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The Muskrat Manifesto (WIP)

  1. The Folly of the Revolutionary

    1. The Animal, or the Sage

    2. The Wolf Huffing and Puffing

The Folly of the Revolutionary

The Animal, or the Sage

In his essay, In Defense of Violence, Ted Kaczynski writes that there are three types of people who follow nonviolence: the conservative, who does so out of dogma; the coward, out of self-preservative instinct; and the saint, who does so out of a genuine (as opposed to manufactured) moral drive. I would like to suggest a fourth category: the animal, or the sage.

The sole difference between the two is that the "animal" may or may not have tasted the forbidden fruit; the sage, however, has overcome its succor, and spit it out in favour of more paltry nourishment. Sageliness, which I would say is nihilism, is inherently unsatisfying, which is why only the most passionate of people can find the courage to give up judgement of good and bad.

Let's consider. One day I stopped using metal tools outside the house. (Ridiculous, it would seem, but most people go their entire lives, poo-pooing the small and weak while glorifying the strong and grandiose. They never had the chance to know.) Traditional flint knapping doesn't work in my region, because there is no flint or anything of the sort, so I went as long as I could with just my hands, and found that tools were indeed useful: specifically, slate chipped to a sharp serrated edge. Because I am not a beaver, this helped me to cut at tough, flexible wood fibres, and dig without getting muddy and scratched hands. They were slow, and didn't last long, but why should I complain? I should be grateful to have anything at all.

We can think of good and bad the same way, because they are just like little pieces of metal and stone. When people ate the forbidden fruit and decided that they could make rules to discern good from bad, it made things much easier. They didn't have to look to the divine, to the ineffible; no nonsense of God does see it, because it is good. Human knowledge was what determined good and bad.

I recently heard someone say that all communes failed, because they were not in God. That might be true, because if a commune succeeded visibly in creating a new social order, then it would have been shut down or shoved into line by the wider society. If it enjoyed true success, it would be no more visible than a muskrat's house. Why is that? Because muskrats survive by being shy and living in inaccessible places. They dwell in God, so to speak. The mouse finds holes in the walls, and settles in; the bluebird takes the box but won't be bossed around. The rare herbs find their places deep in the mountains, in the cool forest shade. To dwell in God is to be wild; to be wild is to dwell in God. And to dwell in God, is to be a god.

People conceive of divinity as being full of hubris and grandiosity, but I disagree. Gods (even Zeus) are content with smallness and weakness, and therein lies their might. The huffing gales of the summer storm fade with the morning; the clouds go limp and turn to rain before they can amount to much substantial. Day submits to night when the time has come: this is how it does not scorch the earth. Even the mightiest find their strength in doing no more than is required.

Here is the difference between the muskrat and the coward. The muskrat finds safety, yet bows to none; the coward is but a slave, bound to their masters by terror of punishment.

And here is the difference between the muskrat and the "saint", as described: the one only wishes to be small, and find a life happy and free, whereas the other does not entirely relinquish grandiosity; they believe that people should be good, and pursue goodness. Yet we find that once they are dealt with, much of the goodness is stripped away until what remain are just their pretty words, wrapped up in lies. Who ever thought Jesus, peaceful as a mouse, would start a Crusade?

Perhaps a muskrat's words will not live on in a great book, but I don't suppose they would find themself tied to a cross and stabbed, either.

"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

The Wolf Huffing and Puffing

The revolutionist, of course, is different from the saint in that they do not shy from violence. They use what means they can to achieve goodness. But in other ways, the revolutionary and the saint are identical. They come to, or try to, amass a following of people who agree with them; they try to use such a social network to radically change or overthrow a social system. You can't fight something grand and terrible with something gentle and weak, so oftentimes the revolution comes to make itself great and terrible as well. People may be dissatisfied with modernity, but that is coming out not as gentle, weak anarchism, but a movement towards fascism, the most grand and terrible of them all.

And, if they don't follow the grand and terrible path, they find themselves buried under the long march of history.

