieu et Satan. Et il les place dans les Limbes, une sorte a vestibule de son enfer." (Do you know Dante? Really? Dammit. Then you know that Dante admits there were neutral angels in the war between God and Satan. And he places them in Limbo, a sort of vestibule in his Inferno.)

Here Camus, or Clamence, misspeaks. The Vestibule and Limbo are very different places in Dante's Inferno, lying on opposite sides of the River Acheron. Limbo is the first circle of the Inferno, where reside all the virtuous pagan souls that existed before Christ and were therefore denied the opportunity to convert to Christianity and be saved. The Vestibule, where we find the neutral angels, is an anti-circle of hell, encountered before Charon and his riverboat across the Acheron and into the Inferno proper.

The name Jean-Baptiste Clamence warrants examination. At face value, the name is a play on John the Baptist, the pre-cursor to Christ in Christian mythology. As John the Baptist carried out baptisms in the River Jordan, Jean-Baptiste Clamence hears confessions near the River Amstel. Clamence describes himself as a judge-penitent; a title of his own invention. His method is to befriend the respectable men who come looking for the seedier parts of Amsterdam. Then he compels them to confess their sins to him by going through the charade of confessing his own sin, as if for the first time:

[J]e me tiens devant l'humanitié entiére, récapitulant mes hontes, sans perdre de vue l'effect que je produis, et dissant: « J'étais le dernier des derniers. » Alors, insensiblement je passe , dans mon discours, du « je » au « nous ». Quand j'arrive au « voilà ce que nous sommes », le tour est joué, je peux leur de leurs véritiés. (I stand before all of humanity, recapitulating my shames, without losing sight of the effect that I produce, and say: "I am the lowest of the low," Then brusquely I move from "I" to "We". When I get to: "This is what we are." the game is over and I can tell them some home truths.)

As well as allusions to John the Baptist, the name Jean-Baptiste Clamence has more than a whiff of sulphur surrounding it. The initials J.B.C. could be read to spell out some variation on Jesus Bleeding Christ, or Jesus Bloody Christ[6]. The blasphemy inherent in this combination of words and letters once again suggests the pit, and the inversion of a black mass, twisting Christ into the Antichrist. During his time in the internment camp, Clamence's fellow prisoners elect him a kind of mock Pope. The protestant reformer, Martin Luther, considered Pope Leo X to be the Antichrist, as did Protestants for centuries after Luther's death. Jean-Baptiste Clamence is as much Mephistopheles as he is John the Baptist. Clamence collects confessions as Mephistopheles is said to collect souls. Nightly, Clamence has his fill from the inexhaustible supply of budding Fausts waiting to be consumed before the bar of Mexico-City.

What does any of this have to do with Existentialism?

The origins of the Existentialist movement can be traced to the writings of the Danish philosopher, Søren Aabye Kierkegaard[7]. As noted in The Oxford Companion to Philosophy:

"Kierkegaard rejected the claim, which he took (perhaps unfairly) to be Hegel's[8], that we can look forward to a time when the different interests and concerns of people can be satisfied through their comprehension within an all-embracing objective understanding of the universe.[9]"

Whoever developed the idea, it stated that there will come a time when individual intelligence and intellectual thought have reached such a level of refinement and subtlety that all people will think in the same way and come to the same conclusions. Everyone will work towards the same goals and follow one path, once they realise what the right path is.

Kierkegaard rebuts this by noting that individual concern will always be the overriding emotion in sentient beings. It might be possible, through a high level of education and training, for everyone to see their place within society (and the universe), and act according to some perceived norm, or within society's agreed limits. Yet self is always nearer than society: Inner thoughts always closer than the instruction of peer pressure or billboard advertising. As such, human beings, and by extension human society, will never achieve a level of equilibrium in thought or in desire. Hegel's idea of 'absolute consciousness' is unattainable in the real world, except through the liberal use of eugenics, gulags, and concentration camps.

Kierkegaard's objection to Hegel, however, is religious rather than metaphysical. Kierkegaard believes that true objectivity can only be obtained through infinite subjectivity, the ability to see every individual viewpoint simultaneously. The only entity capable of infinite subjectivity would be God, by virtue of his being omnipresent, and therefore everywhere at once. Kierkegaard's objection is not that absolute consciousness is unobtainable, but that it is only knowable to God.

