Sunday, 29 May 2022

Fluidity and the Uneasiness of Culture


 

It is increasingly common to hear of identities described as "fluid". Fluid identities are shifting identities, unmoored from any fixed location. In their fluidity they break down the normative weight of solid, fixed identities.

 

Fluidity implies movement, a sort of identity jet-setting which - despite the proliferation of fluid identities - I think we should recognise as being less and less characteristic of the digital age, and especially the post pandemic age. If potential for movement is no longer the prime characteristic of the non-solid, should we then pivot within the idiom to liquidity and liquidizing as the signatures of digitally disaffected and dysphoric humanity?

 

Liquidity does not emphasise the mobile, as with fluidity, but the labile, the property of being easily changed, and a description that necessitates a process of liquidation, so as to nullify the residual and resisting solidity of the thing.

 

Labile persons are not fixed in their identities. Nor however are they fluid in so far as they neatly move from one shape to another by force of their own will, like the mythical god Proteus, the etymology of which implies an originary or primordial character and was commonly associated with the sea.

 

The status of modern labile persons is foremost to be subject to processes of liquification, disruption, and change, such that holding a stable form is impossible.

 

Autonomy is the principle victim of subjective liquification, as the capacity to adopt a form-of-life proper to a stable and ongoing persona is constantly disrupted by what Bernard Stiegler has termed generalised proletarianization.  This process - dramatically accelerated by the enforced nihilism of the pandemic - is enabled by evermore invasive technologies.

The elimination of boundaries does not deliver all things to free association.

 

Information is paradigmatic of "liquid modernity"; it is ephemeral, always superseding itself. We talk of information flows and hubs where it is stored like oil or gas. Some tech entrepreneurs have even compared the big data economy to the oil and gas industry. But information also liquidizes. In its shear quantity it overwhelms what is solid in an endless competition for attention.

 

As it exists in a competitive environment (a capitalist environment), information constantly radicalises itself so as to be best positioned to capture the cognitive capacity of human beings, who are its relays. A relay is not a repository. Human beings are no longer required to hold information, only to generate, transmit, and amplify it. Since the information economy is by nature transitory and ephemeral it carries with it its own sense of time, which is always in the process of accelerating.

 

"Everything that stabilizes human life is time-consuming. Faithfulness, bonding and commitment are time-consuming practices. The decay of stabilizing temporal architectures, including rituals, makes life unstable. The stabilization of life would require a different temporal politics".

Byung-Chul Han - Non-Things

Fluid subjects are mixed into the ocean of digital culture, but they do not swim in it. Swimming is a discipline that implies direction and will, set against (or maybe consciously with) the prevailing currents. The fluid subject is not like the dandy or flaneur of industrial modernity, who picks choice pieces from out the incessant flow of experience. Even such a subjectivist aestheticism as this requires a basic foundation (an essential stillness) on which to function. Digitally disaffected populations have no solid ground on which to stand, nor can they find their way in the ocean of data.  

 

In the digital order, the grundstimmung of post-human subjects is dysphoria.

 

The role of memory in guarding against dysphoria is paramount. But even here, in the own-most depths of our bower there is disruption. Our memories too are made labile by an overabundance of stimuli and information. We don't hang around long enough to remember, and besides we have all the technology to remember for us.

 

What becomes of our past without memory?

 

Those memories which stick to us owing to their intensity, or the value we place on them as formative for our persona, take on the musky nostalgia of an old movie which we replay for ourselves as a reminder that we do have a history, that things did once happen. Otherwise memory is lost amongst the endless competing stimuli, like an ace of hearts placed at random into a deck of cards.

 

In the competition for available brain power (another way of rendering the attention economy) only the most affective data flows have a chance of being retained as memory. The algorithms understand this. Their funnelling of human attention towards ever more extreme content ends predictably in a world of trauma.

 

In the economy of extreme affect only the traumatised fully exist

 

Are we not all like Rachael in Blade Runner, unable to trust our memories, unable to orientate ourselves within the intensity of lived experience? The amorous encounter becomes a depressive acting out of liquified subjects, unsure even of the grounds of their own enjoyment. Is she into me or is she like Joi, Officer K’s holographic girlfriend in Blade Runner 2049, just telling you everything you want to hear?

