Hypnotic Media, Sexual Repression, and The Biology of Spiders.

‘Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.

Consider all this; and then turn to the green, gentle, and most docile earth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a strange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half-known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle, thou canst never return!’ — H. Melville, Moby Dick.

It’s late in the evening.

I stand amongst a labyrinth, iron girders below and above me; a musty scent lingering, a cool defined ambience.

My eyes float on calm tropical seas, pondering, a mild calculation.

I come here, my dear reader, to this place; this place in which, in the midst of the mad rush of the city, lies a tranquil oasis for the soul — and, I think, a place in which most will never know the true beauty of.

For, this place I speak of, is none other than a library — my friends, I am speaking of a house for books.

Though, before you cast your eyes starboard in irritated boredom, before you dismiss such an apparently flatulent proclamation as to the beauty of such a dull, tedious subject as that of a library — I dare you to imagine, for a moment, the possibilities that lie within.

17 miles of wooden, iron cast shelving; floor upon floor of vaulted knowledge, of which, I suggest, one could not so endeavour to consume a mere mile of in 17 lives — even, I think, if one were to read continuously for 17 lives, and not only that, I say, but even at a herculean rate of comprehension, beyond all realistic confines of the human brain; still, not even the first fraction of this mile would be conquered intelligibly — and, may I then direct your attention to the proposition that this great knowledge mine that I so speak of contains not 1 mile of shelved books, but 17 miles — I say; gather all of this information that I have so laid before you into the immediate shelving of your own mind, and then tell me so, that this is not simply a most astonishing reservoir of brilliance to behold.

So then, upon this common ground of awe; let me continue.

Cast you eyes upon the above photograph, for I capture but one book among these 17 miles of books — named as such: The Biology of Spiders.

Now, it must be acknowledged that I have not known Mr. Theodore H. Savory personally — and, infact, I have not so much as scratched beyond the first few pages of his remarkable Arachnid Anthology; though, I feel myself, even so, in the position to remark on the extraordinary value beheld in the availability of such specified, esoteric knowledge here seen.

My directive is now to expand upon comprehension of the mere quantity of knowledge here available, of which one could quite easily pacify my claim, to assist you in the consideration of the breadth, depth, and diversity of this knowledge — thereby, I wish to elucidate a third dimension; to help you imagine this library in all its glory.

Some may retort that: since the internet today holds, theoretically, a vast infinitude of information, available at the fingertips of the beholder of any internet-accessible electronic device, that, considering this great tool; the library today is an arbitrary, cumbersome resource for old stubborn men with wiry grey beards — men of whom grumble some unintelligible gibberish under their breaths as they shuffle stiff down the long streets of London; quite simply, mouldy academics.

I feel it my very right, no, perhaps my duty then, to argue on behalf of the library as a most utilitarian, and more than that; fascinating resource, oasis; a jungle of mental wonder — for not only those old stuffy-nosed men for whom we do stereotype as being the only ignorant library perusers, quite simply left behind by the rapid evolutions of technological advancement, leaving the libraries some nullified graveyard for dead men and cobwebs of useless information — no, not only for these men, and by no means a graveyard; but a vast, unexplored landscape of forgotten knowledge for all ages and kind; a great mega-metropolis for which every corner holds new opportunity for fresh wisdom, understanding — richness of life.

But don’t take my word for it on this proposal — conduct this experiment; open a web browser, go to Google. And now, try this: take the keyboard at your whim, and use this fine tool to search for something that you did not know existed; something undiscovered, some reservoir of knowledge that you have not before known — I say, search for a book that you do not know the name of.

The results of your experiment so concluded, I am sure you do see my point; though, frankly, I doubt you did it at all; for our ability to take additional effort to explore our own understanding — or, intellectual curiosity — is today so profoundly limited, a manifestation of the age of technological stimulus dependancy that we are now a part of.

Ofcourse, one could explore the depths of Wikipedia for hours on end, following strain after strain of ideas; authors, and such — to eventually come upon a strain of human knowledge both fascinating and before unknown.

And yet, I suggest, would it not be so much more visceral, so much more vibrant, so much more effective, even; to conduct this exploration within the great labrynth of knowledge itself? Such that above your head, below the soles of your feet, and a great whole cirumference around you is a vast Pacific ocean of unexplored ideas, niche concepts; an esoteric and enlightening plethora of human achievement and thought?

I bid you to think on this, then to ponder the limitations of the screen in which these words enter your mind; and I suggest, that even for the youth of today for whom these screens have hypnotised us from infancy; I suggest that, even to them, books are not dead — and that, if you are so curious enough to desire to know, to understand what it is to be human, and all the depths of knowledge and mental potential of many generation of man before you — of their ideas, dreams, imaginations, languages, sciences; the movements and cataclysms of history and beyond; I suggest to you, to consider taking your next unmarked Thursday afternoon to the realms of a Library, to walk the shelves before you with an open mind.

