“And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”  Friedrich Nietzsche

Flight or defense is instinctual in human preservation.  But preservation instincts only carry us so far, terminating at a point over an abyss.  Here, we are faced with two choices.  Exhausted, fearing our instincts futile, we may leap into the abyss, relinquishing to tyranny that has driven us hence, forsaking all now and all who come after.  Or in anger, we may find clarity and turn from fear and futility, to rage — rage against the tyranny that would sunder from us our most fundamental humanity, our desire for liberty.   

In our growing rage, we are sustained, elevated, and balanced.  Rage will be our salvation and guide.  Rage will preserve us when institutions and their tyrants ignore, threaten, and betray us.  We designate our rage for and dedicate it to the tyrant, to save the humanity he would strip from us and our children.  Controlled, carefully-harnessed, with pinpoint accuracy, to him we direct our rage.  Let it bear the tyrant to the precipice, torture him incessantly along the way, and then cast him into the abyss.

     The utopian desire hides and masks the crisis in its rhetoric; the crisis that ultimately leads to failure.  This crisis is a crisis of boundaries, and it occurs at all levels of rhetorical production.  As a crisis of boundaries, politically utopian visions want to obliterate the boundary or border between the people and the government, between natural law and the tyranny of the few.  This boundary is nothing but the line of distinction eloquently demarcated in America by the Constitution.  As Nietzsche has reminded us, the state, and certainly the utopian state is no exception, is not a people but “the death of peoples.”  We might recognize crisis, then, in its unintended consequences of disruption and displacement, even dismemberment, and the figure, par excellence, that it engenders, as Nietzsche forewarns, is Death.  They would separate us from the laws that preserve and protect our liberty.  The narrative the Left writes might be seen as an allegory of Death: we note that all utopias are literally “no place”; they do not exist in reality, in the locale of geography and history.  Rather,  they exist in a “particular place” that is not historical or geographical—it is marvelously constituted of the imaginative, “ignorant of all artificial boundary.”  It is a “mental space.”[1]

     We can draw an analogy between the utopian state and the over-reaching Victor Frankenstein in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus.[2]   The state pushes upon us a modern myth of creation and thereby allegorizes all previous such myths, but especially the creation account in Genesis, and the myth of Prometheus—it plays God and wants to be the arbiter of life. Frankenstein is an allegorical work and carries in the ambitions of the title character certain utopian visions.  They originate in the ideal of the perfected human—man overstepping his boundaries, God, and even himself to perfect for what natural law does not allow.   This is Victor Frankenstein’s dream, but the result is a perversion, as is the dream and what appears the result of those dreams of the Left.  Whether through genetic or social engineering—politely phrased with a twisted ethics as “social justice”—the Left pushes unwittingly for perfection, but can only deliver a perversion of the vision.  They play creator like Victor Frankenstein, but unlike him they fail to see the monster they create, or would create.  Instead, they find imperfection and monstrosity in what is naturally ordained—only of course by their own definitions—and construct their utopia around, for example, what would be the abortion and death of a child, ultimately, naturally born.  Their work thus originates in and advances from the point of a crisis, the crisis of the monstrosity they cannot see and the beauty they would make into monstrosity.  The utopian vision seeks a better “state.”  But, it can never find this state, only leave death and destruction in its wake, its own kind of monstrosity—the figure and vision of the monster that Victor Frankenstein creates: “his limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful.  Beautiful!—Great God!  His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion, and straight black lips . . .  I beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom I had created” (52-3).  Is there even proportion in their perversion when the state treads on the individual?  Perhaps, when they have destroyed the society and the people they seek to perfect, then they will see the perversion in their vision.  Perhaps they will see that such utopian dreams that disrupt the boundaries established by the Constitution, between life and death, between liberty and tyranny, are like Victor’s monster: life seemingly, but actually, Death, thinly-skinned.

[2] Mary Shelley, Frankenstein or, the Modern Prometheus, The 1818 Text, ed. James Reiger (Chicago: U Chicago P, 1982).

