‘Freethought’ has always been a left tradition

The atheist far right’s beloved sweetheart Pat Condell, chief vilifier at large of Muslims, migrants, and ‘carpet-chewing PC fanatics’, knows no appeasement, quiescence or apparent joy – nor knows he, as his recent swipe at this network showed us, much at all.

Honoured to be slandered as racist‘, Condell tweeted this week, by ‘the ludicrously named Freethought Blogs’, in his words ‘the North Korea of free thought‘. ‘Being hated by people like this makes it all worthwhile.’

You’re welcome, Pat. And it isn’t slander, is it, if you think your image benefits? (It isn’t anyway, of course. Slander, to offer one of Spider-Man‘s underused lines, is spoken. In print, it’s libel – and how he thinks a court could rule on whether or not his views are racist, I don’t know. Like the English Defence League mind you, on whom he bundles fulsome praise, people with dark skin sometimes like him, which settles it of course.)

Objections to Freethought‘s place in our masthead are among the laziest, glibbest soundbites our critics have, but more than that display a failure to grasp even the term’s most basic history. Freethought is not ‘free thought’ or uninhibited inquiry – to think so boasts the same green literalism as thinking a Friends’ Meeting House is a shared beach hut or that Scotch pancakes contain Scotch  - though even if it were, it’s silly and inane to assume one’s critics are automatons or say loose collective viewpoints mean dictatorship. Freethought is a specified tradition, European in the main, whose constituents have by and large been countercultural, radical and leftist, everything Condell and cohorts viscerally despise.

The Deutscher Freidenker-Verband, probably Europe’s major freethought organisation, claimed a membership of hundreds of thousands by the time of its proscription at the Nazis’ hands. A bulk of its support came from the Communist and Social Democratic parties, the former producing its final chair (prior to post-war revival) Max Sievers, the latter cofounded by the Marxist Wilhelm Liebknecht as was the DFV. The Kommunistische Partei was itself founded by Liebknecht’s middle son Karl and Rosa Luxemburg, together Weimar Germany’s most posthumously celebrated dissidents. Christopher Hitchens appraised Luxemburg as the ‘most brilliant’ of Marxist anti-Leninists, crediting the Social Democrats with prompting Bertrand Russell’s writing career beyond building an alternative and markedly more feminist society for its supporters, the historian Isaac Deutscher (another Jewish atheist, his politics very much like hers) as closer to Marx than anyone who followed, perhaps excepting Leon Trotsky.

Marx himself remains a sharper critic of religion than Condell could ever hope to be, as were a noted swathe of (free)thinkers informed by him before and beyond Sovietism. Millions of working Germans mobilised against 1920s church politics, leaving religious organisations after campaigns by left freethinker groups, including beside the DFV the Bund Sozialistischer Freidenker with its 20,000 members, the national Zentral-Verband der Proletarischen Freidenker and the International of Proletarian Freethinkers formed with siblings around the continent. (Such working class atheist constituencies have yet to form in the present movement. I eagerly await them.) In Italy, Antonio Gramsci – recognised now among the major atheist philosophers of interest – continued the socialist-atheist tradition there of Carlo Cafiero, the minutiae of whose anarcho-communism differed from Gramsci’s politics but who associated with Britain’s National Secular Society in its founding years.

Cafiero and Errico Malatesta, Italian anarchism’s prime progenitors, both had freethinking backgrounds and were devotees of Mikhail Bakunin, likewise an ardent atheist and anarchocollectivist whose theory treated faith much as Marx did (it was, no doubt, one of the few discursive areas where they’d have jovially agreed). His views reverberated similarly in the U.S. as praised by Emma Goldman, viewed now as a founder of American anarchism, communism, feminism and atheism. On the latter subject, as in my view on all others, she is infinitely quotable.

