North American New Right 2

by Greg Johnson

  The obvious answer is that the Indo-Europeans conquered all these “substrate” speakers. (And this answer is well-supported by the existing evidence, archaeological and otherwise.) But Indo-Europeanists avoid embracing the obvious at all costs, since—to put the matter bluntly—it might cause us to be rather impressed by our barbarian ancestors. One politically correct scholar insists that the migrations of the Indo-Europeans “must not be seen as victorious expeditions of conquerors” (quoted in Duchesne, p. 347; emphasis in original). “But isn’t this exactly what they were?” one might ask. Yes, but—again—certain thoughts must simply be forbidden in academia, even if they are supported by huge burial mounds full of evidence. Duchesne notes that J. P. Mallory—possibly the most influential scholar in the field today—carefully avoids suggesting that the Indo-Europeans were conquerors. So, what alternative explanation do the revisionists offer for the Indo-European migrations? You guessed it: scarcity. They needed more food.

  Once again, we encounter the narrow, materialist view of the revisionists: it could not possibly be something like the desire for glory or adventure that moved our ancestors to expand outwards. It must instead have been the sort of concerns that preoccupy Assistant Professors struggling to support a family on a starting salary of fifty thousand dollars per annum. Unsurprisingly, however, Duchesne shows that the very same professors have no trouble extolling the “exceptionally dynamic, expansionist culture” and warrior prowess of non-Indo-European peoples of the steppes, such as the Mongols and the Huns (p. 348).

  One exception to this trend is the late Marija Gimbutas (1921–1994), the notorious Lithuanian archeologist who theorized that the pre-Indo-European peoples of Europe had developed a “Goddess religion,” and lived in matriarchal societies. Most scholars regard this viewpoint as having only slightly more credibility than Margaret Murray’s “witch-cult hypothesis,” and as similarly based on wishful thinking. Nevertheless, Gimbutas seems to have seen the Indo-European invaders correctly as patriarchal conquerors. (Though for her, of course, they are the villains of the piece.)

  Duchesne’s own explanation for the Indo-European migrations is simple. He argues that the available evidence indicates that barbarian Indo-European culture valued individual prowess above all else. Its men consequently felt driven to distinguish themselves through heroic deeds, sometimes reaching as far as foreign lands. But not just any men: men of noble birth. As I have already noted, Duchesne argues that Indo-European aristocracy was unique in that its nobles were essentially free men ruled by a king who was first among equals. And this king was no despot; not only was he was expected to settle many matters in consultation with his nobles, often he was chosen by them.

  The “founding fathers” of the West were aristocratic warriors, not “democratic citizens” (as most historians have claimed). For the democratic values of Athens were actually a transformation of the ethos of the ancient Indo-European nobles, who asserted their right to be consulted, to hold councils, and to decide matters in common. Duchesne makes the valid point that Georges Dumézil, in his theory of “Indo-European tripartition” should have noted the unique, “libertarian” nature of Indo-European sovereignty—rather than simply stating that the “first function” is “sovereignty,” which hardly serves to distinguish the Indo-European peoples from others at all.

  But it was not only this “democratic” element that made Indo-European aristocracy unique. It was also the idea that the king was only one of any number of men whose praises could be sung. All men of noble birth sought glory, and were honored for their exploits. Duchesne refers to the aristocratic Indo-European ethos as one in which “fighting and voluntarily risking one’s life was the essential ground of being worthy of respect and honor as a man of noble birth” (p. 368). If one looks at “aristocracies” among other peoples, one finds that the king always reigns supreme, and that the nobles are wholly subordinate to him. It is only the king’s exploits that are immortalized, and no nobleman would dare try to outshine him. Insofar as the nobles achieve any distinction at all, it is solely through service to the king (the ultimate service being giving up one’s life for him).

