A Strategic Spending of Capitalism's Surpluses (Excesses): Per Aspera Ad Astra?

K.W. Diefenbach, "Ad Astra Per Aspera"

The following represents a short Conversation with Google AI:

According to Bataille, what is the problem of lamaism?

According to Georges Bataille, the "problem" of Lamaism in Tibet was that its absolute pacification left the society utterly defenseless against external military invasion, creating an economic and social system that devoured its own capacity to survive. 

In his 1949 work The Accursed Share, Bataille analyzes historical Tibetan society ("Lamaism") through his economic theory of the "general economy". This theory states that all societies produce a surplus of energy (the "accursed share") that they must ultimately waste or destroy. While other societies used this surplus to wage wars or fund military expansion, Tibet used it to sustain a massive, non-productive monastic population. 

The systemic issues and ultimate "problem" of this structure include:

1. Total Immobilization of Resources

Demographic Drain: A massive portion of the male population entered monasteries as monks (lamas). This took away vital labor from the economy and froze population growth. 

Economic Stagnation: Instead of using wealth to build infrastructure or military strength, the society's surplus was strictly funneled into building monasteries, supporting monks, and buying ritual objects. Wealth was permanently taken out of circulation. 

2. The Illusion of Religion-Driven Peace

Bataille points out that while Buddhism strictly forbids killing, religion alone does not make a society peaceful.

“Buddhism forbids its adherents to kill, which is presented as the origin of Tibet's peacefulness. However, the fact that other religions also condemn war, yet their followers still engage in killing, suggests that the relationship between religion and the absence of war is complex.”, as noted in a review of Bataille's analysis.

The true driver of Tibet's peace was an internal economic mechanism that systematically used up all surplus energy inside the borders, leaving absolutely no fuel for external aggression. 

3. Absolute Disarmament and Geopolitical Vulnerability

By choosing to expend its "accursed share" strictly on internal religious life rather than external conquest (like historical Islam) or dynamic growth (like capitalism), Tibet became an "unarmed society." 

This total pacification meant that the society lacked the physical means, weapons, and organizational power to defend itself against aggressive, military-focused neighbors. 

In short, Bataille sees Lamaism as a fascinating, radical solution to the problem of human excess—it successfully ended domestic war and external aggression by turning all surplus energy inward into religious contemplation. However, the fatal flaw of this system was that it rendered the society completely helpless to survive in a hostile world. 

If you would like to explore this further, I can break down how Bataille compares Tibet's unarmed society to the conquering expansion of early Islam, or how his ideas on luxury and waste challenge modern economics. Which direction would you prefer? 

Gift Giving After the Pauline Inversion: The Death of Social Reciprocity?

 from Google AI (These are results for On the impact to Mauss gift giving after the Pauline inversion (per Sloterdijk) Return more or less to earn social capital?):

To earn social capital after the Pauline inversion, you must return less (or ideally, nothing at all), deliberately refusing to match or exceed the initial gift. [1, 2]

This represents a radical reversal of the traditional gift economy described by Marcel Mauss. [1]

The Maussian Baseline: Return More

In Marcel Mauss's archaic gift economy, social capital and prestige are earned by returning more than what was received. [1, 2]

The Rule of Agonistic Exchange: To receive a gift is to be placed in a position of debt and social subordination (minister).
Accumulating Prestige: To reclaim status or dominate the hierarchy (magister), the recipient is obligated to return a gift of greater value (as seen in the potlatch).
Social capital is built on the competitive capacity to out-give and out-reciprocate. [1, 2, 3]

The Pauline Inversion: Return Less / Nothing

As Peter Sloterdijk details in his psychopolitical analysis of Christianity (notably in Rage and Time), Saint Paul introduces an asymmetrical, vertical economy of absolute grace (charis) and unconditioned giving. [1, 2, 3]

The Destruction of Reciprocity: God's gift (the Christ event) is structured to be completely incongruous with the value of the human recipient. It is an infinite gift that cannot be repaid or matched. [1, 2, 3]
The New Currency of Humility: In this framework, attempting to "return more" to earn social capital is a theological error—it is seen as a proud, hubristic attempt to put God in one's debt. [1, 2]
Earning Capital through Submission: True spiritual and social capital within the Pauline collective is generated by leaning into the asymmetrical deficit. You accumulate status by proclaiming your unworthiness, refusing horizontal aristocratic competition, and accepting a state of absolute, unpayable spiritual debt. [1, 2, 3, 4]