     Similarly, the more Barack Obama must hide his agenda from the responsible media, from the people, the more he and those around him become transparent; this is inevitable.  While we the people clamour for the “transparency” that Obama had promised in the memorandum Transparency and Open Government, and it is strategically denied to advance a known-to-be-unpopular agenda, the more everyone sees Obama for what he is — a zealot to foreign ideologies and thereby a foreigner to the ground upon which this nation was founded.  And ultimately, except for the other zealots, we will all see and “see through” him.  Like the lover in the song, he will be revealed for what he is: an echo chamber, extensively hollow, lacking of substance, an empty vessel incapable of sympathy, understanding, or care for the American people.  History will judge harshly the overt dissimulation he practices – like the “game” alluded to in the song – and his voice, and the artificial reverb attached to it, will cease to echo as it already ceases to soothe.

     Even though such discussions, usually cloistered within the ivory tower of academics, seem far removed from the concerns of everyday Americans, they have relevance.  It was in the decade of the 60s, particularly the latter half of that period and the first part of the 70s, where the American Left experienced its own sudden expansion.  This expansion led to the Carter administration, followed by contraction during the Reagan years, and a new resurgence with the Obama administration and the present leadership in Congress.  We could as well hearken back to the period of the 30s and the surge of the Progressive movement, but our focus is the concept of crisis as related to current events being played out in American culture, not the larger history of the cycle of expansion and contraction of the Left.

     Too many critics and commentators have discussed thoroughly the expansion of the American Left in the 60s and 70s in order to attack and dismiss controversial thinkers like de Man.  Thus, it is rather for us here to revive de Man’s ideas about Crisis, as well as those on Blindness and Insight, the title of the larger collection in which the essay “Criticism and Crisis” appears.  More than anything, de Man was a brilliant reader, and the interrelatedness of these concepts in his work are very telling to the present narrative being written, or perhaps re-written, by Obama and the Left upon the American landscape.  Or, as Obama might say, stealing from Rush Limbaugh, a comparative analysis of these topoi might offer up a “teachable moment.”

     How do we know what is truly a crisis as opposed to the crisis that “turns out to be a mere ripple . . . once the temporal experience broadens” (5, 6).  As de Man notes, it is marked by the speed at which one idea replaces another, or we might add by extension the speed at which ideas come at and into the broader culture from whatever source.  In the present political and economic climate, the pace of ideas (policy) coming at us can only disrupt our stability and leave us vertiginous on the edge of a precipice.  A crisis must reside somewhere.  If we accept Obama’s rhetoric of crisis, then we look to the economy both nationally and globally as that crisis; it was this clarion call which helped get him elected, and which he manipulates to further his agenda – stimulus, omnibus, cap and trade, healthcare reform.  However we designate these ideas, they are all structured around expanding government and forcing contraction of the private sector.  And this expansion and contraction, to be certain, is at present, happening very rapidly.  A crisis must reside somewhere.

     Even before the election, we heard quoted from the Obama camp: “Never let a crisis go to waste.”  That statement was strategic, for it subtly makes an argument that assumes a crisis (economic), the assumption of which did not get seriously questioned.  Both sides accepted the crisis status, and merely argued the degree of that crisis: worst since the Great Depression or worse since the end of the Carter administration.  Any focus on the statement itself (the meaning) was on the audacity and implication of such an argument: how would Obama, the Left, not let a crisis go to waste.  We failed to fully read this rhetoric of crisis presented to us: was there truly a crisis with the economy, or perhaps, was the true crisis not in the economy at all, but elsewhere?  We heard the word “crisis” so many times, the repetition alone could be dazzling, even mystifying.  Its use or overuse, then, as de Man recognizes in the rhetoric of Mallarmé’s lecture, would seem “to be inspired by propaganda rather than by insight” (7).  This fact was not missed by various conservative commentators like Limbaugh and Mark Levin.

     Perhaps we can learn more by reading further along the lines of de Man’s critique, noting how that which (the text of Mallarmé’s lecture) “pretends to designate a crisis  . . . is, in fact, itself the crisis to which it refers” (7).  The stated repetitions of the crisis, the speed with which reactions, ideas, and actions have been generated in response to it (the rhetoric or the “crisis”) are staggering, suggestive of the potential for another crisis to unfold within this narrative.  That the so-called crisis started in the middle of an election cycle served only to complicate and obfuscate any possibility of a careful and reasoned response; we heard too many times that we must do something or face certain disaster (the rhetoric of crisis).  Thereby, reason was sacrificed to timeliness, and timeliness was sacrificed to immediacy.

