Literature and “Cosmopolitan Citadels”

Val Vista Dr. Montesano, WA

“We do not believe that everything will be fine,” write the authors of The Dark Mountain Manifesto. Civilization is ending. Millions will die. And, who knows, maybe we’ll find a way to destroy all of life on Earth while we’re at it.

I only recently stumbled upon this infamous manifesto. It’s bleak and not my thing. But one aspect of the manifesto really struck me. A thread runs through the work concerning modern literature—how it’s no longer the product of human beings, but rather of a specific faction of overly educated city-dwellers who have lost touch with their connection to the natural world.

The manifesto concludes with “Eight Principles of Uncivilsation [sic].” Principle Six reads:

We will celebrate writing and art which is grounded in a sense of place and of time. Our literature has been dominated for too long by those who inhabit the cosmopolitan citadels.

That’s such a good phrase at the end: “those who inhabit the cosmopolitan citadels.” It describes me, frankly. And I’m relatively proud of this. I love cities. I love walkable density, graffiti-covered alleyways, third-wave coffee shops, specialized boutiques, late-night pizza shops and corner stores, skyscrapers, historic concert venues, and all the rest. But… At the same time… I agree with the authors of the manifesto that too much of our literature is created by out-of-touch urbanites.

I grew up in a middle-of-nowhere logging town with a population of 3,000 (shoutout to Montesano). I spent more time, quite literally, wandering around in the woods than I did in the classroom. Although I was still fully tapped into modern culture (Sunday morning cartoons, etc.), I very much felt most at home in the woods.

Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to this concept laid out in The Dark Mountain Manifesto: The “literary challenge of our age” is to write as one who is “truly human” and “uncivilsed”:

The shifting of emphasis from man to notman: this is the aim of Uncivilised writing. To ‘unhumanise our views a little, and become confident / As the rock and ocean that we were made from.’ This is not a rejection of our humanity – it is an affirmation of the wonder of what it means to be truly human. It is to accept the world for what it is and to make our home here, rather than dreaming of relocating to the stars, or existing in a Man-forged bubble and pretending to ourselves that there is nothing outside it to which we have any connection at all.

The manifesto cites authors such as Wendell Berry and Cormac McCarthy as examples of “[t]hose whose writings approach the shores of the Uncivilised … those who know their place, in the physical sense, and who remain wary of the siren cries of metrovincial fashion and civilised excitement.”

Much of modern life is alienating, isolating, cold, and inorganic. Romantic relationships are formed through algorithms. Friendships are few, far between, and often shallow. Food is poison. Jobs are tied to corporations.

When our literature is part of all this…it’s not human.

The exact prescription from The Dark Mountain Manifesto isn’t exactly clear. There’s an emphasis in quoting dramatic poetry over providing practical tips. To write like a human, should you take a walk in the sunshine and meditate beside a pond before sitting down with pen and paper? Should you stare at the moon past midnight? Take mushrooms? Fast? Pray?

Personally, when I sit down to write, I do sometimes feel this part of myself that yearns to step outside the ickiness of modern culture. The beauty of fiction writing is that anything can happen at any moment. As the author, you’re GOD. So, why is your lead character sitting in an office sending an email? Really, that’s the anything you want to write about?

But having modern characters lets me comment on the modern condition. That’s the rebuttal, right?

Sure, but does the modern condition really need your commentary? Wouldn’t it rather experience your commentary—the timeless, human you?

Again, I do have a hard time with this perspective from The Dark Mountain. It comes from a place that’s simply too bleak—too doomsday—for my taste. I like technology. I like modernism. And futurism. But, at the very least, I do want to keep this in the back of my mind:

As a child, my best days were spent deep in the woods. Despite having no inputs from screens, strip malls, city streets, governments, or corporations, I had plenty to say. My head swam with poetry and stories. And, no doubt, that poetry, those stories, were pricelessly human. Grounded in a sense of place and time.