Dead souls
Giorgio Agamben, Quodlibet, July 24, 2023
In his book about Gogol, Nabokov tried to define what poshlost is, the cheap and blatant squalor in which the characters of that immense writer from under whose overcoat, said Dostoevsky, “we all came out”, live. Emblem, cop and, at the same time, incarnation of the poshlost is Chichikov, the ineffable buyier of dead souls, i.e. of those deceased serfs, for whom the landlord continued to pay the capitation tax, thus providing them with a sort of phony survival. I don’t believe I’m proposing anything extravagant, suggesting that Chichikov is for us the symbol of those who are now governing — or believe they are governing — the life of mankind. Like Chichikov, they manipulate and trade, indeed, now dead souls, whose only semblance of life is that they themselves pay the head tax and buy the consumer goods they are told to buy. Whether these souls are really dead or whether they appear as such ony to those who rule them, does not make too much difference, since it is essential that they behave — and they do it so well — as if they were dead. “Yes, of course, they’re dead”, says Chichikov of his souls, “but on the other hand what about those people who are now listed as living? What sort of people are they?”. And he replies indignantly to the interlocutor who objects that these at least are alive, whereas his souls are only a dream: “A dream? No, it’s not a dream! If only you had seen them... I’d like to know where else you’ll find such a dream”.
It is good to reflect on what such a state-poshlost is, where everything is organised in every detail presuming that we are dealing only with dead souls, which must be punctually recorded, counted, stamped and steered in the desired direction. If some soul escapes counting and results invincibly alive, provision will be made, when it is not necessary to eliminate it, to isolate it or push it back to the edges. Such a state-poshlost, indeed, only needs dead souls and woe to anyone who insists on being alive, in not obeying to the televised decrees and the prescriptions of the cell phone which was providentially included in his coffin.
Yet even Chichikov can’t get through to the end. The one who bought only dead souls ultimately finds oneself empty-handed and only by running away can escape punishment. One day, even if we don’t know when, the souls who have allowed themselves to be treated as dead up to then will abruptly awaken and it is not certain that this time Chichikov will be able to save his skin.
Giorgio Agamben, Quodlibet, July 24, 2023
In his book about Gogol, Nabokov tried to define what poshlost is, the cheap and blatant squalor in which the characters of that immense writer from under whose overcoat, said Dostoevsky, “we all came out”, live. Emblem, cop and, at the same time, incarnation of the poshlost is Chichikov, the ineffable buyier of dead souls, i.e. of those deceased serfs, for whom the landlord continued to pay the capitation tax, thus providing them with a sort of phony survival. I don’t believe I’m proposing anything extravagant, suggesting that Chichikov is for us the symbol of those who are now governing — or believe they are governing — the life of mankind. Like Chichikov, they manipulate and trade, indeed, now dead souls, whose only semblance of life is that they themselves pay the head tax and buy the consumer goods they are told to buy. Whether these souls are really dead or whether they appear as such ony to those who rule them, does not make too much difference, since it is essential that they behave — and they do it so well — as if they were dead. “Yes, of course, they’re dead”, says Chichikov of his souls, “but on the other hand what about those people who are now listed as living? What sort of people are they?”. And he replies indignantly to the interlocutor who objects that these at least are alive, whereas his souls are only a dream: “A dream? No, it’s not a dream! If only you had seen them... I’d like to know where else you’ll find such a dream”.
It is good to reflect on what such a state-poshlost is, where everything is organised in every detail presuming that we are dealing only with dead souls, which must be punctually recorded, counted, stamped and steered in the desired direction. If some soul escapes counting and results invincibly alive, provision will be made, when it is not necessary to eliminate it, to isolate it or push it back to the edges. Such a state-poshlost, indeed, only needs dead souls and woe to anyone who insists on being alive, in not obeying to the televised decrees and the prescriptions of the cell phone which was providentially included in his coffin.
Yet even Chichikov can’t get through to the end. The one who bought only dead souls ultimately finds oneself empty-handed and only by running away can escape punishment. One day, even if we don’t know when, the souls who have allowed themselves to be treated as dead up to then will abruptly awaken and it is not certain that this time Chichikov will be able to save his skin.
(English translation by I, Robot)
Henri Matisse, Woman in a Purple Coat, 1937. Courtesy of WikiArt.
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