     Exactly as suits politicians, we immediately got the TARP from the Bush administration and Congress, laying the foundation for the Stimulus passed immediately upon Obama taking office.  But already, as our “temporal perspective broadens,” we might question the need for either program – financial institutions seem to be able to pay back what they borrowed (in many cases told to borrow); less than 10% of the Stimulus has been spent and the decline in the economy is at least moderating for now; and Chrysler and GM went bankrupt anyway (via an unconstitutional process, maybe signaling yet another crisis).  Time will tell all, but we perhaps can already see de Man’s principle point: “The rhetoric of crisis states its own truth in the mode of error.  It is itself radically blind to the light it emits” (16).  What the rhetoric of crisis “states” as its truth is necessarily in “error.”  It will miss the point; it will be “blind to the light it emits.”  Perhaps the blindness is due to the halo the mainstream media paints over Obama?  They have not the self awareness of their own blindness; they are lost in the whirlwind of the rapidity of reactions to the perceived crisis.  Theirs is a willing blindness.  But if this structure and logic is valid and a light is emitted, an insight might be gained.

     On the topics of blindness and insight, de Man suggests that we should read every critical text (including political speech), as they are not scientific, in the same way that we might read a work of fiction.  The current narrative, in the mode of a rhetoric of crisis, therefore “depends on categorical statements”; as such, “the discrepancy between meaning and assertion is a constitutive part of their logic” (110).  The discrepancies in Obama’s pronouncements, his speeches and even his writings, are becoming more apparent and even more humorous (or disturbing), especially as he tries to regain the initiative on healthcare reform.  The contortions of his rhetoric are amazing to hear.  For example, he is still using economic “crisis” as his fundamental strategy, saying that if we do not solve the problem of the uninsured and rising healthcare costs, it will destroy us economically.  But at the same time, he tries to take credit for the “green shoots” in the economy, the end of a recession.  The circularity is astounding;  anyone not lost in this abyss of rhetoric confirms her blindness.  The rhetorical discord reveals the discrepancy to those who are even passively listening and watching (middle America that ultimately elected him).  They are opening their eyes to another crisis – Obama himself – and they are pulling back from the abyss.

     Per this new insight, the discrepancy and discord sounds not only in the rhetoric of crisis, not just in Obama’s rhetorical contortions, but in the lessening silence of those previously passive – a passivity potentially deafening.  Those who were blind suddenly see and that experience is all too similar to the dazzling effect of the rapid pace of reaction, idea, and action that responds to crisis without forethought.  What do they see?  What is their insight?  But that they have played a part in the real crisis: the crisis of the response to a perceived crisis, the crisis of voting in the mode of crisis, in the mode of error; the crisis that is the Obama administration and the present Congress.  What should we expect but error when legislation is neither read nor debated, and urgently enacted?  And when the government cannot effectively manage existing programs, namely Medicare and Social Security (the latter itself enacted in the mode of crisis), why do they, and we, expect different results?  Here lies the deepening crisis.

     Legislative process in our government is broken because it lacks the necessary critical insight into its own process and existence – it is subsumed to the Left’s rhetoric of crisis and possibly blind to the larger historical movement it helps engender and even more blind to the historical movement of its origination.  Though certainly, certain members of that legislature are fully aware of the direction they willingly push the country, as is Obama.  What they are not aware of is the potential crisis within that direction, within the utopia over which they think they can have even greater power.  Other members follow blindly in the fear that if they do not, they will be barred from the utopia they already find in the halls of power.  What and where is the crisis if not in and of our constitutional republic – especially, when we have reverted, in the present situation, to legislation without representation.  Are we returning to the “crisis” from whence our founding came?

     Each might answer this question differently, but at least we can see, in the present awakening against an un-representative government, an imperative for the individual to answer.  Born of the crisis in and of government, the individual ultimately determines the course of the country.  While Obama and the Left tread on the protestations of the people, the individual will resist.  If necessary, she will resist by retreating.  She will flee to where her liberty dwells – first from one state to another, and then, if no state offers refuge from an over-bearing government, she will flee the government; hence, the country.  If this flight comes as a result and end of the continuation of the Left’s narrative, the crisis gains permanence.  It could be the end of the narrative of our founding.  The individual cannot forever bear the burden of the historical crisis the Left sees in America, and will have only the option of escaping the crisis that is the Left and their blindness to the imperative of liberty.  What then will the Left govern but a dystopia – such is the depth of their blindness.  This we can see.

The individual flees to her liberty, and the free market flees to the individual.  After the individual flees the state, what next?  After the union, what next?  What then will there be left to govern?