Review: Infinite Resignation by Eugene Thacker

This review was written for Maximum Rocknroll shortly before they ended their print edition and stopped publishing book reviews entirely.

“At first I had planned to write a book about pessimism, a clearly written, judiciously researched history, with names and dates and titles of obscure books few have bothered to read. But it seemed so tedious, and not worth the effort. Not that this is better, of course.” This confession comes near the end of “On Pessimism,” the 240-page first section of Eugene Thacker’s Infinite Resignation, and despite his wry effacement, the book’s ultimate form paints a far more compelling portrait of pessimism than any rigorous history could. Divided into two sections, Infinite Resignation comprises “On Pessimism” — a deluge of aphorisms, observations, personal anecdotes, and poetic musings that add up to a monumental, idiosyncratic meditation on pessimism — and “The Patron Saints of Pessimism,” a hagiography of the key pessimist thinkers referenced in the first section, from Cioran to Montaigne to Schopenhauer.

Infinite Resignation isn’t a treatise, systematic analysis, or argument. Like many of his pessimist forebears, Thacker holds both philosophy and literature at arm’s length, drawing from each in equal measure, and never fully crossing the line into either. In exploring Giacomo Leopardi’s opus Zibaldone, Thacker describes “a massive, heterogenous treasure-trove of aphorisms, diary entries, essays in miniature, observations and meditations, literary criticism, anecdotes, parables, quotations from other poets, and stray fragments of popular songs,” and this could just as easily describe Infinite Resignation itself — a surprisingly enjoyable maelstrom of philosophical melancholy, pitch-black humor, and evocative lyricism.

In the same way that punk took up the three-chord, two-minute song as its primary invective, pessimistic writing takes the aphorism. The aphorism denies any attempt at argument, intent on hurling pithy truism, as Cioran writes, “like an insult.” Short, focused, and often poison-tipped, the aphorism doesn’t stick around while its target formulates a counterpoint; it gets in, does its damage, and runs. Like Nietzsche or Schopenhauer, Thacker uses the aphorism to great effect, each pared-down passage a stiletto slipped between the ribs. The text of “On Pessimism” continually makes an argument for its own form, returning several times to the idea that writers don’t finish books so much as walk away from them. For the pessimist, completion and fulfillment are myths; the aphorism may be meticulously sharpened, but its brevity allows the writer to quickly abandon it.

Its purely subjective nature makes writing about Infinite Resignation’s form far easier than explicating its content. Thacker characterizes pessimism as less a philosophy than an attitude, approach, or — most evocatively — a bad mood. It comes before analysis, before theory, before philosophy. Thacker opens the book with nearly 20 pages of reasons why pessimism is an unhelpful, philosophically dubious outlook, doomed to crumble under its own weight. But that ultimate failure is hard-coded into pessimism from the start, even for its champions. “I am a pessimist,” Thacker admits, “except when writing about pessimism.” How could an outlook founded on inevitable failure ever hope to declare any kind of victory?

Thacker has written about black metal in past works — in particular his 2011 exploration of philosophy and supernatural horror, In the Dust of this Planet — and at points the startling vehemence of “On Pessimism” recalls the manifestos written by infamous black metal musicians like Ildjarn and Varg Vikernes. But where those stunted screeds devolve into self-aggrandizement and nationalist bigotry, Thacker refines his misanthropy into a sustained sigh, a sort of seething disappointment. And in “The Patron Saints of Pessimism,” he carefully recognizes the exclusivity of his failed pantheon, its figures “often enmeshed in the very sites of privilege that they either refuse or fail to live up to.” In the same paragraph he suggests a sort of intersectional pessimism; “pessimism belongs to everyone,” he writes, “simply by virtue of undergoing the burden of being.” Thacker’s pessimism operates on a cosmic scale, viewing the entirety of human history as a miniscule aberration; in this context, cultural differences mean less than nothing.

As much as I liked Infinite Resignation, it wasn’t an easy read: a book-length meditation on the futility of life, the inevitability of death, and the meaninglessness of both pairs miserably with seasonal depression. But there’s something comforting about wallowing with Thacker in his melancholic rumination, feeling what he describes as “an ecstasy of the worst.” Even at its darkest nadir, Infinite Resignation never takes us beyond familiarity; we’ve all felt this way before, and not for the last time. “I’ve managed to make pessimism a form of therapy,” Thacker writes, and I get it. Sometimes it’s good to feel bad.

Repeater Books: repeaterbooks.com; 19-21 Cecil Court, London, WC2N4EZ, UK.