You have memories to look back on 😊

Thursday, 19 May 2022

Addendum to Pandemic Writing 2020-2022: Hurtling Back to Earth

 


The break for me was in December of 2020, when Boris Johnson announced a U-turn on his previous commitment not to tighten restrictions over the Christmas and New year period. Not that I was relying on that sinister clown for deliverance or anything. I had long since abandoned  even the most minimal belief that the UK government - indeed any government - knew what it was doing with its pandemic response. Nevertheless, something snapped, and I recall the apoplexy I felt at the prospect of another interminable period of lockdown and isolation. Up until that point I had approached the pandemic with as cool and analytical an eye as possible. Neither weep nor laugh, but understand. Spinoza’s well known encomium to enlightened enquiry was a straightforward response to an otherwise chaotic and unforeseen situation. But in truth, this rational attempt to grasp what was happening was always destined to have its limits. When the world is changed we cannot avoid being changed along with it, and as the Winter dragged on I found myself turning towards thoughts of a pessimistic and atavistic kind.

The history of the development of pandemic response from out of all-hazards planning and cold war paranoia is highly instructive, but fails to capture some essential features of the way States and populations responded in practice. My own position on the role of the government and of the media has shifted over the course of the pandemic, from broadly supporting the containment measures (while acknowledging their biopolitical consequences) and batting away anything that vaguely smacked of conspiracy, to seeing with ever greater clarity the toxic mix of factors within Western societies which reveals the pandemic ultimately to be a judgement on our entire civilization. Radical? Overly dramatic? Of course! But to quote Lenin, one must always strive to be as radical as reality itself. And I continue to maintain that the ultimate form of the new reality ushered in by the pandemic is still unclear. 

What is clear to me is that the pandemic has created nothing new under the sun, and certainly nothing like the “return to real life” some naïve commentators hoped for in the early months of 2020. What I do see is an acceleration of existing movements towards harnessing the power of networked (or reticulated, to use Bernard Stiegler’s term) society in the interest of Capital, and away from rooted, self-determining individuals and groups (I would say communities, but does that word even have any meaning anymore?). It goes without saying that these shifts in the way Western societies are run are profoundly anti-democratic, and amplify to unprecedented levels the exploitation of human capacities (most notably cognitive capacity and attention) for the benefit of an increasingly tiny and authoritarian elite. Another concept of Stiegler's, Absolute Proletarianization, captures well the now indiscriminate impoverishment of human life that follows the cybernetic and computational turn. The most egregious injuries are the ones done to the spirit.

That’s at the top level. But what do we see – we who still have enough self-regard to look reality in the face - when we step outside our homes?

Firstly, pandemic response, and the accompanying deluge of fear-porn pumped out by governments and the media, have left a significant proportion of the population for whom a state of permanent terror functions something like a life support machine, without which they could scarcely get out of bed. These are people who still clamour after daily infection rates (always still too high) and wring their hands at the uptake of booster jabs (3rd, 4th? doesn't matter, but they're never high enough). Then there are those who talk earnestly about their daily hygiene routines and commitment to social distancing, all resolutely honed to prevent transmission of both microorganisms and any sense of fraternity. These people can be found across society, but it strikes me that they are disproportionately represented by that wellspring of neuroses and civilizational ennui, the white professional middle classes. Which is to say the class of which I am a part.

We need a deeper understanding of the forms of subjectivity engendered by the pandemic. Thinking of how so many people continue to live in a state of epidemiological anxiety and fear, it’s as if bureaucratic risk management strategies characteristic of reflexive modernity have become personalised into a terror inducing hermeneutic of the self. Or to put it another way, risk has metastasized into a general concept of near religious significance, which at all times must be attended to with unswerving vigilance and adherence to rules made by an expanding class of technocratic administrators. What are we to do with these people and their priests, who exist as a standing army for the next wave of restrictions?

I don’t mean to suggest that the pandemic will return, but what is clear is that the model of response, which in practice deviated dramatically from the field of pandemic preparedness developed over the past thirty years, will set the framework for how State and non-State institutions handle future crises. It is appropriate to talk of 'Before Covid' and 'After Covid'; this being a reflection of the epochal shift in the world-picture, comparable to the shock of the Great War.

 Of paramount importance will be the consequences of redrawing the boundaries of what is considered acceptable government restrictions of fundamental rights. A new interpretation of the Social Contract is rising that drastically shifts the State’s responsibility away from the defence of rights and freedoms and towards a permanent war economy of bare survival in the face of inescapable decline. Such an apocalyptic form of politics can in no way be described as Liberal. Liberalism is dead. It was on a ventilator before the pandemic, and little SARS-CoV-2 has pulled the plug for good.


