In suburbia: aerial view of Sunbury, Surrey, which straddles London's commuter belt. Photo: Rex Features
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Bryan Appleyard: in defence of the British suburbs

Bashing the ’burbs has been a common currency of artists and the intelligentsia, the right and the left, for over 150 years. But they are now undergoing a quiet renaissance.

The ’hood is cool – listen to Wu-Tang Clan, Boyz n Da Hood, JAY Z and just about every other black rapper. The ’burb is uncool – see Arcade Fire, Blur, Nirvana, even the Beatles, and probably a hundred other white rockers. To be young and/or hip almost always means you hate the suburbs and love the neighbourhoods.

’Burb loathing is not just a matter of age and race; it’s also politics. When seeking the most damning possible phrase to describe Margaret Thatcher, Jonathan Miller alighted on “odious suburban gentility”. The implication was that the lives of suburban dwellers were constricted, small, secretive and spiritually shrivelled. “The future,” J G Ballard wrote, “is just going to be a vast conforming suburb of the soul.”

Confronted by suburban “Metroland” development in the 1930s – mostly semi-detached houses, often with dubious glued-on antique detailing – Graham Greene spoke of “something worse than the meanness of poverty, the meanness of spirit”. And the cartoonist Osbert Lancaster waved aside the style he called “bypass variegated”.

In Coming Up for Air in 1939, George Orwell was revolted by the same “long, long rows of little semi-detached houses . . . The stucco front, the creosoted gate, the privet hedge, the green front door. The Laurels, the Myrtles, the Hawthorns, Mon Abri, Mon Repos, Belle Vue.” From the right, the poet Hilaire Belloc went even further – “Miserable sheds of painted tin/Gaunt villas, planted round with stunted trees/And, God! The dreadful things that dwell within.”

The British suburb, it was clear, had become an equal opportunity victim, available for kicking by the right and the left, the up and the down. Such sentiments have been a common currency of artists and the intelligentsia for 150 years. John Ruskin was appalled by the first signs of spec-built urban sprawl – the rather modest Victorian houses we later came to love. Suburbs, by drawing attention away from city centres, were thought to undermine civic pride.

In the mid-20th century this theme in particular was taken up by progressive urbanists. The movement of people from the inner city to suburban estates was seen as the destruction of communal values by a cold individualism. In 1955 in an article entitled “Outrage”, Ian Nairn, the architectural critic, wrote of “the creeping mildew that already circumscribes all of our towns. This death by slow decay is called subtopia . . . the world of universal low-density mess.” Nairn favoured the civic grandeur of city-centre developments such as the Bull Ring in Birmingham.

Mention of the Bull Ring, however, alerts the contemporary imagination to the problem with all of this. Civic pride and communal values are no longer associated with the destruction of old city centres and their replacement by all too rapidly spalling concrete blocks. In the cities now we sometimes look in vain for the unplanned, riot­ous warmth of the ’hood. The ’burbs, meanwhile, have been undergoing a quiet renaissance.

In his book Suburban Century (2003), the historian Mark Clapson aimed “to rescue suburbia from the enormous condescension of the rich, young, and trendy”. He wrote of the variety, rather than the uniformity, of the suburbs and defended them against both the feminist charge that they favoured men because they isolated their wives at home and the view that they were alienated places – in fact, suburbanites are enthusiastic joiners. In The Thirties (2010) Juliet Gardiner, another historian, even defends Metroland as a liberation for the lower middle classes: the housing boom between 1919 and 1939 produced four million new homes, of which three million were for private sale rather than council rent.

This form of defence of suburbs is not entirely new; it is rooted in some of the more nuanced Victorian reactions to urbanisation. In Garden Cities of To-morrow, first published in 1898, Ebenezer Howard created a bridge between the urban and the rural, softening the noise and crowds of the former with the greenery of the latter. Howard’s catchphrase has, in fact, just been given a new lease of life – Policy Network has advocated building garden cities to alleviate Britain’s perpetual housing cycle of bubble and bust, and the government has taken up the idea.

But the suburb itself found salvation in one place – Chiswick. There, just north of Turnham Green Station, in 1875, a developer named Jonathan Carr bought 24 acres of land on which he established Bedford Park. John Betjeman described this in 1960 as “the most significant suburb built in the last century, probably the most significant in the western world”. It had also been endorsed by the German architect Hermann Muthesius, who has come to be known as one of the great prophets of modernism.