The true father of Existentialism is generally held to be the German philosopher, Martin Heidegger[10], with Kierkegaard considered its principal Godfather[11]. However, Heidegger's is a metaphysical Existentialism, largely dealing with existing consciousness as an abstract concept. Heidegger has little advice on the moral or ethical implications arising from Existentialist thought and its consequences. The work moulding metaphysical Existentialism into an ethical Existentialism would largely be conducted in France during the 1930s and 1940s. Heidegger may have been its progenitor, but one philosopher contributed more to the sum of Existentialist thought than any other: Jean-Paul Sartre.

Jean-Paul Sartre[12] is to Existentialism what Karl Mark[13] is to Communism. While Karl Mark did not invent Communism, he did with Capital (1867), and The Communist Manifesto (1848 - co-written with Friedrich Engels) contribute more to Communist thought, and have a farther reaching influence, than any other Communist writer. Sartre's influence is not to the same magnitude as Marx, but Sartre can likewise claim to have written Existentialism's two most important treatises: L'Etre et le Neant (Being and Nothingness: 1943), and L'existentialisme et un humanisme (Existentialism is Humanism: 1946). For the purposes of the current thesis, we will concentrate on the latter work.

L'existentialisme et un humanisme is based on a lecture Sartre gave at the Club Maintenant, Paris in the months following the conclusion of the Second World War[14]. Sartre posits an ethical Existentialism by drawing a line between two kinds of Existentialists: Christian Existentialists (existentialistes chrétiens) and Atheist Existentialists (existentialistes athécs). The difference between the two essentially comes down to a belief in which came first: existence (l'existence) or essence (l'essence). Do we come into this life with our personality already decided upon and preloaded into the frontal lobe? Or are personality and personal preference something that only emerge after we come into being? It's a variation on the nature versus nurture debate. Is who we are pre-existing, or is our essence shaped by the influence of circumstance and environment?

The prosaic answer to the question is probably a combination of the two. The work done on genetics in the seventy or more years since L'existentialisme et un humanisme was published has revealed certain traits that we find encoded in our genetic code. These traits set our susceptibility to particular hereditary diseases, and determine our hair and eye colour and sexual preference, amongst other things. Yet this is a small part of the picture. Genetics set sexuality, yet everything else is a free choice and open to individual interpretation. A person may be born pre-programmed to be a certain sexuality, but how that sexuality manifests itself and the types of people that that individual will be attracted to is determined by everything else that happens to them after their birth. Genetics can only set the starting conditions for how a person's life might proceed. Until that protean essence comes into existence, we can no more pre-determine the outcome than we can predict the path and position of a single elementary particle.

As an existentialiste athéc, Sartre is firmly of the belief that existence precedes essence. He goes to the trouble of rejecting the existence of God, but notes that belief in a deity is not an answer or panacea to life's ills, as life seems to proceed whether one believes in a god or not, with all the same risks of famine, disease, and war. Those who hold to a particular faith get hit by cars and throw themselves from bridges just the same as those who hold to no faith at all. Sartre posits that by rejecting the existence or influence of God, all that remains is oneself and one's actions. These are the only things for which or to whom an individual can be held responsible ("je suis responsable pour moi-méme et pour tous...").

Moreover, by rejecting the control of any greater power, whether it be God, communism, or societal pressure to conform to a restrictive role in society, we wrestle back control over our life choices. If one believes that one's path in life is hindered by immigrants, or shadowy world cabals, then one's path is unlikely to change, as immigration and global politics (real and imagined) are beyond the range of most people's influence. It is possible to advise others; nurture them; force our will upon them even, but the rationalisation to act or not to act is an internal process and it can only be affected by external influences up to a point. If one is restricted to blaming others for past mistakes, there is little one can do to redress those mistakes for the future. If, on the other hand, one takes ownership of past personal mistakes and takes steps to redress them and prevent such errors occurring in the future, then progress is made by the mere action. You can't change other people. You can only change yourself. And this brings us back to Jean-Baptiste Clamence and La Chute.