Giorgio Agamben has been off the mark about many things over the last two years, but his most recent comments, which revisit reflections on global civil war, accurately describe the way in which governments across the world have set up a series of fundamental divisions within society as a means to govern the emergency; vaccinated/unvaccinated, infected/uninfected (note this has no relation to any intuitive understanding of health!), Covid-Pass/No Covid-pass. These divisions continue to haunt us despite their legal force having been almost entirely removed, a fact which points to their power to normalise the State of Exception well after the Law has departed the scene. It is the remnants of these divisions which rise up as anxiety and animus when we warring citizens of the post-Covid world encounter each other.

What, then, should we make of the Italian philosopher's comments at the end of 2020, from his elegiac prose poem 'When the House Burns'?:

"Whoever realises that the house is burning can be tempted to look with disdain and contempt at his fellow men, who appear not to notice the flames. Yet is it not these men, who do not see and do not think, that will be the lemures to whom you will have to give an account on the final day? Realising that the house is on fire does not raise you above the others; on the contrary, it is with them that you will have to exchange a last look as the flames get closer. What can you say to justify your claims of conscience to these men who are so unaware that they seem almost innocent?"

His use of lemures (typical for Agamben) is ambiguous. Lemures, the etymology of which runs through larvae, meaning a frightening mask, and the Greek monster Lamia, were the unhappy spirits of archaic Roman religion. The aesthetic of ephemeral, miserable persons, wandering the night is perhaps what Agamben wants us to imagine, but he could also be referring to the idea in Ovid that the lemures were vagrant spirits, vengeful, for having not been afforded proper funeral rites. This interpretation is given credence owing to Agamben's previous statements on the scandal of those who were buried or burned during the lockdowns without proper ceremony. Perhaps, then, he is warning us that even those who do not see the devastation, perhaps even enable it, still deserve to be treated with the full ceremony befitting a human being.  It's also possible, since Agamben presumably does not think we'll be communing with ghosts, the term could be a veiled hint towards the stupefied, zombie like state of some people who drifted unthinkingly through the pandemic, conforming to every demand.

There is something seductive about Giorgio Agamben's use of these overburdened words from antiquity, just as so much of his pandemic writing was heavy on portent, but light on real analysis. I really hope that he writes a considered and extended theoretical account of the pandemic, drawing on his past work, and treating the events of the last two years with some minimal distance, enough at least to shake off the conspiratorial and at times just plain cranky tone of some of his interventions.

There are clues to what may be coming, out there amid the fevered anxieties and depressive hedonism of the lemures. Against Agamben I see more that is undead in the airbrushed face of a YouTube influencer than I do in the average Covid fanatic. People, like civilisations, rot from the inside, even while the surface appears as pristine as polished marble. If the true state of our inner putrefaction could be brought to the senses, the stench would empty the heavens.

Let us then point to the spectre of Climate Lockdown, a "conspiracy theory", all too conspicuous for its general plausibility, which the mainstream media have pre-emptively lumped in with the 5G paranoiacs and white supremacists. The basic premise is simple and emerges directly from the experience of the last two years. No "time and propinquity" nonsense is needed. It asks, under conditions of climate emergency, what is the more likely path governments around the world are going to take?

1. a massive intervention into the economy to shift production away from polluting and destructive forms of enterprise, and towards a sustainable and equitable distribution of resources. This would entail the wholesale tearing down of environmentally destructive capital accumulation; the abolition of the economy of Western overconsumption; a geopolitical consensus moving away from "strategic competition" towards rapid decarbonisation, and the relegation of the Arab petrostates back to the level of Bedouin backwaters.

Or

2. Will they keep the capitalist shitshow running, but with increasingly desperate authoritarian interventions into society for the purpose of maintaining the exploitative framework in the face of general collapse. One could gloss this scenario as technocratically managed decline. Climate lockdown is then a shorthand for those interventions which aim to address the climate crisis for the benefit of the minority, while the majority of the populations of advanced economies languish in a cage of digitally augmented vampire capitalism and permanent psychological warfare. You could call it Ecofascism for the few. 

