More’s utopia blueprint, or satire, or something else? As if these are exclusive. As if all utopias are not always all of the above, in degrees that vary as much in the context of their reception as of their creation.
The dangerous drive, the dystopia-in-utopia, then, is not only in the impulse, though it can certainly reside there, but in the actuality: that proximity of the island to the shore. Tragedians making their peace with power, liberals loudly warn against utopianism from below (often full of sentimentalism for their own dead radicalism, and lachrymose at their new realism); alongside them the hard-right radicals of power and oppression dream their own dreams of the good life: supremacist arcadias. And those who rule, more powerful and traditionally less voluble than their apologists, calmly configure and effect utopias of their own. In which those they rule have no choice but to live and serve and die.
These are a few of the limits of utopia (explored in the companion essay of that name that follows this one).
But the fact that the utopian impulse is always stained doesn’t mean it can or should be denied or battened down. It is as inevitable as hate and anger and joy, and as necessary. Utopianism isn’t hope, still less optimism: it is need, and it is desire. For recognition, like all desire, and/but for the specifics of its reveries and programmes, too; and above all for betterness tout court. For alterity, something other than the exhausting social lie. For rest. And when the cracks in history open wide enough, the impulse may even jimmy them a little wider.
We can’t do without this book. We are all and have always been Thomas More’s children. Even his literary ancestors were also his preemptive descendants, throwing him up, making him a hinge point, so his ditch-demanding king could give their earlier yearnings a name. That we must keep returning to the text, with whatever suspicion, is to honour it. It gave us a formulation, a concept, we needed.
Though it is perhaps past time to rethink that word.
We don’t know much of the society that Utopus and his armies destroyed – that’s the nature of such forced forgetting – but we know its name. It’s mentioned en swaggering colonial passant, a hapax legomenon pilfered from Gnosticism: ‘for Abraxa was its first name’. We know the history of such encounters, too; that every brutalised, genocided and enslaved people in history have, like the Abraxans, been ‘rude and uncivilised’ in the tracts of their invaders.
A start for any habitable utopia must be to overturn the ideological bullshit of empire, and, unsentimentally but respectfully, to revisit the traduced and defamed cultures on the bones of which some conqueror’s utopian dreams were piled up. ‘Utopia’ is to the political imaginary of betterness as ‘Rhodesia’ is to Zimbabwe, ‘Gold Coast’ to Ghana.
How, then, might we set out for New Abraxa?
‘I don’t think we’re ever going to get to utopia again by going forward’, says Le Guin, in ‘A Non-Euclidian View of California as a Cold Place to Be’. And so she suggests instead the formula people of the Swampy Cree First Nation have traditionally used in orientation to the future: Usà puyew usu wapiw!
‘I go backward, look forward’, it means. It describes the porcupine, Erethizon dorsatum, backing into a rock crevice, from where it can watch for danger ahead. ‘In order to speculate safely on an inhabitable future’, she says, ‘perhaps we would do well to find a rock crevice and go backward.’ Far from hyperbolic, the adjective ‘inhabitable’ seems admirably restrained in the face of the social and ecological degradation of accelerating neoliberalism.
From those rocks, the porcupine can plot its own utopias. And, at least as important, going backward, looking forward, it can try to escape the onrushing utopias of those in power.
But such utopias of the powerful have levelled many landscapes. They’re distinguished by their flattening power, by the fields of rubble they leave. What if they sweep up all the rocks and leave none between which to hide?
That defensive porcupine gait recalls another. The motion has a counterpart, a poignant inversion, the buffeting of a figure long-since a cliché of radical pessimism, but the endless citation of which (including in ‘The Limits of Utopia’, here) still can’t quite strip it of its power and importance.
Walter Benjamin’s angel of history.
His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread … His face is turned to the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet … [A] storm … blowing from Paradise … irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.
The porcupine goes backward, looks forward, to see futures – to avoid some, to plan another. The angel goes forward, looks backward, in anguish – plunging towards a future it can’t see, mourning pasts it can’t redeem.
Which way are the predatory utopias twisting us? Is the porcupine pulled from its broken crevice and wrenched around to hurtle future-ward in their slipstream? Or does the angel manage to catch the walls of the canyon with the tips of its outstretched wings and hold on and turn and wriggle into a place to hide and grit its teeth and face the telos of the wind?
Will the porcupine become the angel, or the angel the porcupine?
Yet again, there’s no either/or. The history of all hitherto existing societies – it’s been pointed out many times – is a history of monsters, on all sides. Our utopianism is always-already a chimera. Angelus erethizon: a porcupine with celestial wings; a seraph bristling with spines.
And like those other hybrids which ultimately overthrew the ghastly utopia that created and despised them, our cousins, the beast-men of More(au), it must learn to move with an unprecedented crossbred gait. To use its parts and powers in ungainly but effective ways. Stilt-walking on wingtips, gripping with the quills of feathers and the quills of a sharper weapon kind. Fighting on four legs, two, and none, and swimming – it’s close to the shore – to New Abraxa.
It will move, perhaps, as it is just possible we might, with a new motion neither and both animal and divine.
Dystopias infect official reports.
The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) demands a shift in our emissions by a third to avoid utter disaster. KPMG, in the leaden chattiness of corporate power-point-ese, sees the same horizon. NASA part-funds a report warning that systemic civilizational collapse ‘is difficult to avoid’.
We may quibble with the models, but not that the end of everything is right out there, for everyone to discuss.
The stench and blare of poisoned cities, lugubrious underground bunkers, ash landscapes … Worseness is the bad conscience of betterness, dystopias are rebukes integral to the utopian tradition. We hanker and warn, our best dreams and our worst standing together against our waking.
Fuck this up, and it’s a desiccated, flooded, cold, hot, dead Earth. Get it right? There are lifetimes’-worth of pre-dreams of New Edens, from le Guin and Piercy and innumerable others, going right back, visions of what, nearly two millennia ago, the Church Father Lactantius, in The Divine Institutes, called the ‘Renewed World’.
[T]he earth will open its fruitfulness, and bring forth the most abundant fruits of its own accord; the rocky mountains shall drop with honey; streams of wine shall run down, and rivers flow with milk; in short, the world itself shall rejoice, and all nature exult, being rescued and set free from the dominion of evil and impiety, and guilt and error.
And it’s never only the world that’s in question: for Lactantius, as for all the best