Freethought in Britain began even before all this, and there too it was led by anarchists – among them William Godwin, philosopher and radical. His daughter Mary, also an atheist, wrote Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus and married Percy Shelley, sent down from Oxford on publishing an atheist pamphlet, himself the author of Prometheus Unbound and a political dissident. Godwin’s own wife, philosopher Mary Wollstonecroft is remembered as founding modern feminism, translated according to Azar Nafisi (quoted at Pharyngula) by modern day Iranian women opposing Sharia – Iran, whose Worker-Communists are its major secularist faction, few more prominent among them than Mansoor Hekmat, influential among other spheres on Freethought Blogs writer Maryam Namazie. Wollstonecroft’s religious views’ details are disputed, but she was by no means a fervent believer, and her politics remain distinctly anticlerical.

Here endeth the lesson, Condell and friends. Bakunin, Cafiero, Deutscher, Godwin, Goldman, Gramsci, Hekmat, Liebknecht, Liebknecht, Luxemburg, Malatesta, Marx, Namazie, Shelley, Shelley, Sievers, Wollstonecroft: these names and others like them trace the freethought name’s historic lineage, always intersectional. We, not you, are its inheritors; you, cursing atheism’s so called loony left, need surrender it to us and not vice versa.

‘What’s truth got to do with it?’ On Bennett’s History Boys and contrarianism

‘So,’ asks antagonistic teacher Irwin in The History Boys, ‘our overall conclusion is that the origins of the Second War lie in the unsatisfactory outcome of the First?’ Yes say his students, hearts set on a place at Oxbridge. ‘First class. Bristol welcomes you with open arms. Manchester longs to have you. You can walk into Leeds. But I am a fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford, and I’ve just read seventy papers all saying the same thing – and I’m asleep.’

‘But it’s all true’, Anglican, piano-playing Scripps insists.

‘What’s truth got to do with it? What’s truth got to do with anything?’

Irwin (Stephen Campbell Moore in the 2006 film) has been hired by the school’s headmaster to teach strategy and flair. Where Richard Griffiths’ Hector teaches literature and general studies, cultivating cultural know-how, Irwin’s field is scholastic élan – the gameplaying cunning, style and nerve for academic triumph. To this end he prizes the unorthodox, slating the boys’ first essays as competent-but-dull, lauding originality above all else, less fond of lofty truism than contentious pith.

‘Happy to opine the esoteric point of view’, as an English teacher wrote when I was twelve, my natural inclination is to break consensus, dogged sometimes among peers with the repute of always having to be different - I confess I carry something of a torch, then, for Irwin’s style.

For fellow teacher Hector, though – older, tweedier, more humane, for whom the Holocaust can never be discussed in theory, only condemned ‘as an unprecedented horror’ – this is anathema. That Irwin has no forename where Hector has two (his real first name Douglas, his surname never uttered) is not coincidental: Irwin is the coolly rational querdenker, his teaching style distanced and sanuine, Hector the amicable schoolmaster of old, vocationally invested in his students’ lives and passions, as personal as his colleague isn’t. While Irwin’s pedagogy is strategic and goal-oriented, Hector is through and through a humanist, beloved of the Renaissance, deeming knowledge for its own sake precious, aiming for ’rounded individuals’ regardless of Oxbridge success.

Hector’s feelings toward his students are unsurprisingly just as romantic as his view of teaching. ‘The transmission of knowledge is itself an erotic act’, he pleads to the headmaster when it comes to light he touches the boys (18 or 19) sexually while giving motorcycle lifts, and isn’t without a point, at least in Bennett’s universe. Inasmuch as Hector receives no outright consent, his actions are unethical, but nor would it quite be true to call them one-sided, predatory acts of abuse. Earlier scenes show the boys collectively recognise the bike rides’ erotic function, taking turns quite voluntarily on Hector’s saddle in this knowledge, subtly negotiating the touching’s extent, viewing it almost at times as a rite of passage: Posner, 17, is refused a ride because underage, classmates explain to him, and Hector’s offering rides home seems to work less deceptively than as a coded invitation, understood by all involved.