I once put this line of reasoning to an Extinction Rebellion activist during their occupation of Waterloo Bridge in the Spring of 2019. During that action - which was a very seasonal and pleasant alternative to the hazy London traffic - one of their key demands was for so-called Citizen's Assemblies to be formed which would have the role of leading the government in their response to the climate emergency. This participatory democratic mechanism struck me as intuitively superfluous. After all, if you know enough to declare an emergency, and know broadly what has to be done to reduce carbon emissions, then surely it's a super strong executive rather than a flabby deliberative body that is needed? The activist I spoke to made a reference to the democratic deficit, but I failed to see how that connected to the need for action right there in the present. As we saw only a few month later during the pandemic, when the crisis actually hits, democracy becomes a luxury we can do without.     

It's no longer possible to deny that the conditions for these speculative futures already exist. Just as it is no longer possible to believe that mass slaughter and mechanised warfare are a relic of the 20th century. We are still the same wolf in sheep's clothing; homo homini lupus, a creature - who in the words of Schopenhauer - discovers adversaries everywhere, lives in continual conflict and dies with sword in hand. Centrist Dads may cheer the West's new-found military unity, but the expansion of Nato further into Northern Europe will only push the hands of the Doomsday clock closer to midnight. We'd largely forgotten about that clock, but its infernal machinery has never ceased to tick on through the long night of the Nuclear Age. A night without dawn, that was the result of our best science; a culmination of human endeavour that gave to us the God-like power of total self-annihilation. Though, in truth I believe the theologians of the Middle Ages concluded that God was incapable of suicide.

How then is it possible - returning to a question I initially formulated in February 2020 - to live well in a world that is dying?

A mass politics of palliative care is a remote possibility, though that's not far off what I think is needed. If decline is the unavoidable horizon against which every future must be set, then I for one would prefer a government of end-of-life nurses over Elon Musk and Peter Thiel's attempts to abolish death. No, if an adjustment to the New Normal (or should that be post-normal?) is at all possible, it won't come by the way of mass political mobilisation.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.

Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.

Let's choose executors and talk of wills.

And yet not so, for what can we bequeath

Save our deposed bodies to the ground?

Richard II, Act 3 Scene 2

To be a witness to the emptiness, the illegitimacy and vainglorious impotence of Western institutions, at the moment of their eclipse; is this all that is left to do? Can even this be done with some measure of dignity? Decline and Fall may be the interpretative key for the present, but the ethos of the witness, that anarch who remains in place while others scatter, can only be one of exhilarated despair. There's no contradiction here. The person who embraces radical finitude in the spirit of exhilarated despair is the diametrical opposite of the depressive hedonist, whose insatiable pleasure seeking is analogous to the somnambulant march of the un-dead, who twitch and fret their way towards the abyss. In contrast, exhilarated despair is a cleared eyed expression of the reality principle, which recognises in the promise of radical finitude (that is, finitude at the civilizational level) the possibility, if not of happiness, then at least something approaching contentment. To be released from the demands of the society of production, of unceasing optimisation of the self, of the death march of progress; to escape all this and to be able to turn one's face to the warmth of the sun, that is to live well in a world which is dying.

Exhilaration as a mode of despair is the sine qua non for riding the Western rollercoaster as it reaches the top of the incline. Slowing to a crawl, the passenger brave enough to look around is afforded a spectacular view of all that has occurred up to this point. The car tips forward, and the feeling wells up from the pit of your stomach as you hurtle back down to Earth.

wheeeeeeeeeee!  

Tuesday, 8 February 2022

Agamben Again: Reflections on Medicine as Religion

 


From the most recent of Giorgio Agamben's pandemic interventions, published on the website of Quodlibet we read: "Somewhere there is a sheet of paper on which the names of those who, in a world of lies, have testified to the truth that is written. This sheet exists, but it is illegible. Then there is another sheet, perfectly legible, which records these same names: it is in the hands of police officers and journalists".

The number of these short interventions now count in the dozens. Many - like this one, which is accompanied by quotes from Dante Alighieri and Bertolt Brecht - are of a gnomic, aphoristic type. For a philosopher known for his detailed examinations of the obscure corners of deep European history and thought, backed up with all the resources of citation and decades of specialist learning, these "real time" comments are akin to nakedness. One of the more extended pieces which has held my attention since it was published in May of 2020 is titled Medicine as Religion. In it Agamben claims that the pandemic has given rise to a new "cultic" practice elevating medicine and health more generally to the level of a religion, something we believe we believe. This most recent transformation is itself only the latest form that the long running veneration of science as the religion of Western modernity has taken.