“There was at the time,” Muthesius wrote in 1904, “virtually no development that could compare in artistic charm with Bedford Park, least of all had the small house found anything like so satisfactory an artistic and economic solution as here. And herein lies the immense importance of Bedford Park in the history of the English house. It signifies neither more nor less than the starting point of the smaller modern house, which immediately spread from there over the whole country.”

With its “Queen Anne” styling and picturesque “dendritic” – root-like – planning, Bedford Park influenced and continues to influence suburban design. Todd Kuchta, an American historian of the British empire, has argued that our suburbia replaced empire, using imperially exotic and nostalgic imagery. Maybe that is true of Bedford Park, a little paradise of British aspiration at home as well as abroad.

But, most importantly, it was a rural-urban compromise, deliberately designed to offset the stress and dirt of the city with the calm green of the country. Indeed, Carr advertised his housing development with the claim that this was “the healthiest place in the world (annual death rate under six per thousand)”.

Bedford Park was built among green fields, although it has since been enfolded by London. This raises the question of whether it is now, technically, a ’hood rather than a ’burb. It seems to matter because of a stylistic and cultural prejudice imported from America. Most British suburbs have been organic outgrowths of cities, spreading slowly and awkwardly out into the limited tracts of available land, held back by planning restrictions, nimbyism and the sheer expense of acquiring land in such a small and densely populated country. American suburbs have none of these restrictions. Land is in effect limitless and cheap.

In the US, suburbs were genuinely built outwards into wilderness. They were settler communities, and the buildings were almost certainly the first on the sites. The cities spread outwards into nothingness. Americans were more or less forced to live there by cheap cars, cheap fuel and assorted financial incentives. The American dream of the 1950s was of a big house, a huge yard, a garage and a slick car in the drive. The ’burbs were good and, for a time, untroubled by social prejudice – the British could never give a car the name “Suburban” but that is what Chevrolet called one of its giant SUVs. The typical city became a clump of downtown towers surrounded by vast concentric rings of urban development.

There were dissenting voices, of course. Malvina Reynolds’s song “Little Boxes”, immortalised by Pete Seeger, trashed the endless, empty uniformity of suburban homes: “Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,/Little boxes on the hillside,/Little boxes all the same.” The Beats and the folkies who colonised New York in the 1950s and 1960s were all on the run from the anonymous hell of the suburbs.

But it was the very extremity of these US developments that was to start a new anti-suburb movement. They had gone too far. “No other country,” writes Leigh Gallagher with evident distaste in The End of the Suburbs: Where the American Dream Is Moving, “has such an enormous percentage of its middle class living at such low densities across such massive amounts of land.”

The ’burbs, it became clear, were not green. They ate up land; they increased commuting distances – between 1969 and 2009 the average mileage of a household in the US jumped 60 per cent. That, combined with the higher fuel costs of houses rather than flats, made the ’burbs especially bad for the planet. Also, the argument ran, suburbanites tend not to mingle; in this way, they lose the face-to-face contact that makes urbanites so cool and creative. And as the Harvard economist Edward Glaeser argued in his book Triumph of the City, if you want to save the planet, then you should move at once from the ’burb to the ’hood and stop destroying ever more wilderness with your bungalows, gardens and golf courses.

At the end of this litany of complaints, the financial crash of 2007 was a particular catastrophe for the American suburbs. Sub-prime lending had sold suburban houses to people who could not afford to repay and who simply abandoned their homes, leaving vast tracts of empty properties across the nation. Now much of suburbia has become an embarrassment.

In 2010, Gallagher says, suburban growth stopped, prices started falling and numbers in the cities started rising. The Millennials – those born between 1977 and 1995 – seem to hate the ’burbs and, according to a 2011 US study, 77 per cent say they want to live in urban areas. As a result, there is forecast to be a surplus of 40 million “large lot” homes in the US by 2020.

The further counter-intuitive argument for the ’hoods and against the ’burbs is that they are more natural. As the sociologist and architectural critic Lewis Mumford observed, neighbourhoods tend to form organically around human societies and their needs. There is no “theoretical preoccupation or political direction”; they grow like forests or meadows, acquiring newsagents, dry-cleaners, chemists, Indian restaurants and so on.