Feature	Maussian Gift Economy	Pauline Inverted Economy
Action to Earn Capital	Return More (Out-giving the other)	Return Less/Nothing (Accepting absolute debt)
Social Goal	Aristocratic prestige, honor, and mastery (magister)	Humility, saintliness, and egalitarian community (minister)
Dynamic	Agonistic, horizontal, and competitive	Passive, vertical, and submissive

By subverting the obligation to repay, the Pauline inversion replaces the pride of the mega-giver with the radical, paradoxical status of the professional receiver. [1, 2]

If you are examining this for a specific project, let me know if you would like to explore Sloterdijk's critique of ressentiment within this shift, or how this transition influenced modern welfare states. [1, 2]

Socialism = Secularized Christianity w/ Negative Interest

Capitalism = Secularized Christianity w/ Positive Interest

La Part Maudite - Generating (Sovereign) Meaning through Wasteful Expenditure

Jeffrey Epstein: Heroic Intermediary in a Feminist Utopia?

...or Potent Portent of the Hypergamous Moloch Trap?

The Trojan Horse Reprised

Who Needs GPS?

From Xenia to Caritas: The Democratization of Timaeus (Honor/Nobility)

 

Image Generated by ChatGPT

An Essay Composed by Google's AI:

The Levelling of the Cosmos: From the Stranger’s Table to the Pity of the Herd

I

Look at them! The latest comedians of the spirit, these modern manufacturers of a grey and bloodless "humanity." They reach out their soft, wet hands toward the ancient vault of heaven. They wish to drag the majestic, fiery architect of the Timaeus down into their subterranean workshops. What was once the high and lonely aristocrat of the intellect—that divine Craftsman, the Demiurge, who gazed upon eternal patterns and shaped a cosmos of tragic, beautiful hierarchy—must now be stripped of his robes. They want to turn him into a common laborer. They want to subject him to the universal ballot of the herd.

This is the great nausea of our age: the democratization of the cosmos.

Everywhere, the instincts of the herd are at work. They cannot endure an order of rank. Wherever they see a height, they reach for their shovels to make it a plain. They take the noble mystery of Xenia—that sacred, ancient bond of the guest-friend, sealed in the aristocratic pride of distinct powers meeting across a gulf—and they dissolve it. They wash it out with soapy, lukewarm tears. They replace it with Caritas: the love of the lowest, the sickly comfort of the mob, the indiscriminate embrace that crawls upon its belly and calls the debasement of all values "redemption."

II

Recall the ancient Greek, that bold navigator of spiritual seas, who understood the Timaeus. Plato did not write for the marketplace. He wrote from a vantage of supreme aristocratic distance. The Demiurge is no egalitarian dispenser of comfort. He looks upon the wandering cause, the ananke, the brute necessity of things, and with sovereign artistic power, he imposes measure. He creates a universe of ranks: gods, demons, men, beasts. There is high and low. There is the noble soul that steers the chariot well, and there are the base metals that sink into the mire.

To the ancient soul, the encounter with the divine or with the stranger was governed by Xenia. It was a tense, beautiful relation between unequals or distinct peers who met with clear eyes. Zeus is the guardian of strangers, yes—but not to make them equal to the host! The stranger brings news from another realm. He is tested; he is measured; he commands respect through his bearing, or he is kept at the threshold. There is a magnificent distance preserved. The host gives of his best, not out of a whining duty to the weak, but from the overflowing cup of his own strength, his own superabundance. Xenia is the virtue of the master who says: "I am myself, and you are yourself, and in this space we honor the boundary that separates us."

III

But the democratic virus entered the bloodstream of the West. It began with the moral revaluation of weakness. The slave revolt in morals took the high, proud sky of the ancients and covered it with the grey ash of ressentiment. And how does this manifest in the fate of our cosmic philosophy? The Demiurge is dethroned. The austere, calculating artist of the intelligible forms is replaced by a democratic administrator of universal salvation.

The transition from Xenia to Caritas is the history of this spiritual descent. Caritas—Christian charity, transformed later into the secularized, whining humanitarianism of the shopkeeper and the socialist—cannot bear the aristocratic chill of the stars. It hates distance. Distance is the very definition of injustice to the plebeian eye. Caritas crawls into the mud and declares that because all men suffer, all men are equal before the cosmic pity-desk.

