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“25 ans de bagne à un homme qui
aurait tué sa femme par amour,” La Presse. October 1, 1980. Page H-9.

LEOPOLD LUZOTTE

Claude Langlais, 43 ans, un
résidant de la rue Saint-Hubert
qui n’aurait pas réussi à
accepter que son épouse se sépare
légalement et définitivement
de lui, a été condamné au pénitencier
à vie, hier, pour son assassinat.

Apres une journée et demie de
délibérations, les jurés sous la
précidence du juge Benjamin
Greenberg, ont en effet trouvé le
prévenu coupable de meurtre au
premier degré. 

Dans un tel cas, on le sait, il
n’y a pas de recommandation
possible à la clémence, la sentence
de la cour est tout simplement
obligatoire. Et cela veut
dire surtout que Langlais ne
pourra être libéré de façon conditionnelle
sans avoir purgé
vingt-cinq années complètes de
bagne.

C’est dans un état apparent de
torpeur que le prévenu, dont les
psychiatres avaient décortiqué
le passé en appliquant, chacun
de leur côté, des théories adverses,
a encaissé et le verdict et la
condamnation du tribunal, pendant
qu’une parente brisait le
silence de la cour par ses sanglots. 

C’est dans la matinée du 16
novembre dernier que l’accusé
avait tout d’abord tiré quatre
coups de feu dans la direction de
son épouse, pour ensuite lui asséner
neuf coups de couteau dont
deux devaient être mortels. 

La jeune femme, une coiffeuse,
avait alors fui vers l’extérieur, il l’y avait pourchassée, et
la victime avait finalement pu
monter, toute ensanglantée,
dans la voiture d’un bon samaritain
évidemment fort surpris de
la voir dans cet état.

Il l’avait tout d’abord conduite
dans un petit hôpital chinois du
voisinage, où l’on n’était pas
«outillé» pour la secourir, et elle
avait succombé à ses blessures
alors qu’on la transportait en
ambulance à Jean-Talon.

En route, elle avait toutefois
eu le temps de confier, à celui
qui l’avait recueillie, puis aux
policiers-ambulanciers, que c’était
son mari qui venait de lui
«faire ça». 

Et, fort dramatiquement, ces
quelques paroles prononcées peu
avant son décès avaient été acceptées
par le tribunal comme
preuve contre le prévenu.

Au cours de la «bataille de
psychiatres» qui avait marqué
les dernières journées de l’instruction,
celui qui avait témoigné
en laveur de Langlais avait
été catégorique.

«Cet homme, avait-il dit, n’a
pas tué par haine. Mais par
amour. Celui qu’il vouait toujours
à celle qui voulait le quitter
pour toujours».

=====

“Donald Côté exempté d’être en cour,”

La Presse. October 1, 1980. Page H-9.

LEOPOLD LUZOTTE

Alors que la plupart des
détenus abhorrent Parvenais et seraient prêts à faire
beaucoup de choses pour en sortir,
Donald Côté, lui, semble vouloir
faire grande exception. 

Et pour éviter d’aggraver ses
maladies, il a même obtenu du
juge Jean-Paul Dansereau, hier,
d’être exempté de se présenter à
son propre procès pour possession
de cocaïne, procès qui doit
durer encore plusieurs semaines,
selon les prévisions les plus
optimistes. 

Son avocat. Me Léo-Ren é
Maranda, a expliqué à la cour
que le principal problème de son
client, en était un d’alimentation…
froide. 

Chaque jour qu’il doit se présenter
au Palais de Justice, il
doit se nourrir comme tous les
autres accusés, le midi, de sandwiches. 

Ce qui pourrait quand même
passer, s’il n’était atteint entre
autre choses, d’ulcères à l’estomac.
Cette façon de s’alimenter,
au milieu de la journée, serait
donc contre-indiquée. 

Pour une fois, le procureur de
la poursuite, Me. Michel Viens a
été pleinement d’accord avec
celui du prévenu. Il n’a pas émis
d’objection à ce que l’accusé
s’absente de la cour pour toutes
les séances qu’il voudra. 

La tâche du tribunal en fut
d’autant facilitée.

Le juge a donc accédé à la
requête de Côté, qui a donné luimême
son consentement formel
à cette façon de procéder.