  Duchesne spends quite a bit of time discussing the warrior elites of Bronze Age Europe, who were honor-bound to confirm their social status through the Hegelian “struggle for recognition.” To see this vividly depicted, one need only turn to Homer. Duchesne notes the presence in Homer of biographical accounts of warriors and their families. This celebration of the individual is wholly lacking in Near Eastern literature. And in considering this characteristic of Homer, we are inevitably led to think of the Icelandic saga literature—which provides even better illustrations of the “individualism” Duchesne emphasizes. He devotes a long footnote on page 439 to a list of similarities between Greek and Germanic heroic tales and traits. In all these Indo-European societies, we find men preoccupied with honor, with their legacy, and with the judgment of other “masters.”373

  Even the Indo-European mode of fighting was individualistic. Consider, for example, the Germanic berserkers. And the Celts were famous for fighting naked. In both groups it was thought that the less protected the body, the greater the honor. Why? The answer is obvious: it was a way in which they could show their fearlessness and contempt for life, for mere biological survival. This is perhaps the clearest and most vivid historical example one can find to illustrate the mindset of Hegel’s “master.”

  Duchesne quotes a number of primary sources, including Roman writings and Icelandic sagas, speaking of “the freedom . . . to outdo other warriors” as “the greatest happiness”; a life without heroic deeds was the “greatest grief,” etc. (p. 369). The Lesson of the High One in the Poetic Edda teaches (as Duchesne puts it) that “the most important thing in the life of the hero is neither property, nor relatives, nor life itself, but his acts as an individual and whether they bring him glory and reputation” (p. 438). And in Beowulf we find the following: “As we must all expect to leave our life on this earth, we must earn some renown, if we can before death; daring is the thing for a fighting man to be remembered by. . . . A man must act so, when he means in a fight to frame himself a long-lasting glory; it is not life he thinks of” (quoted in Duchesne, p. 438).

  One of the extraordinary characteristics of our barbarian ancestors is that they did not just desire the recognition of their immediate peers. They desired the recognition of generations of peers yet to be born. They desired a kind of personal immortality, established through the recollection of their deeds. For this, of course, poets were necessary, men who would record these deeds in verse. As a result of this, poetry and song were greatly valued in Indo-European barbarian culture. Though here too thumos reigned: the poets themselves were a kind of warrior, competing against other poets and striving for prestige; striving to be the best. Their job was to glorify the heroes—and the gods.

  Surprisingly, Duchesne draws upon Heidegger to explicate what this glorification truly meant. In his Introduction to Metaphysics, Heidegger writes that, “To glorify, to attribute regard to, and disclose regard means in Greek: to place in the light and thus endow permanence, being. For the Greeks, glory was not something additional which one might or might not obtain; it was the mode of the highest being” (quoted in Duchesne, p. 456). This is a passage pregnant with implications for how we should understand what it meant to be in the ancient Indo-European warrior culture. Heidegger is suggesting that true being involved eternity or permanence (which is certainly how the earliest Western philosophers conceived of being). The successful warrior, whose deeds are glorified, achieves the highest being—even if he loses his life. But for this, again, the poets were necessary.

  And Duchesne notes an interesting connection between heroism and the form of poetry Aristotle regarded as highest and best: tragedy. Both require “a culture in which some individuals are free to set themselves apart from others. Tragedy is a form of literature that expresses acutely the inescapable sacrifices and limitations entailed in the hu
man effort to achieve greatness” (p. 404). In the tragedy we again see the characteristic focus on, and celebration of the individual—even the individual who comes to ruin. The Greek audience felt pity for the tragic character because they identified with his desire to achieve greatness. And they recognized that, placed in a similar situation, they too could fall into hubris and be undone by their own faults. The lesson of the tragedy is not that those who strive for greatness are doomed, therefore we shouldn’t try. The tragedy recognizes instead that our striving for greatness will never cease, and that it can be won—but only at a great, sometimes terrible price.