In this new democratic Timaeus, the cosmos is no longer an art-work, a hierarchy of value fashioned by a divine aristocrat. It is a nursery. The stars are no longer glorious, living intelligences moving in their majestic, unalterable orbits; they are nightlights for the feeble-minded. The Demiurge becomes a cosmic social worker, dispensing grace without distinction, weeping over the botched material, apologizing for the necessity of suffering, and promising that the last shall be first. What a grotesque inversion! To make the cosmos into a hospital where the nurse is God and the patients are the legislators of reality.

IV

Consider the psychological cowardice at the bottom of this transformation. To practice Xenia, one must be strong. One must possess a house, a hearth, and a surplus of soul. One must have the courage to look a stranger in the eye and say: "We do not merge; we stand apart, and thus we greet."

Caritas, on the other hand, is the weapon of the impotent. By demanding that the cosmos be democratized—that the structure of reality itself be reshaped to guarantee comfort, safety, and equality to the least capable—man confesses his profound fatigue. He is tired of the tragic tension of existence. He is tired of the fact that nature is aristocratic, cruel, selective, and deaf to the ballot. He wants a universe that mirrors his own internal democracy, which is to say, a committee of mediocrities where no one is master and no one is slave, because everyone has been reduced to a cipher.

They have democratized the soul, too. The tripartite soul of Plato—where reason rules, spiritedness defends, and appetite obeys—is mocked by the moderns. They wish to give the stomach an equal vote with the head. They wish to declare that the chaotic, reactive drives of the herd possess the same cognitive authority as the rare, solitary ascent of the philosopher toward the Good. And so they read the Timaeus backward. They find in it a premonition of their own flat, mechanical universe, where every atom is equal, every force is standardized, and the mystery of creation is explained away as a process of egalitarian accumulation.

V

I look into the future and I see the culmination of this petty process. The last man has arrived, and he carries a pocket-sized Timaeus translated into the language of the newspaper. He speaks of "cosmic rights." He imagines that the planets revolve out of a sense of mutual solidarity. He dreams of a universal brotherhood of molecules, where the supernova apologizes to the dust for disturbing its peace.

O you fools! Do you not know that every elevation of man has been achieved through the opposite of democratization? Through the cultivation of exceptions, through the protection of distance, through the hard, unyielding recognition that life is a well-born aristocrat and a brutal selector? To drag the divine Craftsman into the mud of the voting booth is to kill the gods twice over: first by denying their height, and second by making their creation in the image of the lowest.

Let us spit upon this transition from the proud, distant hospitality of the strong to the sticky, leveling embrace of the pit. Let us tear down the altars where they worship the Caritas of the cosmos. The universe does not love you. The stars do not pity you. The Demiurge did not carve the spheres to make you comfortable. Rise up, or remain in the dust—the cosmos cares not—but do not dare to call your crawl an ascent, and do not dare to drag the high architecture of eternity down to the level of your collective despair.

If you wish to probe further into this descent of values, tell me: shall we dissect how modern science completed the leveling of the cosmos, or shall we turn our gaze toward the tragic psychology of the ancient Greek who first resisted the herd?

"Can I Have my Surplus Salary Now?" asked the author.

Wearing History and Mythology as a Garment - Homer's Monumental Approach vs. Nolan's Critical Approach

 

An Antiquarian's Perspective Follows below:

Elijah Weaver, "Cutting Homer Down to Size: Nolan’s Odyssey"

Sir Christopher Nolan violates the sacred world order of Homer to tell a story about Odysseus violating the moral order of Nolan’s world. Odysseus, and the rest of ancient Achaea, receive a just punishment. They will be exiled and their civilization will be destroyed by the sea peoples. What will the consequences be for Nolan?

Nolan has always concealed abrasively simple moral messages in ostentatiously complex storytelling. It’s his calling card. Interstellar is a mind-being story of relativity, the dilation of time, and interstellar travel, whose final revelation is, alas, that familial love transcends space and time. Inception builds an elaborate architecture of dreams within dreams in order to tell a man that he must release his guilt and return to his children. Even Oppenheimer reduces the nuclear age and its cosmic significance to the psychological torment of the great, but troubled, man who fears his brilliance has destroyed the world. HIs method has always remained the same. It only feels offensive when he applies it to millennia-old foundational story that has never had an easy or digestible moral. Homer’s Odyssey detonated across the imaginative world twenty-five centuries ago, scattering its many-wiled meanings through everything that followed. Nolan has forced them back into a single atom: neat, simple, and insignificant.

The story that spawned a civilization introduced a sacred landscape that has always felt foreign to modern sensibilities. Indeed, it is the very strangeness of the world Homer remembers in his Odyssey that makes it such a compelling and enduring story across time. It calls us out of our familiar and ossified obligations to something higher, while challenging our notions of what we claim is higher against those the ancients held.

