The Steppenwolf & The Russian Man

I "wolf" you! Inuit Saying

Being in Kazakhstan, and writing as I am of the end of the human, I thought it appropriate to mention Hesse not for the obvious choice of Steppenwolf which of course describes the confusions of a middle-aged man (I am neither middle-aged nor a 'man', nor indeed am I confused), but for a small volume of essays on Dostoevsky (who incidentally spent four years in exile in northern Kazakhstan in Semipalatinsk following four years in a prison in Omsk) called Blick Ins Chaos (In Sight of Chaos) which describes the collapse of belief and downfall of European morals (I am reminded here of the film-maker Carlos Reygadas' comments on Europe as a spiritually void place), and the concurrent arising of what he refers to as the 'Russian Man', an existential monster, post-human in the truest sense, who seeks only for his deluded self, and rejects all forms of thinking. He is a sort of beast divested of his own essence and ethic. 'It is the rejection of every strongly held moral or ethic on favour of a comperehensive laissez-faire', writes Hesse.

At the present moment, it is debatable as to whether the President of Russia, Vladimir Putin, with his war-mongering antics, falls short of this description of the Russian man. But perhaps, more importantly, and what Hesse failed to foresee, is the rise of the American Man (who as we can see, needn't be hemmed in by nationality or borders). The American Man is a global phenomenon, and a toxic one. American Man, loud and brash, crude and inconsiderate, is the role-model of the new generation. He is desirous to a fault, his greed and want know no bounds. He stomps his way across the globe like some mechanical gorilla (the more divided the self, the more noise you make), unable any longer to control his self and his actions. He is marked by his constructiveness-destructiveness, his inability to respond to subtlety, his heavy-handedness in all matters relating to the heart and mind. He has been untethered from every life-giving network and instead has attached himself to artificial and life-destroying mechanisms, to scientism and certainty, to an absence of the sacred, to money and consumption. His most astonishing attribute lies not in his 'monstrous soul-stuff', nor in the fact that he is not awake or even alive in the truest sense (merely a function of proprioceptive sensations), but that he sees himself as an immortal amongst mortals, and as the epitome of civilization and progress. American Man is thus complete in his indoctrination, and his mechanization; he is entire in his dehumanization, and deadness. And this deadness continues to spread like a plague across the cool breath'd earth.

The steppenwolf here in Kazakhstan (Canis lupus lupus, also known as the Eurasian wolf or Russian forest wolf) in its plague too of overpopulation and destruction would appear to be an ideal comparison to the American Man, yet the wolf of the steppe has maintained a strict harmony with its nature in spite of its increasing numbers (caused unsurprisingly by interfering man). Hunting them, here in Kazakhstan, is almost a civic duty; there are more wolves here than in any other country, and the 'damage' they have caused to cattle and livestock (and children) is legendary. Their pelts are used as rugs and their fur for parka trims and coats the world over. Their skins are also worn by Kazakh wrestlers as if to defy theses beasts and show them who's boss. But the Steppenwolf, regardless of Homo poacher, will always be boss over man, wrestler or otherwise. The wolf of the steppe has blood coursing through its veins still, even moreso now than ever because of what man has done to it. The steppenwolf has not divided the self like man (and Hesse's Harry Haller), and confused itself with greed and gluttony and an outsourcing of its own vital energies. It makes no noise. It moves swiftly and quietly. Its howls are there to lament the death of the human (which of course is its own death too). The wolf of the steppe cannot be compared with man, indeed it would be a travesty to do so. Roaming the expansive steppe, following the herds of migrating saiga, the steppenwolf recognizes its purpose and follows it with his whole being. Man, on the contrary, boxes his self in, becomes unhealthy, becomes unholy, deludes and elides the self into thinking it is 'me'; packs it and bubble-wraps it until such a point where he is incapable of feeling anything anymore other than what he is told more often than not through the medium of sensationalism. There is no response. There is no blood coursing through him. There is no howling.

There is no wolf.

Wolf Hunt, 1862, Alexander Schwabe.