In the moment of his paralysis by the riverbank, Clamence becomes Jean Paul Sartre's concept of existentialism made narrative flesh. Clamence is a man alone, free from God (for whom he does not expresses a preference), or the judgement of others. The decision to act or not to is his to make alone. He cannot externalise the responsibility to anyone else. As Dante serves as an avatar for all such pilgrims who make the journey towards Christian redemption, so Clamence is an avatar for the existentialist faced with total autonomy.

Clamence would appear to be the classic model of an existentialiste athéc. He tells no one else of what happened (not until the confessionals of his later years). He takes no steps to ascertain if the woman survived, or her body was found. For a time he forgets the incident, but when the memory returns, Clamence arranges his own series of punishments. He seeks to blames no one else for his lack of activity.

Clamence does not offer an explanation for his inaction. Perhaps it is a variation on the bystander effect, where large groups of people will stand and watch a violent assault, because the presence of others leads individuals to assume that someone else will step in. The more people that are present, the less likely it is that any one person will take charge. As a lawyer, Clamence will have spent a good part of his life receiving training and instruction from others, as well as falling into their bad habits and practices, which is the inevitable consequence of working in any profession of high institutionalisation. In that instant at the riverbank, Clamence is the king of his own domain, with power of life and death over this one person. Yet autonomy is a concept so alien to most people that Clamence baulks at the responsibility. No one else is compelling him to act through instruction, or the simple fear of being thought a coward by society, and so he takes no action. He condemns two people to their fate in doing so.

Considered in reference to its associations with Existentialism, La Chute is a work of tragedy. Sartre notes in L'existentialisme et un humanisme that when faced with two choices, both of which are equally unpleasant, or have unfortunate consequences, there is no right or wrong answer:

"La seule chose qui compte, c'est de savoir si l'invention qui se fait, se fait au nom de la liberté." (The only thing that counts is knowing if the invention one makes is made in the name of liberty.)

The tragedy in La Chute comes not from Clamence's lack of action at the riverbank, but his reaction to his inaction. Clamence embraces the basics of existentialisme athéc by accepting responsibility for what happened and seeking personal penitence for his transgression. Yet the function of punishment is to force the individual to accept the consequences of their actions to reduce the risk of similar bad behaviour occurring in the future. Once the individual has accepted responsibility for their actions, and demonstrated sufficient remorse to the point where the probability of reoccurrence is negligible, punishment moves on to rehabilitation. Clamence cannot give a repeat performance of his act of cowardice, because he refuses to be placed in that situation again by his prohibition on crossing water after dark, so in one sense the chances of recidivism are slim. Yet this further cowardice only compounds on the original act of treachery towards a fellow human being in need. Clamence is sorry in thought, but not in action. This prevents him from moving on from the punishment stage. He remains trapped in a cycle of self-recrimination: An existentialiste athéc manifestation of hell.

Clamence's remorse is manifest, yet he shows little interest in redemption, unless in his acts of self-confession and contrition at Mexico-City. His refusal to cross a bridge after dark demonstrates the extent to which the event has marked and weakened him for evermore. By hanging around notorious suicide spots and rescuing from the waters the next person that requested help, Clamence would wipe away his guilt at a stroke. Further acts of kindness could rescue something worthwhile from a scene of tragic self-destruction. France had two volunteer lifeboat services at the time: Société Centrale de Sauvetage des Naufragés, and Hospitaliers Sauveteurs Bretons[15]. Another path to redemption. Yet Clamence will not even visit the scene of his perceived crime, only ossify in regret at its borders.

Dante's journey leads away from the ninth circle, towards the ascension of the island of Purgatory and his emersion in the River Lethe, which unaccountably flows out of the Garden of Eden[16], and whose waters wash away the memory of sin from all penitent souls that pass through their flow. Clamence stagnates, despite having less reason than anyone in the Inferno to remain there. It is a free choice, but it's hardly a constructive choice.

There is also the question of the woman on the bridge. What about her free choices? We can of course never know what circumstances motivated her to jump into the River Seine. Had she, as Clamence believes, been ruined by a man, or ruined rather by her own malfunctioning psyche? Is she Ophelia, compelled to drown herself by the actions of some rash Hamlet, or like Virginia Woolf driven to desperation by mental illness and the impact she thought she was having upon her loved ones:

"I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know."

