In The Case Against the Sexual Revolution (2022), feminist author Louise Perry uses a phrase which captures one of the governing spirits of our age: ‘chronological snobbery’. Coined by C.S. Lewis, this term refers to the human tendency to uncritically accept the cultural and intellectual trends of the present, whilst rejecting as ‘outdated’ anything which came before some arbitrary cut-off point.
In essence, this is the ethos of the rebellious teenager run amok: a fiery urge to cast off the stifling rules and mores of the fuddy-duddy elders. This powerful, almost primordial force is a common feature of adolescence, as indeed it should be. Rebellion against authority is a healthy part of our ungainly slouch towards adulthood, provided this Life of Brian-esque chorus of ‘I am an individual’ is artfully managed by society.
In our world of hyper-progressivism and Enlightenment zeal, however, the doctrine of ‘scrap the Old to make way for the New’ has extended itself into the very DNA of the culture. So much so that the West, unique amongst the civilisations of the world, has now locked itself into a state of almost perma-rebellion against its own past – with the toppling of statues, the rewriting of classic books, and the desecration of art by activists being just a few extreme examples.
There are many possible reasons for this shift: the decline of traditional religious institutions, the ontological domination of science, the chaos and disruption wrought by technology. The key culprit, however, seems to be the modern idea of progress; which conceptualises history as one long march towards a better, fairer, more equitable world. Whilst it is admitted that progress can be uneven and lurching in places, this view posits that the continual improvement of every social, political, economic, and cultural settlement we have is as iron-clad a reality as death and taxes.
It’s easy to see how such a belief could lead to the past being derided as at best a stumbling first attempt, and at worst a societal straitjacket which keeps us locked in a pattern of failure.
The problem, of course, is that real progress doesn’t work that way. Not all social changes are for the better; one man’s progress is another man’s decline; and many parts of the human condition are simply immutable (I.e., the same basic problems will recur, and will never be resolved once and for all). On this last point, consider that the physical structure of our brains really haven’t changed much in the last 3,000 years, or as Daryl Davis says: ‘We’re living in space age times, with Stone Age minds’.
This means that, whilst material and social conditions may be improved, a certain set of basic limitations and failings will always afflict our species. Equally, this implies that the cultural and political settlements of our ancestors may have something to teach us; as they were constructed to deal with the same perennial questions of human life that we face today.
The obvious riposte here is that, in fairness, modern life is unique in a number of ways. The challenges of AI, nuclear weapons, climate change, financial wizardry and the various online hellscapes of our own design all pose unique and complex challenges which previous generations never had to face. This is fair enough to an extent; however, this is one of those cases where a partial truth masks a more fundamental one.
We should remember that the protagonists of these modern dramas are still of the same species which endured the triumphs and tragedies of antiquity; with the same basic strengths, weaknesses, impulses, needs, and capacities. Just because society has changed doesn’t mean the building blocks of that world – human beings – are any less stubbornly themselves when wielding a smartphone.
Chronological snobbery is, like all forms of snobbery, a form of prejudice. Indeed, to put on my moth-bitten Marxist hat on for a second (woefully underused), one might even say that chronological snobbery represents one of the last remaining forms of unchallenged class prejudice. We moderns are almost universally richer, safer, better-fed, and more technologically privileged than any generation before us. And yet, from this position of enormous temporal privilege, we allow ourselves to scorn and belittle those in the past who faced far more difficult circumstances than we do. We look down on their unrefined, petty, barbaric ways; dispensing judgement from the comfort of our centrally heated homes.
Consummate snobs that we are, we believe ourselves a cut above those folk who used to roll around in the mud of history. We flatter ourselves that we have shed the irrationalities of the past, and become wiser and more moral creatures as a result. A mere cursory glance at the state of the world today should put paid to this notion of a fully realised enlightenment.
Is there an antidote to this form of thinking? This question is perhaps best answered, as many such are, through the medium art. Life on Mars, the BBC’s time-travelling cop show – yes, it does count art – is a perfect example. (Warning: spoilers ahead).
At the close of the series, protagonist Sam Tyler wakes from a coma dream in which he had been living the life of a police officer in 1970s Manchester. His return to his own time of 2005 is the culmination of a series-long struggle to get home, and yet his final deliverance feels oddly muted. Compared to the vibrant world he just left, 2005 feels drab and colourless by comparison. In the bureaucratic, sanitised world of the 21st century, Sam feels as disoriented and alien as he once did in the 70s. In an iconic final scene, he hurls himself from the roof of a building as David Bowie’s Life on Mars blares in the background – a suicidal bid to return to the place where he felt more alive.
It’s an impeccable moment of TV history, though it is not an uncomplicated ending. In effect, Sam Tyler chooses to die on a flimsy hope of returning to a reality which, for all he knows, exists only in his head. This could be read as a parable about the seductive dangers of nostalgia, and the often-related urge to jettison the annoyances of the present in order to reclaim a lost golden age.
Yet, I think there is a far more positive and valuable message to be gleaned here. Throughout the show, Sam’s role in 1970s Manchester is as a ‘crusading modern’; a man out of time who rails against the sexism, racism, homophobia, violence, and corruption of the world around him. He fiercely resists the backwards ways of the era, and yearns to return to his own more civilised time. And yet, despite his struggle against these ugly forces, he slowly wakes up to virtues of the place as well. He finds in his bullish colleagues a type of freedom, camaraderie, community, and adventure that he lacked in his own time. Warts and all, he learns to accept the rough-and-tumble world he finds himself in – and to see the people around him as just as ‘real’ as anyone he’s ever met.
In this reading, the ending of Life on Mars is a final acknowledgement that the past, despite all its obvious flaws and failings, was just as rich, complicated, and interesting a world as our own. And it was also populated by human beings with just as much depth and character as we have: people who faced circumstances that were radically different from ours, and yet did so with the same basic traits and frailties that define our species. Sam Tyler’s choice to remain in 1973 can therefore be read as a vote of confidence in the past; an acknowledgement that, for all their failings, the people of older ages are owed the benefit of the doubt before we rush to easy judgment.
At one point in Engleby, Sebastian Faulk’s chilling novel about a nihilistic Cambridge student brooding his way through the 70s (why always the 70s?), the protagonist speaks to his imagined audience 30 years in the future:
‘My reality is as complex as yours; the atoms making me and this world in their random movement are as terrible and strange and beautiful as those that make your world. Yours are in fact my atoms, reused. And you too, on your front edge of breaking time, Mr 2003, will be the object of condescending curiosity to the future – to Ms 2033. So don’t patronise me’
If there is a lesson here, it is that we should learn to be humbler about our place in history. We are not the great and enlightened beings living at the end of time, who have risen above the petty flaws and vices of our ancestors. Rather, we are those same fallible creatures plugged into a world of high-speed internet and high-speed missiles. Our tools may have changed, but our basic nature remains the same. Perhaps the past is more applicable than we thought.
A really thought provoking read Sam.