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You want to be sure, if you’re moving back to the city, that the place you choose is, indeed, a ’hood. You don’t want to go back to dwell in urban anonymity, you want to belong there, you want a proper ’hood. Dumbo – it stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass – is a chic little part of Brooklyn and it is where the suburban developers Toll Brothers decided to build an apartment block (prices up to $2m) using cracked concrete and carefully preserved graffiti. It was a follow-up to the “graffiti fence” that the architects Herzog & de Meuron had put up at 40 Bond Street – a Manhattan block with prices up to $27m. The fence consisted of cast aluminium made to look like graffiti. That’s the cool thing about the city – it looks lived-in, a bit wrecked, a bit dangerous.

This, of course, is inauthenticity, bad faith, rap style without the oppression. But it’s a lot more fun than London’s mindless destruction of neighbourhoods with dark, armoured buildings for the very rich, such as One Hyde Park in Knightsbridge.

There is also a reverse process going on for those still stuck in the ’burbs or having to move back there because of expanding families. Suddenly suburbs are being urbanised. This creates a new category of settlement that the New York Times called “hipsturbia”. “Here,” wrote Alex Williams, “beside the grey-suited salarymen and four-door minivans, it is no longer unusual to see a heritage-
clad novelist type with ironic mutton chops sipping shade-grown coffee at the patisserie . . .” Hipsturbia has happened in Britain, too, with bearded hipsters infesting coffee houses in every suburban centre.

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Fashion, for the moment, seems to be supporting the environmentalist view that cities are greener than the countryside, as well as the prophetic vision of a future of densely populated hi-tech cities around which the wilderness is allowed to return.

Well, maybe in America. It is a mistake to conflate US and British conceptions of suburbs. We simply don’t have real wilderness on which to build and neither is our conception of home so closely associated with size – American ’burbies competed with the size of their home and their cars. Our suburbs are usually marked by a variety of styles and sizes, usually because they have been built over longer periods. The difference between a neighbourhood and a suburb is also much more ambiguous because the gradations between city centre and outlying areas are not so rigid. So, moving out in south-west London, Fulham is neither city centre nor suburb, Putney feels like an almost suburb and Wimbledon is 100 per cent suburban. But the lines are never quite clear and I don’t doubt that the Millennials in each of these places yearn for the authenticity of the true city-centre ’hood.

Furthermore, our suburbs are not places condemned for ever to be the same rigid developments lost in the vast open spaces. Britain’s suburbs were never imposed upon the wilderness. Many were once towns in their own right – think of Epsom, or Chiswick. They were simply annexed by the cities nearby that were expanding, not into nothingness, but into land that already had a human history.

There is also, in spite of the distaste of the intelligentsia for the ’burbs, a distinct suburban intellectual and artistic tradition. Hampstead dwellers might not think of themselves as suburban but, in shape and form, the place is much more a ’burb than a ’hood. Its name became, in the 1950s and 1960s, a label for a distinctive left-wing, dissident view of the world.

But Hampstead was nothing compared to Bedford Park for the simple reason that the latter was born and flourished at a time of unprecedented (and never-to-be-repeated)greatness in British cultural life. From 1914, we ceded our global status to the Americans and the world would no longer feel it had to read English literature and learn of our ways. But, just before that moment, we were the cultural centre of the world, spawning and importing genius. Henry James, W B Yeats, Ezra Pound, Joseph Conrad, Ford Madox Ford, Edward Thomas, Stephen Crane, D H Lawrence, Thomas Hardy, H G Wells, Edward Elgar, Camille Pissarro, George Bernard Shaw, G K Chesterton and many, many more passed through or settled here. A fair number of them passed through Bedford Park. It even had its own pet revolutionary and murderer in “Stepniak” – Sergey Mikhailovich Kravchinsky – who had killed the chief of Russia’s secret police in St Petersburg in 1878.

As with Hampstead, its intellectual pretensions were often comical. Chesterton gently made the point at the opening of his 1908 novel The Man Who Was Thursday, set in Saffron Park, a lightly disguised version of Bedford Park. As he wrote, “It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art. But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable.”

After 1918 Bedford Park went into decline and, by the start of the Second World War, it was known as a profoundly impoverished place. Postwar, this all began to change and its buildings are now fiercely protected by statute and local passion – new homeowners are given a handsome green logbook with the complete history of their house in order to make them feel suitably pious and proud. The area should, in my view, be a Unesco World Heritage Site. Its design is beautiful and globally unique and it is associated with genius. What more could they ask?