I dare say, that within these walls — you come across something that actually interests you; that you may encounter a feeling lost in childhood, an excitement of the mind, an inner ethereal joy that was hammered away in your schooling. Oh, those fact factories, those deafening machinations of humanity.

‘I have been taught to look upon those means, by which men raise themselves to riches and distinction, as being beyond my heeding, and beneath my care. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing.’ — Charlies Dickens, Barnaby Rudge.

Now, with that long, yet most emphatically valuable ramble out of the way, let us take our minds to ground level again, and ponder the streets of London — the civilians of whom we encounter day by day; let us observe their movements, let us see what we may find.

I take your attention, first, to an inanimate subject — that is, a pile of news related confectionary laden on a carpet of fallen autumn leaves, on a nondescript London street corner.

No doubt, we have all consumed these popular publications in our lifetimes — no doubt we have watched our fathers, our grandfathers, grandmothers, our uncles, aunties; all of them, no doubt we have watched them, in the living room chair; their eyes sunk into the vast pages of the weekend newspaper.

Yet, look closer, I bid you, at front pages of these verified publications that so line the streets; notice their trivial nature, and moreso the avid sensationalism of trivia, of the mundane and meaningless.

For, I bid you to consider, how these newspapers rarely do — if at all — impart true wisdom, knowledge, understanding. And yet, we consume these publications — we consume, and thereby, we are consumed.

Even more profoundly outrageous then, are the contents of the magazine literature — though, I say literature, we can not hardly call it literature; it does not come close to such prestigious labelling.

If our newspapers were atleast feigning enlightening, objective education, and perhaps even, very occasionally; to varying degress, succeeding in this endeavour — cast your focus upon the magazine, and tell me that your very consciousness is not assaulted with an overstimulating plethora of corrupt baits of attention; with outrageous claims, and worse yet: all of it meaningless, hollow, superficial.

Well, if you do still enjoy this media, I do not condemn you, infact I congratulate you; be entertained by the mundane, this I can not do — perhaps this is my weakness, then, for I am missing out on the most simple joys that modern life has to offer; I’ll be damned.

Now, with this in mind, let us then behold the consumer.

First, I may add, what devilish skill she has; for she reads her paper on an escalating staircase — why, she must have a window of but 15 seconds; I do wonder what article so entices her to these lengths. Such heroic efforts!

Her eyebrows mildly strained, tensile — perhaps what she reads distresses her somewhat; perhaps she reads of a young child, a boy, a progidy of the violin, his arm twisted in the wake of a passing bus, forever incapable of the delicate performance he before emboldened; oh! Such tragedy! Yes, surely, but, what use is that knowledge to this respectable lady? Why, what but fear for her own child? What but graveness, sorrow, pity?

I say, find something in that paper, my dear lady; find something within those pages truly enlightening, truly inspiring. I say, inspire me!

Inspiration, you say?!

Why, here it is!

I bring it before you in tremendous human glory, the divine beauty of human love — transcending all boundaries, all social confines.

This is life, I say, far more beautiful than anything man can produce with his hands, his voice, his printing press — this is poetry, poetry that words can not emulate so vividly as the real thing.

I suggest that more of us engage in such wondrous public displays of passion, affectation, raw unrestrained love — and though I may sound satiricial still, I am not so; for I argue, if we do not express these great faculties of the human enterprise openly, regardless of who may be watching — why, if we can do that without fear, without condescention, are we really free?

Nay, if we can not express love amongst strangers, we are repressed! We are cold! We are machines! But we are not machines, I bid, not yet; though, hark back to ages past — hark back to those prosperous ages of our ancient history, were we not often, in those times of consciousness; far more free? Far more liberated to love? To love without fear?

Why, our sexual imprisonment — of all aspects of our great respression, this is perhaps the most life-nulling of all.

Why, you need not even hark back to times long before; but simply to 50 years past, to see our previous generations, at that post-war period of the 60s and 70s; how else can we characterise those times of revolutionary spirit, of freedom and love and hope — excepting for psychedelics — but by the liberation of sexual freedom, of the expanding of values surrounding the expression of free love? And, I say, who can argue that to be a negative thing for humanity? And, moreover, who can not plainly see the dim comparison with todays sexual landscape — why, to even kiss in public is near-taboo!

I scoff at our age.

‘The real hopeless victims of mental illness are to be found among those who appear to be most normal. Many of them are normal because they are so well adjusted to our mode of existence, because their human voice has been silenced so early in their lives, that they do not even struggle or suffer or develop symptoms as the neurotic does. They are normal not in what may be called the absolute sense of the word; they are normal only in relation to a profoundly abnormal society. Their perfect adjustment to that abnormal society is a measure of their mental sickness. These millions of abnormally normal people, living without fuss in a society to which, if they were fully human beings, they ought not to be adjusted.’ — Aldous Huxley, Brave New World.

Axle.