The homoerotic is the default sexual mode in Bennett’s classroom, where Posner wants rakish, charismatic Dakin (communicating this in song form at one point), Dakin wants Irwin, Irwin wants Dakin and Scripps expresses mild enthusiasm for this pair. Beyond Dakin’s rather perfunctory pursuit of secretary Fiona, the only heterosexual moments in the play are simulated, as Posner, Scripps and others roleplay as Bette Davis and Paul Henreid in Now Voyager, Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard in Brief Encounter and the occupants of an imaginary French-speaking brothel. Straightness here if nowhere else is enacted, artificial, false; gay attractions, an unvarnished truth the boys discuss matter-of-factly. Perhaps for this reason, Irwin finds himself ‘scared shitless’ at the play’s end when offered sex explicitly by Dakin – by far more closeted than Hector, by far more diffident in sex and life than in his teaching, Irwin has no aptitude for plain or non-strategic truths.

The two’s mutual attraction on the other hand, formed largely around classroom brinkmanship and Dakin’s urge to please his tutor, reveals Irwin shares privately some of Hector’s romanticism – that cynicism notwithstanding, the scholastic passing on of truth is erotic for him too. His teaching, though savvy, sanguine and unsentimental, does turn out to be about the truth: moments after admonishing Scripps on the First World War’s significance, he gives the following much-quoted speech, which no doubt I’ll reach for again come Remembrance Day:

‘The truth was in 1914, Germany doesn’t want war. Yeah, there’s an arms race, but it’s Britain who’s leading it. So why does no one admit this? [Pointing to a monument] That’s why. The dead – the body count. We don’t like to admit the war even partly our fault, ’cause so many of our people died, and all the mourning’s veiled the truth: it’s not “lest we forget”, it’s “lest we remember”. That’s what all this is about – the memorials, the Cenotaph, the two minutes’ silence. Because there is no better way of forgetting something than by commemorating it.’

Where Hector deals in subjective abstractions about knowledge, love and the best moments in reading, Bennett’s most convincingly incisive lines belong all to Irwin. ‘Our perspective on the past alters’, he says defending dispassionate dissection of the Holocaust, ‘and looking back immediately in front of us is dead ground. We don’t see it, and because we don’t see it this means there is no period so remote as the recent past.’ ‘While they had no artistic merit’, he says, the Carry On films deserve attention since ‘they achieve some of the permanence of art simply by persisting, and acquire incremental significance if only as social history’. ‘If you want to learn about Mrs. Thatcher’, he says, ‘study Henry VIII.’ His contrarianism isn’t empty or inauthentic, it’s a means of happening on astute deductions.

In my second year at university, producing passable but uninspired papers, I had a tutor very much like Irwin – twentysomething, filled with sarcasm and benign derision, tactical to the point of artistry in essay-writing guidance. Despite his megalomanic tendencies, or perhaps because of them, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t (like Dakin) mildly besotted, and as it turned out he came very close to being my single most effective tutor. Obeying expectation either in choice of text, citation or argument was emphatically discouraged, his entire discursive praxis one of counter-valence. This became, as it is for Bennett’s character, epistemology more than just strategy: find every theory’s flaws, dissent from it however possible and build a new approach inside the cracks. Cracks in established thinking are where progress forms, and no academy could advance without them being scanned for constantly.

Contrarianism isn’t lazy, it’s instructive: no better way exists of finding out an ivory tower’s weak spots than by banging one’s head incessantly against its walls. We crucify facile reactionaries – Melanie Phillips, Katie Hopkins, Brendan O’Neill – and are right to do so, but the c-word is a title they’ve yet to earn, aspiring to it perhaps as Bennett’s head does to move up the league table. The best contrarians (Goldman, Orwell, Huxley, Hitchens) have shone argument in all directions, emerging all the more effective for it. Conceived in the first instance as a villain, I wonder nonetheless if Irwin’s name deserves the same esteem – though, naturally, I would say that.

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