The point about the place was that it was built as both a ’burb and a ’hood and that is what it still is. It unites what we have come to think of as opposites and, in doing so, Bedford Park created a distinctly British solution to the problems of the city. It is now a pricey place – not least because the City people it was originally built to serve have actually moved in. But it retains that feeling that Chesterton detected, of being a well-meaning little paradise, a kindly and fantastical backdrop for the living of the urban life.

Bryan Appleyard’s novel “Bedford Park” is newly published by Phoenix (£8.99)

This article first appeared in the 04 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, 100 days to save Great Britain

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The prophets of Trumpism

How the ideas of two pre-war intellectual refugees – the radical Herbert Marcuse and the reactionary Eric Voegelin – are influencing the new culture wars among Trump and his acolytes.

Even after Donald Trump’s more conciliatory address to Congress, American politics seems set to become a battle between the president’s joyless autocracy and a carnival of protest that could end up evoking the anti-war movements of the 1960s. There will be more draconian executive orders and more marches in pink hats. There may well be violence.

The intellectual battle that will be played out in the months and years to come, however, was foretold by two German refugees from Nazi persecution: Eric Voegelin, the doyen of Cold War reactionary conservatives, and Herbert Marcuse, the inspiration behind the revolutionary student activism of the 1960s. Voegelin argued that society needed an order that could be found only by reaching back to the past. Marcuse argued that refusal to accede to tyranny was essential to give birth to a revolutionary politics that would propel progress to a new kind of society. Marcuse the radical and Voegelin the reactionary could not seem further apart, and yet they share a common intellectual root in Germany in the 1920s, from which came a shared critique of modern society. Their ideas may well inspire some of the political conflicts to come.

The culture wars of the 1960s are very much alive for Trump’s acolytes. Steve Bannon, the former executive chairman of the alt-right website Breitbart News and Trump’s chief strategist, blames the counterculture of the 1960s – the drugs, the hippies, the liberal reforms – for America losing its way and, eventually, succumbing to economic crisis in 2008. Bannon set out his ideas in Generation Zero, a 2010 documentary which blamed the financial crash not on greedy, under-regulated bankers but on the moral and cultural malaise that started in the 1960s. He is still fighting people who might have been inspired by Marcuse. “The baby boomers are the most spoiled, most self-centred, most narcissistic generation the country has ever produced,” he told an interviewer in 2011.

Bannon’s thinking, set out in several speeches over the past few years, is that America’s working and middle classes have been betrayed by an elite in Washington, DC (the “Imperial City”, he calls it) which oversees insider deals so that the insiders can profit from global capitalism. Bannon wants to return America to traditions rooted in Judaeo-Christian values and to reassert national sovereignty. Most worryingly, on several occasions he has said that the crisis will only be resolved through the catharsis of conflict and national mobilisation through war.

America has always been a work in progress. Ronald Reagan and Barack Obama were very different presidents but they shared a belief that progress was America’s calling. The reactionary turn in US politics is not just a shift to the right but an attempt to displace progress as the common creed.

Instead, Bannon and his ilk want America to become a work in regress, as the historian Mark Lilla argues in his recent book on reactionary philosophy, The Shipwrecked Mind. Much of the new reactionary thinking echoes Voegelin’s idea that, in order to renew itself, a society must first go backwards to find where and how it lost its way.

 

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Eric Voegelin defies easy categorisation. Born in 1901 in Cologne and brought up in Vienna, he was brave and principled. After a visit to the United States in the 1920s, he wrote two books criticising Nazi racial politics, which got him sacked from his teaching position at the University of Vienna. When the Germans arrived in Austria following the Anschluss in 1938, Voegelin and his wife fled on a train as the Gestapo ransacked their apartment.

After a brief stay in Switzerland, he moved to America and in 1942 took up an academic post at Louisiana State University. He then embarked on a prolific career, the centrepiece of which was his sprawling, multi-volume work Order and History.