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“One defence for all this Sadean excess might be the same one a couple of late-20th-century philosophers advanced with respect to de Sade himself: not that he was a nice person (since he very clearly wasn’t) but that his fantasy, by manifesting the oppressive logic concealed in all sexual interchanges under patriarchy, can be recruited to revolutionary ends.

In The Sadean Woman (1978) Angela Carter argued that de Sade was ‘a terrorist of the imagination’ whose works ‘turn the unacknowledged truths of the encounters of sexuality into a cruel festival at which women are prime sacrificial victims’ (‘the pornographer as terrorist may not think of himself as a friend of women…but he will always be our unconscious ally because he begins to approach some kind of emblematic truth, whereas the lackey pornographer, like the devious fellows who write love stories for women’s magazines, that softest of all forms of pornography, can only do harm’). For Carter de Sade functions as a sort of way-station on the road from oppressive-repressive sex to a more inclusively pornotopian vision of ‘a world of absolute sexual licence for all the genders’. Not everyone was convinced: Andrea Dworkin threw shade on Carter’s book by calling it merely ‘pseudofeminist’. For Dworkin, Sade’s rape fantasy was all about the rape and not even a fantasy, because for her there is nothing hidden or, as it were, aspirational about male rape. It’s all front and centre all around us all the time; it’s written in letters of fire on the forehead of the patriarchy.

A more nuanced defence of de Sade is Simone de Beauvoir’s ‘Must We Burn Sade?’ (1952), which argues that de Sade ‘posed the problem of the Other in its most extreme terms’. Beauvoir has interesting speculations about the extent to which cruelty establishes the relationship between the self and the other (‘cruelty reveals us to each other in the particularities and ambiguities of our conscious and fleshed existence. The tyrant and victim are a genuine couple. They are united by the bonds of the flesh and freedom’). She does concede that de Sade fails to work through this dynamic, becoming snared in his own erotic self-absorption and moral myopia, but refuses to give up on, or censor (‘burn’) him. I’m not so sure.

And actually, to be quite frank, I could care less about de Sade, who has always struck me as plain dull (other people’s monomaniacal obsessions are almost always boring, of course). But I am interested in, and I do care about, the Sadean turn in modern culture. Because although I take the force of Beauvoir’s attempt to renovate his reputation as a radical thinker of Otherness, the fact remains that his mode of fantasy is of an interaction with the Other that cannot comprehend the Other as anything other than a reversion of the subject’s erotically intensified cruelty of affect. It’s not that de Beauvoir is wrong to suggest that ‘Sade is trying to communicate an experience whose distinguishing characteristic is, nevertheless its will to remain incommunicable’; it’s just that his incommunicable is never God—the least compelling and most adolescent elements in de Sade’s writing is his febrile fist-shaking at God—and always only the Other as projection. It’s not even, really, that de Sade hates women; you can’t really hate something that barely impinges on your egoism. De Sade desires to do certain things to, never with, women (and men) but de Sade cannot comprehend women and men, and so not only his erotic energy but his whole universe reverts into an close-walled existential echo-chamber. His works are masturbatory not just in the instrumental sense that they have been used as handbooks for that harmless human activity, though I’m sure they have, but in the formal sense that they construe an aggressively hostile withdrawal from the Other as such.

That’s the worrying aspect of the modern Sadean Fantasy. De Beauvoir is quite right to identify something cruel about the Other, or more specifically something cruel about the ethical and practical demands the Other necessarily places upon us, whether we like it or not. The pain of the other—the weeping child torn from her mother and placed in a camp, say—cannot make allowances for your convenience or ease. But de Beauvoir is not suggesting that cruelty is the whole theatre in which our encounter with the Other takes place. Grimdark, in effect, is suggesting that. This, it seems to me, doesn’t critique the contemporary political turn to the right so much as translate it into the representational logic of fantastika. The one thing that unites today’s Brexit agitators, and Trumps, and Viktor Orbáns, the basic Brexitrumpbán premise, is that the world is dark and full of horrors, and that the polity must pull up the drawbridge and arm the cannons in the face of these things. Hobbes is very much back in fashion nowadays. And TV SFF, the Game of Thrones and Westworld and True Blood and Altered Carbon vibe (something also true of recent rape-and-sandals hit epics like Spartacus and Rome) embroiders a fundamentally Sadean-Hobbesian world: nasty, brutish and sure-to-include-female-nudity.”