Clamence demonstrates a certain chauvinism by assuming the woman can only have taken her life through the actions of a man. Virginia Woolf had died fifteen years before La Chute was published. Albert Camus had written his treatise on suicide, The Myth of Sisyphus, only a year later in 1942. "There is but one truly serious philosophical problem," Camus writes, "and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy." It could also be argued that suicide is Existentialism taken to its extreme, where the individual assumes responsibility for the their own termination. Although like the choices of Jean-Baptiste Clamence, it hardly demonstrates Existentialism at its most positive or proactive.

In Resurrection, Nekhlyudov is directly and actively responsible for the destitution of the woman who comes before him as a magistrate. Clamence, on the other hand, is a victim of chance. Ten minutes later and he would have had no knowledge of the existence of the woman on the bridge. He had no hand in her downfall and didn't compel her to jump. Yet he carries the weight of her action for the rest of his life. Like Satan, if he only stopped struggling for one moment and recognised that his own actions are what's keeping him imprisoned, he might break free. If Satan stopped flapping his wings, the ambient temperature from the circles above the ninth would melt the River Cocytus beneath him[17]. If Clamence would only cross one bridge after dark, it would negate the need to cross so many during the day.

One answer to why Clamence proceeds as he does might be found in the personal life of Albert Camus. It is known that Camus's second wife, Francine Faure, on at least two occasions jumped from the upper floor of buildings, including the second floor of the psychiatric hospital in which she was being treated for depression. These might have been suicide attempts, and Faure's state is likely to have been exacerbated by Camus's various affairs.

We can therefore read Clamence as Camus, and the woman on the bridge as Francine. La Chute is Camus's partially veiled confession. It is also an act of scapegoating by conjuration. Camus conjures Jean-Baptiste Clamence, attaches his sins to the judge-penitent, and condemns him to eternal damnation. Camus, meanwhile, continued with his life. Francine forgave him, and the couple are buried together in the south of France.

Whether or not one considers its methods wholesome, one can't deny fiction writing as a prime example of the industry of Existentialism. Some people blame others for their mistakes. Writers take their mistakes and turn them into literature, and cautionary tales for the instruction of others.

Clamence wants to be punished. In the final chapter his companion visits him at home, where he is laid up in bed. In his bedroom is displayed The Just Judges, a panel from a larger work painted by Hubert Van Eyck, in real life stolen from Saint Bavo Cathedral in Ghent, Belgium in 1934. In La Chute it has been displayed at Mexico-City, but Clamence has taken it home and is telling all and sundry that he is in possession of the painting in the hope of being arrested for its theft. There is a suspicion in the final chapter that Clamence is near the end of his life and is desperate for some real world punishment because he does not believe in anything after death. Perhaps this explains the true nature of the companion to whom Clamence has been speaking all this time:

"Ne sommes-nous pas tous semblables, parlant sans tréve et à personne... Alors, racontez-moi, je vous prie, ce qui vous est arrivé un soir sur les quais de la Seine et comment vous avez réussi à ne jamais risquer votre vie. Prononcez vous-meme les mots qui, depus de années, n'ont cessé de rentir dans mes nuits, et que je dirai enfin par votre bouche: O jeune fille, jette-toi encore dans l'eau pour que j'aie une seconde fois la chance de nous sauver tous les deux." (Are we not the same? Always talking, and to no-one... Then tell me, please, is it you that arrived one night at the Seine, and how you managed to never risk your life? I say now the words that throughout the years have not ceased echoing in my nights and that I say at last through your mouth: O young women, throw yourself into the water one more time that I might have a second chance to save us both.)

In the book's final moments, Clamence is revealed to be talking to himself. Whether through idle day dream or hallucination, the person to whom Jean-Baptiste Clamence tells his confession is the younger Jean-Baptiste Clamence. Curiously, from the text quoted above, Clamence would appear to be speaking to a postlapsarian version of himself; one who also failed to prevent the women's fall. He also regrets his lack of action and repeats the mantra to second chances. The only difference it seems is that the mature Clamence has ceased to believe in second chances, despite the words still echoing through his nights. A regret, which, as discussed, could easily be remedied by facing the scene of his failure on any bridge after dark. To the bitter end, he obstinately refuses the call:

"Supposez, cher maitre, qu'on nous prenne au mot? Il faudrait s'exécuter. Brr...! l'eau est si froide." (Suppose, dear friend, that someone took us at our word. It would have to be carried out. Brr...! The water is so cold.)