This intervention was written months before the Covid vaccination program began, and even before the WHO changed its advice on masks. Over eighteen months later I frequently hear the more zealous supporters of vaccination and covid restrictions being compared to religious fanatics. And with my own eyes I've seen the frantic genuflections of people practicing the UK government's 'Hands, Face, Space' rituals (which someone wittily noted has displaced the Catholic "spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch" as the Faithfull's quotidian sacrament). There was, then, something prophetic about the general thrust of Agamben's analysis. But with many of these short pieces there is a tendency to generalise, and without broader exposition Agamben's noted inclination towards hyperbole ends up being the dominant factor.

"That science has become the religion of our time, that in which people believe they believe, has been obvious for some time now. In the modern West there have coexisted and, to a certain extent, still coexist three great systems of belief: Christianity, capitalism, and science. In the history of modernity, these three “religions” have often intersected, entering from time to time into conflict and later reconciling in a different way, until they progressively reached a sort of peaceful, articulated coexistence, if not a true and proper collaboration in the name of a common interest".

This schema is a rather drastic simplification of the methodology Agamben deployed in different ways and with different emphases throughout his rightly celebrated Homo Sacer series of books. There he frequently refuses the notion that historical forms and ideas can be neatly divided in this way. Commonly, he prefers to talk about "zones of indistinction" when it comes to concepts that appear to reside in the liminal space between otherwise familiar categories. This counts as much for the Homo Sacer herself - cast out between the divine and earthly realms - as it does for the "signatures" which in his examination of the writings of the early Church Fathers Agamben identifies in concepts such as Oikonomia, acclamation or hierarchy, the effect of which is to displace them into a constant oscillation between the secular and religious. As he states in his methodological text The Signature of All Things (2009), "a signature does not merely express a semiotic relation between a signans and a signatum; rather, it is what - persisting in this relation without coinciding with it - displaces and moves it into another domain, thus positioning it in a new network of pragmatic and hermeneutic relations".

Elsewhere, during an elaboration of Michel Foucault's use of the term dispositif (usually rendered as apparatus in English) written in 2006 he offers a definition of religion which again emphasises the dynamic and boundary dissolving nature of the sacred/profane divide: "...one can define religion as that which removes things, places, animals, or people from common use and transports them to a separate sphere. Not only is there no religion without separation, but every separation contains or conserves in itself a genuinely religious nucleus. The apparatus that activates and regulates separation is sacrifice. [...] , sacrifice always sanctions the passage of something from the profane to the sacred, from the human sphere to the divine. [...] From this perspective, capitalism and other modern forms of power seem to generalize and push to the extreme the processes of separation that define religion".

And finally, in a passage that would seem to have obvious relevance for understanding the past two years, we read in Capitalism as Religion (2017): "But it is in every sphere of experience that capitalism attests its religious character and, at the same time, its parasitical relation with Christianity. [...] If the Church seems to have closed its eschatological office, today it is above all the scientists, transformed into apocalyptic prophets , who announce the immanent end of life on earth. And in every sphere, in the economy as in politics, the capitalist religion declares a state of permanent crisis (crisis etymologically means "definitive judgement"), which is, as the same time, a state of exception that has become normal, whose only possible outcome presents itself, precisely as in the Apocalypse, as "a new earth". There are echoes here of anthropologist Carlo Caduff, whose work on pandemic preparedness and epidemiology anticipated so much about the confluence of expertise and government during the crisis, and who wrote in 2014: "Precaution has become a solid ground for dire prophecy and the thrill of terror, allowing experts and officials to commit a leap of faith and proceed as if the most frightening scenario was about to come true. In the political economy of disaster capitalism it is always better—ethically, politically, economically, and institutionally—to assume that the apocalypse is nigh".

Each of these quotes from Agamben implies a method operating on the level of ontology. A seemingly commonplace distinction is shown to have a more fundamental basis, rooted either in a signification which exceeds its referent, or in a deeper, more primordial structure, within which the distinction forms two modes or the excluded category is captured. Rarely if ever does Agamben talk about the psychology or epistemology of religious belief, but much of his short essay in May 2020 seems aimed at that level, certainly where he talks about cultic practice; which is to say, the everyday, pragmatic or liturgical side of religion. 

 Giorgio Agamben's contributed virtually for the launch of the Commissione Dubbio e Precauzione (DU.PRE), Dec 8, 2021

“What is new is that between science and the other two religions there has ignited, without our noticing it, a subterranean and implacable conflict, the successful results of which for science are daily before our eyes and determine in an unheard-of way all aspects of our existence. This conflict does not concern, as happened in the past, theory or general principles, but, so to speak, cultic practice. Indeed, science too, like every religion, knows diverse forms and levels through which it organizes and orders its structure: to the elaboration of a subtle and rigorous dogmatic there corresponds in practice an extremely broad and widespread cultic sphere which coincides with what we call technology”.