The Achaeans of Odysseus’s time are forced to navigate a complex web of sacred obligations and divine responsibilities. Homer’s Greeks are no strangers to the vast horizon of possibilities that limit and lay claim on their lives. Their cultural landscape mirrored their geographical landscape—islands in an endless sea upon which they relied for everything and which created limits to their action. In both the Odyssey and Iliad, we discover five structures of obligation, identity, and heroic action. Hospitality (xenia) is the reciprocal obligation between host and guest. The host provides food and shelter for the stranger before inquiring into his intentions. The stranger is expected to receive the hospitality freely. The household (oikos) was a place of hierarchical order and obligation. Every member had their place, and each place had imbedded in it longitudinal and latitudinal obligations. While men in the Iliad rarely act according to reason, man is becoming self-conscious of his capacity for wisdom, cunning, and intelligence (mētis) by the time of the Odyssey. In a word, he is awakening to his reason, and how he can use it to order, manipulate, and strategize. In possessing reason, he balances the tension between responsible action for and deceptive action against the other agents acting in the world—gods, men, and nature. While more prominent in Iliad, honor (timē) is what men desire above all. It is the public recognition of his worth by other men, expressed materially through prizes, rank, precedence, gifts, and deference. It is what he aims to possess within the living social order. Because timē must be conferred by the community, it can also be taken away. Finally, glory (kleos) is what circulates through speech: literally, what is heard about someone. It is reputation preserved in story and song, especially after death. If honor belongs chiefly to one’s standing among the living; glory belongs to cultural memory.

This is no simple world. Especially to modern eyes and ears, the world of Homer should feel disorienting and contradictory. In a world of monsters, hidden islands, and gods that appear in disguise, we ought to pause and give more credence to the foreign cultural landscape tied up within it.

When Nolan gets ahold of the Odyssey, he wipes the slate clean. Rather than offering a window into another world from which we might learn and be challenged, he imposes his world onto Homer’s, thereby erasing what makes the Odyssey so enduring and convicting in the first place. Besides xenia, all of the values of Homer’s world are dependent on hierarchy—obliging them requires the elevation of oneself or some to the exclusion or diminishment of others. In today’s liberal, egalitarian climate, it is only xenia that belongs, and a neutered form at that.

To make the movie he wants to make, Nolan is forced to borrow extensively from the Aeneid, where the story of the Trojan Horse is told in full. (It is only briefly mentioned in the Odyssey.) Through an Odyssean sleight of hand, however, Nolan’s use of the Aeneid plays a more pivotal role in establishing the foundational motif of his film. In the Aeneid, the Greeks are the aggressors. The hero is the one aggressed—the Trojan—who is a surviving victim of the cunning and dominance of the Greeks. This is the real trojan horse of Nolan’s movie: insofar as we are meant to identify with the Greeks, our ancient forebears, we are viewed not through Homer’s eyes, but through Virgil’s. We are not conquerors, heroes, and upkeepers of sacred order; we are aggressors, oppressors, and guilty parties.

Homer’s Odysseus is a many-wiled, cunning man, who holds his many sacred responsibilities and heroic possibilities together against the raging sea of life. Virgil’s Odysseus, further metastasized through Nolan’s Christian lens, is a simple man, wrestling with and succumbing to the guilt of his original transgression. In Nolan’s film, we are no longer dealing with a hero pursuing restoration of the sacred order—cosmic, political, and household. We are watching a guilty man willingly drag himself through mud until he has paid his debts. And as we will see, that is still not enough.

In Homer’s Odyssey, the story starts in media res, and we learn that Odysseus has offended Poseidon, the god of nature. Coming upon the island of the cyclops, Odysseus and his men encounter Polyphemus, who has long since absconded from Zeus’s law of xenia. The complexity of conflicting obligations and expectations in this encounter provides for an ambiguous and nuanced read. What obligations extend to the guest when the law of xenia is violated by the host? There is no easy answer. And Homer doesn’t provide one for us. Odysseus uses his cunning to blind the cyclops and escape. This alone, while messy, is not cause for Poseidon’s anger. It is only when Odysseus boasts to Polyphemus about having blinded him that Odysseus clearly violates a sacred limit. Desiring kleos, he taunts the son of Poseidon, symbolically extending human action beyond its bounds. Even the beast who resides outside of civilization has a place within the cosmic order. Odysseus is a man learning his limits, and he is punished by Poseidon for overextending himself. Hence, the divine obstruction of his journey.