  One of the major virtues of Duchesne’s book is that it forces us to reflect on what is unique about the Western character, in terms we may never before have considered. It is extremely common, for example, for Westerners to project their characteristics onto humanity as a whole, and to assume that their feelings and drives and values are universal. (As we shall see, this runs throughout the entire history of Western philosophy, and is one of the driving forces behind Western liberalism, multiculturalism, and revisionist scholarship.) For example, accounts of Greek tragedy commonly speak of how it treats “universal” human characteristics and concerns. It is true that Oedipus the King can be appreciated, on more than one level, by non-Westerners. But the play itself is about a character who represents the Western spirit itself: striving ceaselessly and heedlessly to know, until he is destroyed by knowing.

  We must guard against “universalizing” ourselves. And Duchesne’s book is a great corrective for this tendency. One way in which he accomplishes this—quite masterfully, in fact—is to set the West alongside other cultures and to draw stark contrasts. And so at some length he contrasts the Indo-European (especially Greek) characteristics just discussed with those of the ancient Near Eastern peoples. In contrast to the Greeks, the Mesopotamians essentially saw man as an impotent plaything of divine, cosmic forces. The gods of the Mesopotamians were fearful and remote, while the gods of the Greeks had human form, with human emotions and foibles. The Greeks regarded their gods with awe, but not terror. Greek myth is often seen as “fatalistic,” but Duchesne points out that the Greeks saw men as choosing their own fate or destiny (as does the tragic hero), rather than simply following a fate mapped out in advance by impersonal forces.

  In contrast to the Indo-Europeans, the Near East placed very little importance on the individual. Egyptian monuments are covered in encomia to whatever pharaoh built them. But conspicuously absent—even from tombs—are family lineages, recalling the deeds or virtues of the pharaoh’s forebears. And the pharaohs ruled with absolute power. There were no “free aristocrats” striving for recognition in the Near East—and so no material for heroic epics. One might offer Gilgamesh as a counterexample, but Duchesne has a response to this. On the surface, Gilgamesh is striving for immortality, like the heroes of the sagas. But the latter sought immortality through noble deeds. Gilgamesh, by contrast, seeks a literal, physical immorality through a plant that lies at the bottom of the sea. The heroes of the sagas cared nothing for long life: they preferred a short and glorious one, and had only contempt for old men who died “straw deaths.” Think of how much contempt they would have had for a man who artificially prolonged his physical existence, out of love of life and fear of death. (And, when you’re done with that, think of how much contempt they would have had for us.)

  The characterization of Gilgamesh as a king is also revealing. Though the epic celebrates Gligamesh’s kingship, it is clear that he is nothing more than a tyrant. The text tells us that “his lust leaves no virgin to her lover, neither the warrior’s daughter nor the wife of the noble” (quoted in Duchesne p. 413). Fittingly, Duchesne contrasts Gilgamesh to Homer’s Agamemnon, whose troubles begin when he steals Achilles’s girl. Much of the Iliad is occupied with the consequences of Agamemnon’s theft, which results in Achilles and his followers refusing to fight. A vassal refuses to fight for his king, because the king has violated his honor. In any other cultural context these events would be unthinkable. (Or the epic would be a lot shorter, as Achilles would simply have lost his head—but Agamemnon knows that he is no absolute monarch, and that the other nobles would never stand for this.)

  Of course, not all historians have seen our barbarian ancestors as “individualist” and “libertarian.” Classicists like Bruno Snell and Richard Onians have argued, in fact, that the barbarians were actually “unconscious”; that they did not really possess a full-developed sense of individual identity. The most extreme case of this has to be an author Duchesne does not mention, the late Princeton psychologist Julian Jaynes. In his provocative book The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind (1976), Jaynes drew on some of the same evidence cited by Snell, et al., to argue that Homeric man had no personal autonomy at all, and hallucinated the voices of gods telling him what to do.