The simplified historiological schema I highlighted above bears some resemblance to Carl Schmitt's analysis in The Age of Neutralizations and Depoliticizations (1929), where he claims European statecraft has always attempted to govern from out of a neutralised central domain, which in the past included religion and economy. The 20th century, he went on to argue, appeared not just as the age of technology but of the religious belief in technology; "The question of the significance of overwhelming technicity should for now be left open, because the belief in technology is in fact only the result of a certain tendency in the shifting of the central domain - as a belief, it is only the result of this shifting".

Now, according to Schmitt we have been living in an age marked by the religious belief in technology for some time. His analysis was rooted in the experience of Germany's rapid industrialisation during the latter half of the 19th century. This context means his religion of technology and its miraculous powers is comparable to what otherwise we might call the religion of progress, much exemplified by Anglo-Saxon industrialists and pretty much the unofficial ideology of the British Empire. Indeed Schmitt had a notorious animosity towards English (and later American) technical domination, seeing it as the wellspring of global disenchantment and spiritual impoverishment, not to mention Germany's status as also-rans in the colonial scramble. Agamben, no doubt drawing on these thoughts, is nevertheless talking about much more recent events, and moreover he is specifically imputing a religious character to medicine during the pandemic.  

A straight-forward response here might be to ask whether medicine and cultic practice were not always aligned from the start? All cultures of the earth have known some form of witch doctors, healing rituals and rites in which the pragmatic/cultic part is paramount, forming as it were a bridge or mediating zone between the state of the individual and their community, or even the cosmos. Modern medicine, having benefitted from the results of diverse scientific fields has largely dispelled its superstitious and cosmological supports, at least where causes are concerned. Nevertheless it is certainly true that vestiges of the older holism persist where the medico-technical intervention coincides with broader social factors, among them being: the nature and meaning of recovery, the social status of the illness, and the network of complexities situating the "patient' within the heath culture of the society at large.

And is not the continuing significance of cultic practice within health most strongly confirmed in the case of the placebo?; a "treatment" which carries an effect without the presence of an active agent? The term originates in the Vulgate, psalms 114:9 Placebo Domino in regione vivorum. (I will please the Lord in the land of the living.) This psalm was commonly used in the  Office of the Dead where we also find the well-known Timor mortis conturbat me (I am scared to death of dying), which has become something of an silent guiding maxim for many during the pandemic. Over time placebo became a shorthand for any deceptive act to please, apparently owing to the common practice of mourners with no connection to the deceased participating in the ritual for the purpose of getting a share of the funeral meal. 


Agamben certainly has a point about the pandemic leading to an explosion of strange public rituals, be they obsessive hand-washing - which compares to the Islamic Wudhu, performed before entering a mosque - to the diverse practices around masks which have been such a flashpoint in Europe and America. This might be more easily explained if modern European societies were places where rituals and superstitions were still thriving, rather than having been melted into air by the white heat of consumerism. As Max Weber famously analysed, Capitalism and the Protestant faith share a common ethos, one expression of which are multiform processes of rationalisation. Consequently, both are lacking in ritual, in lingering, in acts which signify the marking of (non-clock) time.

We should perhaps concede that there was a space open for a new cultic practice to be introduced for the disaffected classes (most of all the professional middle classes) to fall into. But it is also true that the Covid cult furnishes rituals of a unusual kind. Lingering is by no means encouraged, particularly in proximity with others. And a deadening suspicion falls upon anything that denotes a commitment to the intensity of a life well lived. In his book The Disappearance of Rituals Byung-Chul Han reflected on this fear when discussing George Bataille's distinction between strong and weak play. For us moderns, he claims; "Only weak play is tolerated and it forms a functional element within production. The sacred seriousness of play has entirely given way to the profane seriousness of work and production. Life subordinated to the dictates of health, optimization and performance comes to resemble mere survival. It lacks splendour, sovereignty, intensity. The Roman satirist Juvenal expressed this well when he spoke of 'losing the reasons to live for the sake of staying alive'".