Well, he huffed and he puffed, and he huffed and he puffed, and he huffed and he puffed, but he could not get the house down.


Source code

## The Folly of the Revolutionary
### The Animal, or the Sage

In his essay, *In Defense of Violence*, Ted Kaczynski writes that there are three types of people who follow nonviolence: the conservative, who does so out of dogma; the coward, out of self-preservative instinct; and the saint, who does so out of a genuine (as opposed to manufactured) moral drive. I would like to suggest a fourth category: the animal, or the sage.

The sole difference between the two is that the "animal" may or may not have tasted the forbidden fruit; the sage, however, has overcome its succor, and spit it out in favour of more paltry nourishment. Sageliness, which I would say is nihilism, is inherently unsatisfying, which is why only the most passionate of people can find the courage to give up judgement of good and bad.

Let's consider. One day I stopped using metal tools outside the house. (Ridiculous, it would seem, but most people go their entire lives, poo-pooing the small and weak while glorifying the strong and grandiose. They never had the chance to know.) Traditional flint knapping doesn't work in my region, because there is no flint or anything of the sort, so I went as long as I could with just my hands, and found that tools were indeed useful: specifically, slate chipped to a sharp serrated edge. Because I am not a beaver, this helped me to cut at tough, flexible wood fibres, and dig without getting muddy and scratched hands. They were slow, and didn't last long, but why should I complain? I should be grateful to have anything at all.

We can think of good and bad the same way, because they are just like little pieces of metal and stone. When people ate the forbidden fruit and decided that they could make rules to discern good from bad, it made things much easier. They didn't have to look to the divine, to the ineffible; no nonsense of *God does see it, because it is good*. Human knowledge was what determined good and bad.

I recently heard someone say that all communes failed, because they were not in God. That might be true, because if a commune succeeded visibly in creating a new social order, then it would have been shut down or shoved into line by the wider society. If it enjoyed true success, it would be no more visible than a muskrat's house. Why is that? Because muskrats survive by being shy and living in inaccessible places. They dwell in God, so to speak. The mouse finds holes in the walls, and settles in; the bluebird takes the box but won't be bossed around. The rare herbs find their places deep in the mountains, in the cool forest shade. To dwell in God is to be wild; to be wild is to dwell in God. And to dwell in God, is to be a god.

People conceive of divinity as being full of hubris and grandiosity, but I disagree. Gods (even Zeus) are content with smallness and weakness, and therein lies their might. The huffing gales of the summer storm fade with the morning; the clouds go limp and turn to rain before they can amount to much substantial. Day submits to night when the time has come: this is how it does not scorch the earth. Even the mightiest find their strength in doing no more than is required.

Here is the difference between the muskrat and the coward. The muskrat finds safety, yet bows to none; the coward is but a slave, bound to their masters by terror of punishment.

And here is the difference between the muskrat and the "saint", as described: the one only wishes to be small, and find a life happy and free, whereas the other does not entirely relinquish grandiosity; they believe that people should be good, and pursue goodness. Yet we find that once they are dealt with, much of the goodness is stripped away until what remain are just their pretty words, wrapped up in lies. Who ever thought Jesus, peaceful as a mouse, would start a Crusade? 

Perhaps a muskrat's words will not live on in a great book, but I don't suppose they would find themself tied to a cross and stabbed, either.

"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

### The Wolf Huffing and Puffing

The revolutionist, of course, is different from the saint in that they do not shy from violence. They use what means they can to achieve goodness. But in other ways, the revolutionary and the saint are identical. They come to, or try to, amass a following of people who agree with them; they try to use such a social network to radically change or overthrow a social system. You can't fight something grand and terrible with something gentle and weak, so oftentimes the revolution comes to make itself great and terrible as well. People may be dissatisfied with modernity, but that is coming out not as gentle, weak anarchism, but a movement towards fascism, the most grand and terrible of them all.

And, if they don't follow the grand and terrible path, they find themselves buried under the long march of history.

*Well, he huffed and he puffed, and he huffed and he puffed, and he huffed and he puffed, but he could* not *get the house down.*