I have become progressively disenchanted with, indeed actively opposed to, politics. More and more, I see it as a disease that has grown to take over not only the "body politic" but also the individual mind and soul. My enemy is the assertion that "the personal is the political", and that there is no domain of life outside of politics - not art or music, not love or friendship, not philosophy or religion - nothing. This idea emerged in the radical Marxist-feminist movement of the late 1960s, and was given canonical expression in an essay by Carol Hanisch.
Consider this paragraph:
So the reason I participate in these meetings is not to solve any personal problem. One of the first things we discover in these groups is that personal problems are political problems. There are no personal solutions at this time. There is only collective action for a collective solution. I went, and I continue to go to these meetings because I have gotten a political understanding which all my reading, all my "political discussions," all my "political action," all my four-odd years in the movement never gave me. I've been forced to take off the rose colored glasses and face the awful truth about how grim my life really is as a woman. I am getting a gut understanding of everything as opposed to the esoteric, intellectual understandings and noblesse oblige feelings I had in "other people's" struggles.
Life is grim, and the only solution is collective action! That is my enemy, and the enemy of all joyful wisdom.
I'm thinking about writing a book entitled Politics is a Disease.
Here is a relevant quote from Beyond Good and Evil (Section 251) by Friedrich Nietzsche:
If a people is suffering and wants to suffer from nationalistic nervous fever and political ambition, it must be expected that all sorts of clouds and disturbances - in short, little attacks of stupidity - will pass over its spirit into the bargain: among present-day Germans, for example, now the anti-French stupidity, now the anti-Jewish, now the anti-Polish, now the Christian-romantic, now the Wagnerian, now the Teutonic, now the Prussian (just look at those miserable historians, those Sybels and Treitschkes, with their thickly bandaged heads —), and whatever else these little obfuscations of the German spirit and conscience may be called. May it be forgiven me that I too, during a daring brief sojourn in a highly infected area, did not remain wholly free of the disease and began, like the rest of the world, to entertain ideas about things that were none of my business: first symptom of the political infection.
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