Is there not something of the Timor mortis conturbat me in this line from Juvenal? Timorousness is certainly as near to us as any of the more virtuous responses to the crisis. In stark opposition to the splendour and intensity of ancient rituals, the pandemic offers only empty rituals, rituals of stasis which tie the practitioner to the present as a state of fear and constant threat. As such, the characteristic utility of religious and cultic practices for making life more bearable is absent. Instead, every vigorous scrub with the alcohol gel or hasty fumble for the mask on reaching the threshold of a shop is a reminder of the unknowable evil which now hangs over the everyday.

“The enemy, the virus, is always present and must be fought unceasingly and without any possible truce. The Christian religion also knew similar totalitarian tendencies, but they concerned only some individuals—in particular, monks—who chose to put their entire existence under the emblem “pray unceasingly.” Medicine as religion takes up this Pauline precept and, at the same time, reverses it: where monks gathered together in convents to pray constantly, now the cult must be practiced even more assiduously, but while remaining separated and at a distance”.

Again the spectre of Schmitt hangs over this passage, as the evocation of absolute enmity makes clear. Perhaps this is unavoidable, as it is true that from the beginning much of the political messaging around the pandemic has been couched in terms of war and military struggle against a foreign invader. There are, however, dangerous consequences to propagandising in this way. In an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty the cult becomes a means of organising this generalised enmity, opening the way for politically managed ostracism and othering. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the increasingly punitive actions being directed against the unvaccinated. A historical example is instructive here. In the 14th century, partly in response to the Black Death, a popular phenomenon which came to be known as The Flagellant Movement appeared in Northern and Central Europe. Processions of ordinary people would perform public acts of penitence, most notably by whipping themselves in the hope of cleansing their sins or earning mercy from whatever ill was afflicting their community. During the plague in Europe these zealous groups would lead the persecutions against marginalised communities, accusing them of lacking piety and being the cause of the disease. Jews were especially targeted. Pope Clement VI officially condemned them in a bull of October 20, 1349.

14th Century depiction of a a procession of Flagellants

One does not have to stretch the imagination far to see a parallel in the way politicians and the media have whipped up resentment against apparent rule breakers and unvaccinated persons. Even to question the efficacy of lockdowns and other modern penitential methods is to invite scorn for a lack of piety. As for modern flagellants; double maskers, ostentatious social distancers and vaccine eulogists, all tend to be quick to demand harsh action against those who resist the cult, even if only in thought. Other Medieval methods of disease prevention which have seen a revival include amulets and charms (masks and health passports) and despite the theory of miasmas having long been superseded we nevertheless have seen the practice of fumigating “bad air” make a return, notably in classrooms full of freezing children.

The historian Norman F. Cantor associates modern explanations for plague with a rational synchronic method (we might also say non-teleological), whereas the Medievals viewed the plague diachronically and told stories. It is perhaps too optimistic to conclude this latter mode of explanation has been consigned to the past. We are now overly familiar with stories from both the conspiratorial side and the so-called followers of science as to the ultimate meaning of the pandemic (sins of the Chinese fishmongers anyone?).  If the modern scientific synchronic explanation were sufficient, why do we need a story about the evil of the unvaccinated to explain the failure of our containment strategies?; just as during medieval times Europeans scapegoated Jews, women accused of witchcraft, and those lacking in piety for the disease? The millenarianism which accompanied the reaction to the Black Death is mirrored in explanations for Covid rooted in ecological exploitation and climate collapse. The virus entered a world (well, the West really) already gripped by eschatological fervour.

We have long become accustomed to the cult of health and "body fascism" through the media's veneration of youth and the now commonplace desire amongst citizens of the most developed economies to use medical technology as a way of modifying the corporeal form they were given, in pursuit of some ideal, often just the latest trend pushed by digital influencers. Diet fads, mass gym membership, body shaming, cosmetic surgery,  supplement addiction, performance enhancing drugs; all of these are tributaries running into the torrent of health terror which we are now swimming in. For transhumanists and post-modern gnostics the pandemic is just one more sign that it's time we jettisoned Brother Donkey 

Does this amount to evidence of medicine being treated as a religion? One of the commonplaces attributed to religious belief is that it gives you a story about how the world is, allows you to face living in a universe governed by irreducible uncertainty. Agamben himself once offered a provisional definition of religion as a form of social ordering centred around the sacred. There is also a fundamental epistemological side to this. Adhering to a rule, even an entirely arbitrary one, can function like a founding gesture, akin to drawing a line in the sand, and can have the effect of dispelling uncertainty for the one who obeys. Here we might reflect on the role played by the increasingly discredited epidemiological modelling used repeatedly to justify government restrictions. As Carlo Caduff noted in his work on "pandemic prophesy", apocalyptic scenarios cover over the uncertainty inherent in the crisis, instead presenting a situation governed by the pure necessity to act. This has the effect of securing legitimacy for the governing power to act maximally without the need to justify itself as to alternative courses. The fear this produces in the population similarly converts contingency into necessity, rendering them governable.  