Voegelin’s philosophy gave expression to the dark and powerful forces that had shaped his life. He believed that modern society was prey to flawed utopianism – he called this “gnosticism” – in which an elite of prophets takes power, claiming special insight into how heaven could be created on Earth for a chosen people. Gnostic sects in the Middle Ages had their modern equivalents in the Nazi proclamation of a racially pure utopia and the Marxist promise of equality for all. Voegelin’s catchphrase was: “Don’t immanentise the eschaton!” (meaning: “Do not try to build heaven on Earth”).

Marxism and Nazism, Voegelin argued, were political versions of religion: we get rid of God only to reinstall him in the form of an elite of reformers with all the answers. In his recent bestselling book Homo Deus, Yuval Harari argues that we are entering a new stage of the process that Voegelin identified. We have become as powerful as gods, he argued, but now need to learn how to be wise and responsible gods.

Today Voegelin’s attack on overreaching perfectionism echoes in reactionary criticism of Obamacare and in the yearning for national certitude. Voegelin thought the role of philosophy was not to change the world, but to understand its underlying order and help us tune in to that, rather than being diverted by the lure of the false prophets of political religion.

He was influenced by the Viennese satirist Karl Kraus, who said that “origin is the goal”, by which he meant that the point of the future was to restore the ancient past. For Voegelin, order comes from a sense of harmony, of everything being in its place. This is a position that opens itself up to deeply conservative interpretations.

When, in his presidential inauguration address, Trump spoke of American “carnage”, he was echoing Voegelin’s account of decay and disorder. When he talked of “one people, one nation, one heart” he was evoking the kind of order that Voegelin spoke of. Trump and his acolytes see their mission as the need to restore a natural order, under which illegal immigrants and aliens are kept well away and white people can feel at home once more in a society where everyone signs up to Judaeo-Christian beliefs.

Nothing could be further from the ideas of Herbert Marcuse.

Born in 1898 in Berlin, Marcuse became a member of the celebrated Marxist Frankfurt School, which included Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer and, tangentially, Walter Benjamin. Marcuse emigrated to the United States in 1933 as Hitler came to power. By 1940, he had become a US citizen and, while Voegelin was starting work at Louisiana State, Marcuse was working as a researcher for the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor of the CIA. He continued working for the government after the war and resumed his academic career only in 1952. His best-known book, One-Dimensional Man, was published in 1964.

One of Marcuse’s big ideas was the “Great Refusal”: progress had to start with refusing to accept an unacceptable reality. One should say “no” to a world of alienating work, dominated by corporations and impersonal systems, which allow little room for people to explore their deeper sense of humanity. Marcuse saw the student and anti-war protests of the 1960s and 1970s, which adopted him as their intellectual mentor, as evidence that the Great Refusal was gaining momentum.

Trump has given the Great Refusal new life. The documentary film-maker Michael Moore has called for cities to become “regions of resistance” by offering sanctuary to immigrants threatened with deportation. Angela Davis, the once-jailed Black Panther revolutionary who was close to Marcuse, told the Women’s March in Washington that people had to be ready for “1,459 days of resistance: resistance on the ground, resistance on the job, resistance in our art and in our music”. In a lecture at the Free University of West Berlin published in 1970, Marcuse said demonstrations and protests were an essential first step towards a “liberation of consciousness” from the capitalist machine:

“The whole person must demonstrate his participation and his will to live . . . in a pacified, human world . . . it is . . . harmful . . . to preach defeatism and quietism, which can only play into the hands of those who run the system . . . We must resist if we still want to live as human beings, to work and be happy.”

The Great Refusal was a capacious idea capable of embracing anyone who wanted to say, “No, enough!” It could embrace trade unions and workers, African Americans and feminists, students and national liberation movements, those who were on the margins of society and those professionals – technicians, scientists, artists, intellectuals – who worked at its centres of power and who chose to refuse as an act of conscience.

As a new generation prepares to embark on a period of resistance, what lessons should they learn from the wave of protest that Marcuse once helped to inspire?

Protest is a way to bear witness, to make voices heard and to make it possible for people to bond. Yet the fire of protest can easily die out as the Occupy movement did, even if its embers are still glowing. The carnival-type atmosphere can be uplifting but fleeting. Creating common programmes to be taken forward by organisations demands hard work. The Arab spring showed how quickly a popular revolution can turn sour when a movement is not ready to take power.

Since the protests that Marcuse was involved in, no comparable movement of the left in the United States has mobilised such a broad support base. Instead, that period of resistance was followed, at the end of the 1970s, by a shift to the right in the US and the UK. It was reactionaries, not revolutionaries, who set off forward to the past.

