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(110) Fioled

There is no such thing as right-wing art. There is just reality—the right, the political right, is just a defence of reality; and reality itself is a mystery—hence the right, being masculine, struggles to articulate what it actually wants. The reason for this is that the only response to the mystery is silence, the wise man knows to keep his peace—“myth” in fact means “silence” in ancient Greek, the mysteries, the spaces where myths were enacted, were those events you were silent about.

To illustrate the point: let’s say I advocate for the NHS to be closed, my grounds being I find it personally unpleasant and also because, by simple reasoning, everything the state does except war it is bad at—so it must be bad at healthcare too. “Oh, so you’re one of those neoliberal free-market fundamentalists, then?”. That is the left’s retort. However, I have no theory—I know no economics—I just have my experiences and observations. “No but you’re obviously a neoliberal.”

Why put a name on it? When you put a name on it, you kill it. When you write “with love” on a card the love is dead—love is silent mystery. The left wants to put a name on everything, the right has an action—this is what it takes to extract oil, now see you try; the left has a prescription. Yet reality is ineffable, you have to do it to really understand it—and it cannot all be described. The left offers a simple moral formula—good/bad, problem solved. “Racist!” Shrugs shoulders, silence. There is art, a reflection of reality—and then there is left-wing propaganda, per Soviet posters, that uses the techniques of art to put over “a message”, a message that conceals the mystery. If you constrain art to a political objective it becomes leftist; it becomes an activity with a goal—real art is superfluous, it has no point; it just gives and gives, as does the mystery.


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