If medicine has taken on the character of a religion then this represents a corruption of medicine which can only be detrimental to the public good. Witness the wholesale abandonment of comprehensive public health during the pandemic and the enthusiastic support for lockdowns and other measures which raise fighting the virus to the zenith, while ignoring everything else worthwhile in life. An excellent article in the BMJ in 2020 made just this case. This week I've read that several hundred thousand cancer screening appointments were missed in the UK during the lockdowns, likely resulting in many missed diagnoses and a reduction in health outcomes for cancer sufferers.  

“Like capitalism and unlike Christianity, the medical religion does not offer the prospect of salvation and redemption. On the contrary, the recovery which it seeks can only be provisional, since the evil God, the virus, cannot be eliminated once and for all, but mutates continually and assumes ever new, presumably more dangerous, forms. Epidemic, as the etymology of the term suggests (demos is in Greek the people as a political body and polemos epidemios is in Homer the name for civil war) is above all a political concept, which is preparing to become the new terrain of world politics—or non-politics”.

Could the present cultic status of medicine and health practices be a temporary phenomenon rather than the gestalt switch which Agamben claims here? This is not the first time he has written on modern medical technology. He devoted a quite chilling chapter of Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life to the consequences of life support machines on our understanding of death, notably shifting it from the cessation of the pulmonary function onto so-called brain death.

There is no more ghoulish example of the end-point of sacralising bare biological life under the reign of technology than the body of a brain-dead individual kept nominally “alive” indefinitely by life-support machines while relatives - for religious reasons - will not allow the earthly remains to pass away. Agamben makes the point that this technologically suspended death realises in practice the abstraction wrought by modernity between the biological existence of human beings, and their social, emotional and cultural existence. Modern science and medicine direct their interventions upon the former, with the latter either being ignored completely or considered an epiphenomenon of biological systems, and thus themselves calculable and potentially malleable by medico-scientific means. The pandemic has seen this abstraction applied vigorously as societies across the globe have been reduced to the level of base productive systems; an ant hill or battery farm, which must be managed so to preserve biological productive capacity at the expense of all else. 

Perhaps then we might better understand the sudden appearance of this "cult of medicine" as having its conditions of possibility in other pre-existing discourses? Rather than medicine having found a new cultic vocation by taking on the characteristics of a religion, could we not also attribute the near hysterical permanent "celebration" of the cult to the fact that biomedical sciences have been radicalised through historical contamination with the Security State? Here too there is the Gnostic-Manichean duality of an unceasing battle against implacable evil, which - in accordance with the logic of worst cases - we can never be certain to have won. For how long now have we suffered the cultic rituals of security as we go about our daily business? And how totally has the equally pernicious cult of "risk management" polluted every area of human life, leaving anything that escapes the calculation of risks as either suspect or irrelevant. 

 It is not insignificant that pandemic preparedness was an outgrowth of Cold War disaster planning. One way of understanding the management of the pandemic (at least in its early stages) is as an application of so-called "vital systems security", where the maintenance of certain national systems (health services, supply chains, government functioning, etc), are prioritised as vital to the survival of the country under existential threat. This way of conceiving disaster planning developed primarily as a response to the threat of nuclear attack, confirming both Agamben and Caduff's observations regarding the overwhelming power of apocalyptic thinking within what are meant to be cool headed and rational scientific approaches. But such an apocalyptic and militarised framing is caustic to comprehensive public health. It's not really a public health strategy at all. It's a brutal strategy of survival where the religious logic of sacrifice and penitence are writ large. All the more so owing to their appearance as emanations of our best science.

Whether the cult will persist and be integrated into a more permanent regime of global health security is unclear. The flagellants disappeared, though practices of penitence at times of crisis did not. There are also some signs that the damage done by abandoning comprehensive public health is gaining public awareness. Agamben's essay, like many of his interventions since the start of the pandemic, is pregnant with pointers and portent, but lacking on the detail which usually characterises his work. This doesn't mean there isn't something there to think about.