Albert Camus's 1956 novel, La Chute, is an attempt to weave into a narrative structure the ideas and opinions of the French Existentialist movement. How well does it succeed in this attempt?

The character of Jean-Baptiste Clamence embodies and embraces many of the elements of Existentialism. However, he is a man caught between two camps. He adopts total autonomy for his failure to act at the riverbank, rather than report the incident to the police, or confess and seek forgiveness from a priest. Yet in deciding his own punishment, Clamence falls back on Christian ideas of punishment imposed punitively for disobedience, and as a deterrent to others who wish to challenge the current order. In the end he embraces the worst from both camps, and becomes neither existentialiste chrétien, or existentialiste athéc, but existentialiste tragique.

As well as perhaps being Camus's confession and act of penitence for the impact that his infidelities had upon Francine, La Chute is a cautionary tale on the dangers of living in the past. For one moment of inaction, Clamence lives a lifetime of regret. He could, as discussed, look to mitigate the guilt he feels by putting himself in a position where he can help others. He is stuck, fixated on that one moment in time. So much so that he wishes or prays through all the nights of his life for a chance to travel back and save the woman on the bridge. It is a vicious circle, or time loop, both of which have become staple narrative devices when referencing the Inferno since the death of Dante in 1321[18].

Clamence is an existentialiste tragique by stagnating in the failures of the past, rather than seeking to learn from those mistakes. His attitude towards women develops into something healthier than that of his prelapsarian state, but he also gives up his practice in Paris, which he says specialised in securing monies from estates for the widows and orphans of the deceased intestate. One admires the partial progress Clamence makes in his attitudes, but it only serves to underpin the tragedy of his character. For all his hellish associations, perhaps it is the younger, not older, Clamence who is Mephistopheles here, come to collect his own aged soul. Or like Virgil, come to lead the dying Clamence down into the Inferno. In his imagined conversations with his younger self, Clamence to the last embodies the essence of the Existentialist struggling for their autonomy, principally concerned with moderating their own actions. The tragedy is in how Clamence handles his autonomy, and how he burdens himself with the responsibility for the autonomy of a stranger.

Jean-Paul Sartre was Existentialism's last great contributor, although a clutch of French philosophers that came after Sartre, including Jacques Derrida and Michael Foucaut, could be considered post-existentialists, like the post-punk bands that emerged out of the wreckage of punk[19] in the late 1970s. And yet, Existentialism, particularly Sartre's model, has plenty to recommend it, especially in these days of increasing secularism, and the rising popularity of social media, and the echo chambers of thought and opinion that they create. Where we once lived in societies where we were forced to believe in a single truth that benefited a handful of people, increasingly we come to see our single truth, the one which places us at the centre of the universe,  as the only truth allowable, and waste time and energy trying to impose that truth on total strangers in 280 characters or less.

Existentialism speaks to this. We are each one of seven billion solutions that the planet Earth has found to the problem of consciousness. We are ultimately only responsible to and for ourselves. If we behaved in exactly the same manner as anyone else, we would be failing in the one purpose for which we were created: to be unique. Some of those unique solutions, of course, malfunction so that they are a danger to others or to themselves. This is where society has (or should have) institutions in place to provide remedy or to impose sanction. Individuals have a say in how these are administered, but apart from a handful of people in positions of high power or super celebrity, few people's influence extends far beyond the borders of their own fragile bodies, or short time upon this planet. People seek to interfere in the lives of others, or simply to find someone else to blame for every misfortune that befalls them. Ironically, if we paid less attention to other people's failings, and concentrated more on identifying and fixing our own, we might gain greater influence beyond our borders. Then the outdated ideas, industries, and institutions on which much of modern society is still based might give way to something more beneficial and flexible to the general health of all.

We live in an increasingly decentralised world: Facebook, Instagram,and Twitter are as much nation states as France, India, or Taiwan, only financed by advertising revenue instead of taxation. Much of our infrastructure is still highly centralised, the system of elected representation perhaps the most egregious relic in an age when it is possible to see and speak to someone on the other side of the world as if they were in the next room. It should no longer be necessary for 600 or so individuals to represent and vote on behalf of 6 million people, especially given the poor record of elected representatives in accurately representing the wishes of the electorate. Those 6 million people, the ones considered capable at the very least, should by this stage in our technological evolution be able to vote for themselves on matters before parliament, either through casting their vote directly through secure electronic means, or by having some kind of proxy in place that automatically casts a ballot based on the voter's preferences. The more individual preferences recorded for as many individuals as possible, the better regulated might society become to the wishes and needs of its individual citizens.