While Nolan reshapes Odysseus’s wanderings as subconscious refusal to return home due to psychological guilt for “tricking” the Trojans, Homer expresses a much deeper truth about what it means to be human in a world of various obligations. Man has limits to his action, and violating those limits has consequences, the source of which need not always be easily defined. Ironically, Nolan creates a world in his own contemporary vision, void of a cosmic order of competing obligations. Nolan’s Odysseus is a post-Augustinian man, who has turned inward, collapsing the external, hierarchical, and divine order, into an architecture of the self, where man’s only responsibility is liberation from guilt. His punishment is not from god or nature, it is from himself, from the nagging voice within that indicts him for injustice and pain he might have caused to another person. This is not a bad motif, but it is a conspicuously modern one that throws Homer’s complex world of hierarchical obligation to the wind in favor of a secularized and digestible therapeutic Christianity. As far as honoring the sacred landscape of Homer’s story, Nolan has egregiously overstepped.

Nolan elects to push the external trials Odysseus faces into the periphery to highlight instead how his trickery at Troy will have civilizational consequences. To not see the political undertones at which Nolan is hinting at this point would be obtuse.

One gets the idea in the book that Odysseus’s men are expendable. They are mostly nameless, and they incrementally drop like flies at each trial he endures. Nolan deals with them similarly. But now uses them as minor-scale representation and foreshadowing of what will soon happen to the entire Achaean civilization because of Odysseus’s original sin. We live in a society, and when one man violates another, as Odysseus does the Trojans, society will pay the consequences. Our actions are repeated by those who see them. And when Odysseus finally realizes the wrong he did, it is too late. His men, now, are mirroring their master, tearing down the sacred walls he already broke.

Some scholars have surmised that the Bronze Age civilization collapsed in 1150 BC from the invasion of sea peoples. Who these people were, no one is sure. But it is one among a few serious explanations as to how so many civilizations might have all seemingly disappeared around the same time. Nolan shamelessly integrates this theory into his story, suggesting that one man’s violation of xenia, followed by the inevitable imitation of that violation by society, spelled the end of civilization. If you cannot follow the law of xenia, civilization will not survive. What Nolan fails to consider is that the trojan horse is an act of wartime deception, not clearly a counterfeit act of hospitality. To suggest that the trojan horse violates the law of xenia relies on an interpretation, that while fair, changes the trajectory and meaning of the entire story.

For Homer, the consequence of Odysseus’s violation of cosmic order is heroic restoration. Finally returning home, he recognizes his limits as a human being and puts his house in order. This is no easy task. It requires severe bloodshed and struggle. In a word, homecoming is heroic. And it requires violent restoration without a neat resolve. At the end of Homer’s Odyssey, more suitors are on their way before Athena steps in. It ends on a cliffhanger, emphasizing the never-ending struggle for balance and restoration in a world that demands so much from man. Not so much with Nolan’s Odysseus, where homecoming is also the confession of guilt and the self-imposed renunciation and exile that necessarily follows. Odysseus cannot ultimately be king because he is guilty. He must instead sail into anonymity and exile, while others, in this case his son, take the throne.

Nolan brilliantly transformed a heroic story about the limits of human action in a complicated civilizational and cosmic order of obligation into a parable of inherited guilt and permanent moral disqualification. It is a pessimistic story for a pessimistic and self-defeating people who inhabit a moral landscape of guilt-ridden offenses to the “other”. Even the dialogue, favoring a casual and wholly modern dialect instead of the heroic and elevated, is a reflection of the milieu we now inhabit. It is a cynical world, where even language might be offensive, insofar as it indicates hierarchical value and judgment. Perhaps, when all is said and done, it is not the movie we wanted, but the movie we deserve. As a people who have discarded the transcendent order with hierarchical degrees of value and obligation for the inane and flattened world of egalitarian democracy, where offense is the greatest transgression, it is no surprise we must justify our worldview by imposing it onto the stories that apparently built our civilization.

I asked at the beginning what the consequences for Nolan will be. And the answer is simple: praise and applause. He has done exactly what the contemporary liberal order has been doing for the last quarter century: indicting the powerful for taking advantage of the oppressed. What has for centuries been an ancient challenge to our modern suppositions has finally been changed into an ancient reiteration of our modern perspective.

Nolan, after all, might not be so dissimilar from Odysseus, having overreached the limits of his creative license and violating what for millennia has been a check on our own limited, modern assumptions. Homer called that Hubris. We call it heroism.