– Adam Roberts,

Some Thoughts on Fantasy and Violence.” A Mechanical Art. June 21, 2018.                                                                                        

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“…The thing to bear in mind is: the fact that physical violence is simpler to represent visually than other kinds of violence doesn’t make physical violence the truth of violence as such, especially in the 21st-century world. I’m not of course denying that actual physical violence happens in the world: not denying that men beat women, that people injure and kill people. But I am suggesting that, outside actual warzones, other forms of violence are more pervasive and intrusive. A punch to the gut hurts for a while; growing up female, or gay, or Black in a sexist, homophobic and racist society presses violently upon your very soul the whole time. Some rape involves the sort of additional physical violence that leaves bruises on the skin or bones broken. Most rape does not do this. But only a fool would suggest that a rape victim who emerges from the trauma without bruises and broken bones has not suffered. On the contrary, such a person is likely as badly, or even more severely, traumatised by the experience because the violence of rape is not essentially the violence of broken bones but of broken spirits: domination, violation of personal space, invasion of personal integrity, degradation and breaking of peace of mind.

To the extent visible, somatic modes of violence come to stand-in, as a representational convention, for the larger and more malign trauma of internalised, systemic and invisible violence, they run the risk of actually supplanting violence as such in the popular imagination—so as it might be, people end up making the (false) distinction between ‘rape’ and ‘real rape’, reserving the latter category for instances where physical violence has been added to the fundamental violence of the traumatising invasiveness of the act as such. Sometime post-facto justifications are added to this prejudice, such that bruises show a victim ‘fought back’ or ‘resisted’, a datum treated as justifying our compassion as the expensive of implying that a victim who does not garner such addition, visible markers of violence somehow doesn’t deserve our pity. Germaine Greer’s recently comments about the need to reform our rape laws were vehemently criticized by many. It seems to me, for what it’s worth, that her actual proposals have something to recommend them (‘rape trials are foundering and not ending in convictions as lawyers argue over the issue of consent; why not believe the woman and lower the penalty?’) but I wonder if there is a one-dimensionality in the way she uses the term violence: so that when she says ‘most rapes don’t involve any injury whatsoever’ she is consicously or unconciously conflating externally-evident physical injury (where her statement is probably true) with internal less-evident injury (where her statement is, clearly, simply wrong).

It all speaks to what is, I think, a widespread belief that physical violence is more ‘real’ (more important, more terrible, more worthy of representation) than psychological or conceptual violence. This, though, is the wrong way about. Physical violence is horrible, but psychological violence tends to be both more profoundly traumatising and longer-lasting. A gunshot wound may heal in weeks, where PTSDs last years, even decades. The domestic goods stolen by a burglar can be replaced on the insurance, but the sense that a malign stranger has been in your house lingers, and makes you feel unsafe and unhappy for a long time. That’s a psychological reaction (though no less devastating for that), but I wonder if it is conceptual violence—by which I mean, whatever does violence to the principles, assumptions and mental models by which we navigate this complicating and alarming universe—that is the most radically destabilising.

In either case, there is a bias against the invisible. It’s not true that bodily illness is more real than psychological illness, or that conceptual violence is a mere chimera.  It’s just that people’s responses are more easily recruited by the somatic. Trans activists I know tend to stress the physical dangers trans men and women often face: the risks of being actually beaten-up and murdered. Those risks are real, and undeniably higher for trans people than the general population, and that is not something to brush under the carpet. But might it not be that the conceptual violence people endure when their sense of self is denied by the communities to which they belong is, because it is continual, vastly more pervasive, and internalised in ways that are psychologically violating, more significant? I’ve always thought ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me’ is exactly the wrong way around. It is terrible to be beaten-up for being gay, but being beaten up will send you to the hospital for a poultice, where decades of verbal taunts, societal invalidation, disdain and rejection can send you to suicide. It’s not that sticks and stones won’t break your bones; it’s that it’s the stuff that gets inside your head that kills you.

Nor is this state of affairs ideologically neutral. Indeed, I’d suggest it is on the contrary precisely how ideology as such works. There may be a temptation to think of ideology as a sort of add-on, in some sense less importat than the brute existential facts of living, finding food and shelter and all that. But, again, I think this gets things the wrong way about. ‘Ideology’ is a shorthand term for those structures of belief, those attitudes to mind and habits of living, by which we orient ourselves in our social world. These beliefs can sustain us, and motivate us to acts of great kindness or courage; but they can also prompt us to atrocity, and can even overwhelm such basic biological drives as self-preservation, as the anorexic starves herself to death or the suicide-bomber blows himself up. Given this, something we see all the time around us in small as well as large ways, it strikes me as foolish to treat ‘ideology’ as a kind of afterthought, or as somehow secondary to the biological, somatic fundamentals of life.