“If there were a nation of Gods," wrote Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the grandfather of all French philosophy since the time of the revolution, "it would govern itself democratically. A government so perfect is not suited to men.” The existentialiste athéc of Jean Paul Sartre rejects God in favour of making the individual God of their own life, reality, and realm. True democracy is still unobtainable for now, so long as people are bickering over trivial matters in a million places on line, and women are compelled to write and rewrite every social media post they make for fear that some male will pipe in to offer his unsolicited advice. One day we might be ready, and humanity might come to rule itself not through democracy, but nephocracy: rule by the cloud (from nephos, the Greek word for cloud). It would require a society of Existentialists to make it possible. Then might La Chute transcend its place as a novel to become a teaching aid and cautionary tale on the dangers and pitfalls of autonomous self-control. Atheist, Christian, or any other types of Existentialism would all be welcome, so long as they were able to give a better account of themselves than the example set by Jean-Baptiste Clamence.

La Chute also serves to remind us, like John Donne, that no one person is an island. We can accept the mantle of Sartre's Existentialism to take responsibility for our actions, but that is not the same as bearing the consequences of our actions alone. Even a society of Existentialists is a society. You can't change others, but neither can you move through life unaided. Society at its best spreads the load, so that no one individual or group bears too much of the burden. In a top down society, those on the bottom bear the load and so we see, as in Camus's time, that there is a long way to go before we approach any kind of happy societal medium that Existentialist thought might help to facilitate.

Albert Camus's 1956 novel, La Chute, is an attempt to weave into a narrative structure the ideas and opinions of the French Existentialist movement. How well does it succeed in this attempt?

Very nicely, thanks. Devilishly clever, one might say.

Et quand ils ont bien bu
Se plantent le nez au ciel
Se mouchent dans les étoiles
Et ils pissent comme je pleure
Sur les femmes infidèles
Dans le port d’Amsterdam,
Dans le port d’Amsterdam[20]

[1] La Chute, Albert Camus, Editions Gallimard, 1956
[2] Published in English translation as The Fall (1957)
[3] Which my Penguin Modern Classics version curiously translates as "By Heaven." I am not enough well versed in French or French Algerian idiom to know if it is a usual to use the Devil's name as a vocative or ejaculatory expression, but at face value Camus uses Diable here as both a vernacular expression of surprise and to redouble the hellish overtones. Heaven is nowhere to be found.
[4] Most notably, Anne Frank.
[6] As B is the voiced counterpart to unvoiced P, and where C can be pronounced as a K or an S, the initials JPS, signifying Jean Paul Sartre can also be seen.
[7] 1813-1855
[8] Georg Wilhelm Frederick Hegel (1770-1831)
[9] The Oxford Companion to Philosophy, Ted Honderich (Editor), Oxford Universe Press, 1995
[10] 1889 - 1976
[11] Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 - 1900) to a lesser extent is also considered a Godfather of Existentialism.
[12] 1905 - 1980
[13] 1818 - 1883
[14] 29 October 1945
[15] They merged into Société Nationale de Sauvetage en Mer in 1967
[16] Genesis cites four rivers flowing out of Eden: The Tigris, Euphrates, Gishon and Pishon.
[17] There is something wonderfully Greek about Satan's predicament in the Inferno. One finds much of Tantalus and Sisyphus in the punishment chosen for him.
[18] See the TV shows, Preacher and American Horror story, or James Joyce's Finnegans Wake for variations on these techniques. Also, Groundhog Day, Doctor Who, Star Trek or Stargate for variations on the basic theme.
[19] The Fall and Joy Division to Sartre's Clash. Heidegger would be Joey Ramone in this analogy. Kierkegaard: MC5
[20] "And when they are too drunk, They plant their noses to the sky. They blow their noses in the stars. And they piss like I cry, On unfaithful women. In the port of Amsterdam. In the port of Amsterdam." - Amsterdam, Jacques Brel