  Such claims are based largely upon cherry-picking evidence from ancient texts, and upon pure wooly speculation. They are easily refuted by a careful study of the ancient materials available to us (actually, even by a cursory study—since they are quite clearly the product of self-aware human beings). More serious, however, is the claim that the Indo-European barbarians saw themselves exclusively in terms of their caste, or social role. That the ancient Indo-Europeans did have strict caste divisions and rules is well-known. But modern, Western scholars, living in socially-mobile liberal societies, falsely assume that the presence of a caste system must be incompatible with any sense of individuality or any celebration of the individual as individual.

  In fact, the caste system simply defined the parameters within which individuals could distinguish themselves and gain renown. As Hegel would put it (the Hegel of The Philosophy of Right), the “determination” of the caste role was the condition for the expression of the individual’s freedom. There is no such thing as an abstract, contentless, and unconditioned freedom: freedom is always freedom to be something definite. It must start from some definite context, and involve a choice made from among a number of defined options. It is only within such a context that we are free, but we can never be free of a context. Hence the larval, unformed state of modern man: free to be “anything” he winds up being nothing.

  The freedom sought by our barbarian, warrior ancestors was the freedom to be what they were: warriors. Their being was defined by their social role, but it was a being that had to be won through deeds. And there were degrees of being: some men’s deeds were greater than others, and achieved an eternity (again, though being remembered) not available to others. Of course, some men were simply more fortunate than others (had Sigurd taken a different path through the forest, he might not have run into that dragon). But mainly it came down to the degree of a man’s desire for glory; the strength of his thumos. And this is a property that is most definitely not the same in all men.

  The desire for recognition is not developed equally in everyone, nor is it the quite the same thing in everyone. Duchesne brings in Fukuyama’s distinction between isothymia, the desire to be recognized as equal, and megalothymia, the desire to be recognized as greater. The former is essentially the thumos of slaves, and it is only this sort of recognition that is satisfied at the “end of history,” with the establishment of liberal, democratic states. One might say that, according to Hegel-Kojève, history begins with the megalothymia of the masters, and ends with the satisfaction of the isothymia of the slaves. But according to Duchesne, it is simply false to suggest that what has driven history, and brought about the extraordinary achievements of the west, is isothymia. On the contrary, it was always the desire of some men to set themselves over others as the best.

  And we must also consider that if some men are more thumotic (i.e., megalothymotic) than others, it may also be true that some peoples are more thumotic than others. This is the bold suggestion that Duchesne makes, though he is cautious here and uses the language of “culture,” asking “may it not also be the case that this desire has been unevenly mani
fested by the cultures of the world?” (p. 420). He writes elsewhere in the text: “here I am suggesting that ‘the West’ is a cultural term without fixed geographical and ethnic boundaries” (pp. 237–38). But we have to ask: where does culture come from? Why do some peoples create (or manifest) cultures markedly different from others?

  The revisionists will answer that they encountered different environmental conditions. And this is at least partly true. Each culture is the product of an encounter between a people and an environment with its own set of features and limitations intrinsic to it. But a people does not encounter an environment tabula rasa: peoples have their own intrinsic features and limitations that they bring to the encounter. (Though, as evolution teaches us, what results may further shape their character.) Cultures are not abstract ideologies that can be created by or imposed upon any people: they flow from the unique nature of a people, in its encounter with a unique place.

  The evidence marshaled by Duchesne points unavoidably to the conclusion that European cultural uniqueness is a product of the nature of European people, which is not a cultural artifact but, again, that from which culture flows. Of course, the belief in “national character” or in intrinsic ethnic or racial characteristics is absolutely anathema in academia, however much obvious truth there may be in it. And Duchesne has courted enough controversy, as we have seen. So, wisely, he leaves this topic alone.374

  Yet, he goes pretty far nonetheless, asking on page 420: “Is it possible to argue with Nietzsche [i.e., in agreement with him] that not all cultures are equally proficient in the production of creative individuals? Can we not add to Nietzsche that the West produced the ‘highest exemplars’ of humanity due to its singular aristocratic grounding?”