I’m not, of course, the first to say so. A lot of Žižek’s oeuvre is more-or-less disposable Extruded Lacanian Product, but I quite like his 2008 book Violence.

Žižek argues that we fixate on ‘subjective violence’ (assault, murder, terror and war) at the expense of other, more important modes of violence: Z. is particularly interested in what he calls ‘objective’ violence (‘the symbolic violence embodied in language and its forms’) and ‘systemic violence’ (the ‘often catastrophic consequences of the functioning of our economic and political systems’). This isn’t quite the distinction I’m trying to make in this post, actually, but Z and I are at least in the same ball-park. So, for instance, despite the professed conviction that it’s actual violence that is the traumatic and destructive kind, Žižek is surely right to note that Western society remains absolutely unruffled by the actual violence of its armies and police forces (in reality and as reflected in our hyper-violent popular culture-texts) whilst at the same time being highly agitated by the merely conceptual violence offered to hetrosexual norms by (say) gays in the military. The people unfazed by the 270 million firearms sloshing around the civilian population of the USA and 30,000+ deaths annually these weapons facilitate—actual violence, by any measure—are often the same people genuinely rattled by the purely conceptual violence offered to the dominant social (ideological) logics of heteronormativity, gender fixity and racial homogeneity by the mere existence of gay, trans and non-white segments of the population.

Now: it ought, I think, to be possible to think and talk about the pervasiveness and damage of conceptual violence without in effect crowding-out the concrete horribleness of actual violence. Women are beaten and murdered around the world in horrifying numbers every day. The thing is: some women are victimised by this kind of crime, but all women live under the conceptual coercion of fear of it—all women have to curtail their freedom of movement and hobble their peace of mind, live existences constrained within the procustean bed of this conceptual space.

That said there is, I think, a correlative here. If we take conceptual violence seriously, then we need to take it seriously across the board. There is, of course, an asymmetry to the way marginalised groups suffer, and the inertia of history and privilege determine a steep gradiant of oppression from privilege downward. But being born into a privileged group is not the same thing as being born wicked. We can certainly say that the pervasive social and cultural pressure telling gay or trans people that they are disgusting, unnatural, shameful and so on enacts a violence upon those people worse, because it is both ubiquitous and liable to be internalised by the victim, than bruised skin and broken bones. But we might also want to ask ourselves: is there anything to learn from people whose atttudes are shaped by conscious or unconscious homophobic or transphobic views? Maybe your answer to this question is: no, these are bad people, worth only our contempt. Most people aren’t bad, though; and cleaving to a different set of life-values is not in itself an index of moral turpitude.

Imagine somebody for whom fixity of gender was one of the conceptual props that helps them navigate the various shoals and whirlpools of everyday life, perhaps as a function of a larger religious faith supporting and maintaining the stability of their life. Lets’s say the performance of gender fluidity by others enacts a degree of conceptual violence upon these assumptions, and makes the person unhappy and upset and unnerved. You may think: good, they deserve it. You may go further (fuck their feelings, this is right-and-wrong and they’re wrong. It’s possible they think the same of you). Maybe that’s justified. But it’s hardly an approach calculated to end hostilities. How might negotiation look, in this particular situation? How to defuse a stand-off in which both sides’ strategies boil down to loud declarations of fuck your feelings? To say ‘their feelings don’t matter, only mine do’ is self-evidently unsatisfactory, even given the asymmetry of the social status quo. My point is, retreating to ‘what I’m doing is not really violence, it’s not as though I’m literally punching them in the face’ also isn’t a load-bearing position in this context. Which backs us, rather, into the situation of believing something along the lines of: ‘though it would be bad if it happened to me, it’s good for them to have their values challenged’. I find this really difficult to process, I’ll be honest. It seems to me ‘it’s good for them, but not me, to be on the receiving end of violence’ both ethically untenable and not a probable position from which a mutually satisfactory compromise could be negotiated. Of course, it may be that neither side is interested in compromise. “

– Adam Roberts,

Some Thoughts on Fantasy and Violence.” A Mechanical Art. June 21, 2018.

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“…Considering that among the ranks of the similarly accused stands the fucking president of the United States of America, it’s hard not to fall into despair. Still, a different outcome could be possible, if we can clarify a few points first. For Harvey Weinstein was more than simply a man operating in a field in which sexual predation is particularly easy. He was a kind of prototypical male predator (right out of central casting, you might say) who was able to methodically sexualize a permanent condition of his work—i.e., being surrounded by actresses, all in fierce competition for his professional attention. Weinstein cynically preyed on the oft-lurid mystique of film-industry success, and ensured that breaking into the industry, if you were a woman who caught his eye, would entail the regular performance of tasks reprehensible to the woman herself.

In addition, Weinstein was a deeply influential purveyor of visual culture—the milieu in which we establish our sense of normalcy, on which we base our own behaviors and relationships, and from which we build our hopes for the future.

There are very few individuals who can be held accountable for crafting what we call “rape culture”—a deliberately vague and sloppy shorthand for the visual, emotional, economic, and material effects of misogyny that seeks to affirm a generalized complicity in the harm done to women—but Harvey Weinstein is one such person. In his case, the haziness of the term “rape culture” is a concise description of what he sought to create: Weinstein selected women to populate his films who submitted to some form of his abusive behavior, seemingly banning those, like Rosanna Arquette, who did not. (When a woman expressly declined consent, usually amid an unmistakable display of outright fear or anger—Weinstein rescinded support of their careers, as he is alleged to have done with Mira Sorvino and Rose McGowan.) The media mogul didn’t restrict himself to on-screen talent, either; production assistants and office staff are now rapidly coming forward to add to the list of accusations.

All this would be egregious enough were it only a labor concern, but the influence of Miramax and the Weinstein Company as media entities must be accounted for, and the cultural products they released reviewed in the context in which they were created. How are we to parse the nuanced gender dynamics of films like Pulp Fiction (1994) and Sex, Lies, and Videotape (1989) now that we know they were brewed in a cauldron of sexualized violence?

The laughable travails of a woman whose boss takes credit for her labor in Working Girl (1988) makes more sense in a industry that granted virtually no serious power to women; the unacknowledgeable intelligence of the sex worker at the heart of Woody Allen’s Mighty Aphrodite (produced by Miramax in 1995) is also, suddenly, explicable (as is the continued ability of Allen to work in the industry). The quirky, magical unicorn girls of Citizen Ruth (1996) and Kevin Smith’s Chasing Amy (1997), while bestowed with a moral or two, never seem to have any significant female relationships—you know, the kind in which women might share concerns about sexual predators. The main character in Smith’s film is, indeed, punished for her past sexual relationships with women; she loses her relationship with a man over them and is generally treated, in the character’s own words, like a “whore.” That the excessively brilliant but ultimately suicidal Dorothy Parker was selected to represent women in comedy in Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle (1994) seems to make more sense now, as do the many, many, many films that emerged from Weinstein’s career that feature no women whatsoever. It’s mind boggling to realize that, with more than sixty women now on the record with sexual harassment allegations against Weinstein—although comparatively few, as of this writing, from the ranks of the most successful of his studios’ stars—it is possible that the man, at some point, just ran out of victims.

But this isn’t a reflection that sits neatly alongside the post-mortem phase of our media scandal complex. After all, Weinstein’s already been discharged from rehab—a week-long program during which he presumably spent many, or at least some, consecutive hours repeating the phrase “no means no” at the prompting of trained counselors, although the exact programs of such facilities are always uncertain. (My own father went through an intensive and renowned alcohol abuse treatment facility popular with the Hollywood drunk set, and in the company of one of the Commodores.) Is a week enough to make good on three decades worth of cynically indulged sexual predation? Does anyone care?

In the meantime, I’m going to pin my hopes on the smaller fish sent up to fry in the immediate aftermath of the Weinstein story. Here I am three years ago in these very virtual pages, reasonably sure in predicting that “Uncle” Terry Richardson, fashion photographer and notorious ween displayer, would continue working high-end glamour mags forever. Happily, I was wrong: Condé Nast publications severed all ties with the predator on Monday, lending real meaning to the throwaway line “better late than never.””

– Anne Elizabeth Moore, “The Never-Ending Story.” The Baffler, October 25, 2017.

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