Now we seem to be in for an intensifying cycle of conflict between the adherents of Marcuse and Voegelin: between the Marxist revolutionary and the mystic conservative; between resistance and order; between those who want to live among a cosmopolitan, urban multitude and those who want a society of provincial oneness and sameness; those who want change, innovation and creativity and those who crave simplicity, stability and authority.

That much is obvious. Yet what is striking is not how different Marcuse was from Voegelin, but how alike they were. The best way to respond to the rise of Trump might be to blend their ideas rather than set them against one another, to create a new intellectual and political combination. Indeed, they could be seen as different branches of the same intellectual tree.

Voegelin was influenced by the German- Jewish philosopher Hans Jonas, who studied with Martin Heidegger in Freiburg in the 1920s. Jonas joined the German Jewish Brigade, which fought against Hitler, before emigrating to the US, where he became a professor at the New School in New York. He was one of the foremost scholars of gnosticism, which became Voegelin’s focus. Towards the end of his life, Jonas took up a chair at the University of Munich named after Voegelin.

Voegelin did not study at Freiburg, but one of his closest friends was the social ­theorist Alfred Schütz, a student of Edmund Husserl’s who applied his phenomenological thinking to the sociology of ­everyday life. Marcuse studied with Husserl and Heidegger at Freiburg, at the same time as Jonas and Hannah Arendt. From that shared intellectual root have emerged some powerful ideas that could unite progressives and conservatives.

Only at moments of profound crisis – of the kind we are living through – do we see just how contingent, vulnerable and fragile our society is. Voegelin warned: “In an hour of crisis, when the order of society flounders and disintegrates, the fundamental problems of political existence in history are more apt to come into view than in periods of comparative stability.”

A crisis should be a time for profound reflection, yet leaders are more likely to resort to “magical operations” to divert people’s attention: moral condemnation, branding enemies as aggressors, threatening war. “The intellectual and moral corruption,” Voegelin wrote, “which expresses itself in the aggregate of such magical operations may pervade society with the weird ghostly atmosphere of a lunatic asylum, as we experience it in Western society.”

Welcome to the Trump White House.

 

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Voegelin is a timely reminder of how unconservative Donald Trump is and of how conservatives should be a vital part of the coalition against him. Conservatism comes in several strains: laissez-faire conservatives such as George Osborne want small government, free trade, low taxes and freedom of choice. Status quo conservatives such as Angela Merkel want stability and continuity, even if that entails sticking with social welfare programmes and liberal democracy. Authoritarian conservatives, however, are prepared to use the big state to engineer change.

One important question for the future is whether the laissez-faire and status quo conservatives will realign around the ascendant authoritarian camp promoted by Trump. Merkel is the world leader of the conservative-inspired opposition to the US president. But his most profound critic is Pope Francis, who uses language similar to Voegelin’s to condemn the “material and spiritual poverty” of capitalism, and the language of Marcuse to condemn the process of dehumanisation embarked upon by Bannon and Trump.

“As Christians and all people of goodwill, it is for us to live and act at this moment,” the Pope has said. “It is a grave responsib­ility, since certain present realities, unless ­effectively dealt with, are capable of ­setting off a process of dehumanisation which would then be hard to reverse.”

The challenge for progressives is to reframe resistance in terms that can appeal to conservatives: to use conservative ideas of character and spirituality for progressive ends. We will spend a great deal more time trying to conserve things. The swarm of legal challenges against Trump will hold him to the principles of the US constitution and the rule of law. Many of the young people attracted to Bernie Sanders and the Occupy movement yearned for the restoration of the American dream.

Building bridges with the conservative opposition is not merely a tactical manoeuvre to widen support. It has deeper roots in shared doubts about modernity which go back to Freiburg and the man both Marcuse and Jonas renounced in 1964 for supporting the Nazis: Martin Heidegger.

For Heidegger, modernity was a restless, disruptive force that displaced people from jobs, communities and old ways of life, and so left them searching for a sense of home, a place to come back to, where they could be at one with the world. Technology played a central role in this, Heidegger argued, providing not just tools for us to use, but an entire framework for our lives.

