2024/02/25 The Last of the Satanic Mills
A couple weeks ago, I was going to a walk around the Attenborough nature reserve near where I live. I found a pleasant looking bench looking over a lake, guarded by trees which acted as a kind of frame around the last coal power plant in Britain. The Ratcliffe power plant can be seen from miles around. I pass it every day on the way to work, since East Midlands Parkway station lies right beside the power station. The six broad steam towers have a strangely fungal quality up close, as if they are vents for a strange grey life-form which preys upon decayed matter. I almost expect the concrete to cartoonishly billow, expanding and contracting, as more steam is pumped out. But alas, soon Ratcliffe power plant will be no more. The date for its closure has been delayed and delayed owing to its utility, but the current plan is to retire the station from service come September.
Romanticism is a strange concept, and fundamentally a nihilistic one. There is no objective Romantic state of being, but rather Romanticism is forever looking backwards - not to a past of ten years ago, like the conservative, but to the past of a hundred, two-hundred, or three-hundred years ago. At root, Romanticism looks back to an age forgotten - an age never experienced - an age whose memory has been passed down and augmented colourfully to a new shade. To the Blakes and Carlyles, it was these very power plants that were the problem. Factories strung up in cities polluting toxic smog, railroads ran steam engines along them dissolving the distinctions of local cultures, and as time progressed power plants became alters in a kind of Jovian Faustian pact to produce electricity. In the 19th century, these were symbols of change. Now they are symbols of the past. Today, what could be more Romantic than riding a steam engine? The Romanticism of the past is different to the Romanticism of the present, because Romanticism isn't tied down to any time; the spirit of Romanticism floats slightly above the ground, struggling to maintain form and colour. The spirit attempts to assuage dissatisfaction with the present, looking to the simplicity and order of the past in contradistinction to the terror and complexity of the present. That isn't to say it is merely a cope, of course - I sympathise very much with the Romantic view - but it does imply a very specific pattern of history.
There are two contrasting views of history: the view of the Progressive and the view of the Romantic, or Reactionary. The Progressive views history as a ladder of improvement; with each technological or theoretical advancement, people live longer, people become healthier, and people become freer. The Progressive view sees the net material comfort, health, and liberty as the success algorithm against which success can be marked. The Reactionary views history, in contrast, as a snake of decay; with every technological advancement, man becomes more comfortable, resulting in a relaxing of moral vigour and successive generations of people weaker in mind and character. The Reactionary sees the quality of the individuals society produces as the success algorithm. The Romantic, sharing in the Reactionary's shame with the present, can't help but feel that the present can't hold a candle to the past. The great irony is that there has been a kind of flip in the narrative. In the 19th century, Romance was in the rolling hills, in the villages, and in mediaevalism; and whilst these are still all attributes of Romanticism today, so too are all the aspects of industrialisation the old Romantics railed against.
The factories, whilst working conditions were often poor, conferred great cohesion within communities. Seeing the desolation of post-industrial British towns today would make anyone yearn for the past. Because it isn't merely desolation, but also dissolution; life in many parts of the UK has become incredibly shabby and depressing, the sun being blotted out by a Great Northern Bongcloud. Nottingham is hardly the worst hit, but walking around you can see the remnants of industry everywhere. Raleigh Bikes, once the largest bicycle manufacturer in the world has become student accommodation. The John Player & Sons cigarette factory has become a retail outlet. And the manufactory side of Boots down the road, where Ibuprofen was discovered, is now on its last legs. There is something Romantic about industry, about factories, and about power plants. There's a sweet scent of a past age - a whiff of more hopeful times.
The last of the Satanic Mills will soon be decommissioned; Ratcliffe power plant will huff its last breath. Is this a great success for the work of the 19th century Romantics who, bringing the environment to the fore, managed to banish these grey beasts? Do Romantics who look hundreds of years to the past take just as many years for their dreams to reach fruition? The first tragedy of the Romantic is he will never see his vision realised; much like St. Hugh, he'll never see the finished cathedral. The second tragedy is that Romantics of the future will see the fruits of your thoughts and wish you hadn't done a thing.
Romanticism is a strange concept, and fundamentally a nihilistic one. There is no objective Romantic state of being, but rather Romanticism is forever looking backwards - not to a past of ten years ago, like the conservative, but to the past of a hundred, two-hundred, or three-hundred years ago. At root, Romanticism looks back to an age forgotten - an age never experienced - an age whose memory has been passed down and augmented colourfully to a new shade. To the Blakes and Carlyles, it was these very power plants that were the problem. Factories strung up in cities polluting toxic smog, railroads ran steam engines along them dissolving the distinctions of local cultures, and as time progressed power plants became alters in a kind of Jovian Faustian pact to produce electricity. In the 19th century, these were symbols of change. Now they are symbols of the past. Today, what could be more Romantic than riding a steam engine? The Romanticism of the past is different to the Romanticism of the present, because Romanticism isn't tied down to any time; the spirit of Romanticism floats slightly above the ground, struggling to maintain form and colour. The spirit attempts to assuage dissatisfaction with the present, looking to the simplicity and order of the past in contradistinction to the terror and complexity of the present. That isn't to say it is merely a cope, of course - I sympathise very much with the Romantic view - but it does imply a very specific pattern of history.
There are two contrasting views of history: the view of the Progressive and the view of the Romantic, or Reactionary. The Progressive views history as a ladder of improvement; with each technological or theoretical advancement, people live longer, people become healthier, and people become freer. The Progressive view sees the net material comfort, health, and liberty as the success algorithm against which success can be marked. The Reactionary views history, in contrast, as a snake of decay; with every technological advancement, man becomes more comfortable, resulting in a relaxing of moral vigour and successive generations of people weaker in mind and character. The Reactionary sees the quality of the individuals society produces as the success algorithm. The Romantic, sharing in the Reactionary's shame with the present, can't help but feel that the present can't hold a candle to the past. The great irony is that there has been a kind of flip in the narrative. In the 19th century, Romance was in the rolling hills, in the villages, and in mediaevalism; and whilst these are still all attributes of Romanticism today, so too are all the aspects of industrialisation the old Romantics railed against.
The factories, whilst working conditions were often poor, conferred great cohesion within communities. Seeing the desolation of post-industrial British towns today would make anyone yearn for the past. Because it isn't merely desolation, but also dissolution; life in many parts of the UK has become incredibly shabby and depressing, the sun being blotted out by a Great Northern Bongcloud. Nottingham is hardly the worst hit, but walking around you can see the remnants of industry everywhere. Raleigh Bikes, once the largest bicycle manufacturer in the world has become student accommodation. The John Player & Sons cigarette factory has become a retail outlet. And the manufactory side of Boots down the road, where Ibuprofen was discovered, is now on its last legs. There is something Romantic about industry, about factories, and about power plants. There's a sweet scent of a past age - a whiff of more hopeful times.
The last of the Satanic Mills will soon be decommissioned; Ratcliffe power plant will huff its last breath. Is this a great success for the work of the 19th century Romantics who, bringing the environment to the fore, managed to banish these grey beasts? Do Romantics who look hundreds of years to the past take just as many years for their dreams to reach fruition? The first tragedy of the Romantic is he will never see his vision realised; much like St. Hugh, he'll never see the finished cathedral. The second tragedy is that Romantics of the future will see the fruits of your thoughts and wish you hadn't done a thing.