Marcuse, writing four decades before ­Facebook and Google, warned that we needed to resist a life in which we freely comply with our own subjugation by technical, bureaucratic systems that control our every thought and act; which make life rich but empty, busy but dead, and turn people into adjuncts of vast systems. We should “resist playing a game that was always rigged against true freedom”, he urged, using language that has been adopted by Trump.

Writing not far from what was to become Silicon Valley, Marcuse pointed to a much larger possibility: the technological bounty of capitalism could, in principle, free us from necessity and meet all human needs, but “. . . only if the vast capabilities of science and technology, of the scientific and artistic imagination, direct the construction of a sensuous environment; only if the world of work loses its alienating features and becomes a world of human relationships; only if productivity becomes creativity are the roots of domination dried up in individuals”.

Writing in the 1960s, when full employment was the norm and advanced society was enjoying a sense of plenty, Marcuse foreshadowed the debates we are having now about what it will mean to be human in an age of machines capable of rapid learning. Mark Zuckerberg’s argument in his recently published manifesto that Facebook creates an infrastructure for a co-operative and creative global civil society is a response to concerns that Marcuse raised.

 

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Just as Marcuse saw that capitalism was a union of contradictions – freedom created on the basis of exploitation, wealth generated by poverty – Voegelin thought modern society was self-defeating: it declined as it advanced. Giving everyone wages to buy stuff from the shops was not progress, he said, but a soulless distortion of the good life, an invitation to spiritual devastation. The gnosticism that Voegelin so hated, the effort to design a perfect society, was also the source of the technological and rational bureaucracy that Marcuse blamed for creating a one-dimensional society. Voegelin would have regarded the apostles of Silicon Valley as arch-gnostics, creating a rational order to the world with the insights gleaned from Big Data and artificial intelligence.

Marcuse and Voegelin point us in the same direction for a way forward. People need to be able to find a sense of meaning and purpose in their lives. Both would have seen Trump’s ascendancy as a symptom of a deeper failure in modern society, one that we feel inside ourselves. The problem for many of us is not that we do not have enough money, but that we do not have enough meaning.

For Voegelin, living well involves “opening our souls” to something higher than buy and sell, work and shop, calculate and trade, margins and profits. Once we detach ourselves from these temporary, Earthly measures of success, we might learn to accept that life is a mysterious, bubbling stream upon which we cannot impose a direction.

A true sense of order, Voegelin argues, comes from living with an open soul and a full spirit, not being part of a machine manufacturing false promises. If we cannot manage to create order from within, by returning to the life guided by the soul, we will find order imposed, more brutally, from without. Marcuse, likewise, thought that turning the Great Refusal into a creative movement required an inner renewal, a “liberation of consciousness” through aesthetics, art, fantasy, imagination and creativity. We can only escape the grip of the one-dimensional society, which reduces life to routines of buying and selling, by recognising that we are multidimensional people, full of potential to grow in different ways. It is not enough merely to resist reality; we have to escape it through leaps of imagination and see the world afresh.

Václav Havel, the leader of the Czech resistance to communist rule, called this “living in truth”. Havel’s most influential essay, “The Power of the Powerless”, written in 1978, is about how to avoid the slow spiritual death that comes from living in an oppressive regime that does not require you to believe in what it does, merely to go along with “living within a lie”.

The greengrocer who is the central figure and motif in Havel’s essay eventually snaps, and stops putting in his shop window an official sign that reads: “Workers of the world, unite!” Havel wrote: “In this revolt the greengrocer steps out of living within the lie. He rejects the ritual and breaks the rules of the game. He discovers once more his suppressed identity and dignity. His revolt is an attempt to live within the truth.”

Human beings by nature long to live in truth, even when put under pressure to live a lie. In language evocative of Voegelin and Marcuse, Havel writes: “In everyone there is some longing for humanity’s rightful dignity, for moral integrity, for free expression of being and a sense of transcendence over the world of existence.”

In communist Czechoslovakia that meant taking a wide and generous view of what counts as resistance as people sought their own ways to “live in truth”. Under President Trump, many Americans are finding they are living within a regime of lies, and they will be drawn back, time and again, to find ways, large and small, personal and political, to live in truth.

Resistance to Trump and Trumpism will succeed only if it mobilises both conservative and progressive forces opposed to authoritarianism, and it needs to stand for a better way to live in truth, with dignity.

Charles Leadbeater is the author of the ALT/Now manifesto, which is available to read at: banffcentre.ca

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution