Joss Whedon and Jean-Paul Sartre: The Wanker Phallosophers

by allecto


Phallosopher contemplating his meaningless existence, and how deep his meaninglessness is.

Ok, so I’m currently thinking a lot about the episode of Firefly, Objects in Space. This was the last episode of the TV series before production was stopped. And as such it became one of the most important to the fans of the series. Now I did want to talk about the racism of this particular episode. And I will. I will be focusing particularly on the construction of lust, both in this episode, and in the series as a whole. But first I wanted to talk a little about male philosophy as Wank.

Joss Whedon really loves Wank. That is basically the moral of this episode Objects in Space. I will be referring to Joss Whedon as a Phallosopher throughout this entry. I envisage Phallosophers to encompass all the Great Male Phallosophers throughout the ages. From Aristotle to Camus to Sartre to Whedon. Phallosophy is characterised by self-obsession, misogyny, and a disturbing, yet relentless tendency to produce Wank. Phallosophers are generally Bores. Now, what is common to most Phallosophers is their acute susceptibility to Male Artist Syndrome, as theorized very superbly by Dissenter:

Male Artist Syndrome – a mental disorder commonly found in men who call themselves creative artists (artists, writers, musicians, filmmakers etc.) whereby the man in question is only capable of thinking and operating on the level of the foreground. His ‘art’ inevitably reproduces the values, ideas etc. of male-stream culture and the Phallic State, and is particularly characterised by misogyny, racism, the erasure of women, the erasure of radically Other ways of thinking/being/feeling, and thinly veiled egocentric self-portrayals. The work of Male Artists is highly prized by other Male Artists, and male supremacists in general, for its lack of thought, which is called ‘depth’ in a classic example of patriarchal reversal.

Male Artists are incapable of recognising women as creative beings, especially women who work and create in the Background and refuse to participate in the shallow narcissism and self-indulgent nihilism that passes for creativity in the foreground. The only acceptable role for women who exist creatively on a foreground level is to be the adoring disciples of Male Artists, always ready to listen to them, agree with them, champion them as brilliant, insightful etc., and support and reproduce their ideas. These women are forbidden to have ideas of their own, especially ideas that contradict the Male Artists, or to connect with creative women who have journeyed into the Background and rejected Male Artists and the Phallic State that supports and produces them.

Joss Whedon wrote the episode, Objects in Space, in order to explore his own Phallosophical relationship to the world and in particular to objects. He Wanks his Phallosophy onto the bodies of a Black man and a young woman, which is highly problematic of itself, but I’ll talk about that in another post.

In the commentary of the episode Objects in Space Whedon outlines why he wrote the episode and what the episode means to him. His discussion is as follows.

Now let’s go back in time to me when I was 16. It was at that age that I became old enough to realise that I had no faith and very soon after that I had, what I can very pretentiously describe as, an existential epiphany. And I had it, embarrassingly but somehow appropriately during a Spielburg movie. I was in London, by myself, during a school break, in the fall where I watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind and something in me kind of snapped. I started to think for the first time in an adult fashion about life, about time, about reality, about dying, about all of the thing that are right there in front of us every day but that as children and often as adults, we take for granted, or find some easy explanation for if we can. In my case, I was presented with the totality of things but with no coherent pattern to put them in, I just suddenly understood that real life was happening.

Friend of mine gave me the most important book I ever read which was Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre. Apart from that, and a little bit of The Myth of Sisyphus by Camus I really haven’t read extensively about existentialism or absurdism, I don’t want to paint myself as an intellectual, I really don’t know anything about philosophy. But I did know that this book spoke to what I believe more accurately and completely than anything I had ever read. And what it talked about was the pain of being aware of things and their existence outside of their meaning.

Hmm… the pain of being aware of things existing. Deep stuff here.

So I decided to read this Sartre dude since Joss seems to be so enamoured. Dissenter had a copy of Nausea and I grabbed it off her and dived in. Now the guy who wrote this book was fucked in the head. The protagonist is a complete narcissist who seems to have an obsession with men who sexually assault children. The protagonist also hates women, no big surprised there.

Here are some of the highlights from Nausea:

Since the Patron was there, I had to fuck her, but it was really out of politeness. She disgusts me slightly, she is too white and besides she smells like a new-born baby… I toyed absent-mindedly with her sex under the bedclothes… I let my arm move along the woman’s side and suddenly I saw a little garden with low, wide-spreading trees from which huge hairy leaves were hanging. Ants were running everywhere, centipedes and moths. There were some even more horrible animals: their bodies were made of slices of toast such as you put under roast pigeon; they were walking sideways with crab-like legs. The broad leaves were black with animals. Behind the cacti and the Barbary fig trees, the Velleda of the municipal park was pointing to her sex. “This park smells of vomit,” I shouted.

Flattering, no?

In the following passage the protagonist describes a man exposing himself to a little girl:

I… was fascinated by the little girl’s face. Her features were drawn with fear and her heart must have been beating madly: but on that rat-like face I could also distinguish something potent and evil. It was not curiosity but rather a sort of assured expectation. I felt helpless: I was outside, on the edge of the park, on the edge of their little drama; but they were riveted to each other by the obscure power of their desires, they formed a couple.

Fucked up shit. Little girls are evil and desperately want men to come up and expose their penises to them. They desire it, you know, ‘cause women and girls can never get enough of the Phallus Supremus.

There are many more disturbing things about the book Nausea but I am not going to list all of them. I just wanted to make the point that the book is sickeningly sexist. And Sartre, like Whedon, suffers from an acute case of Male Artist Syndrome.

But I’m not all that interested in Sartre. I am interested in the way that Joss Whedon responds to him. I don’t think it is all that surprising that Joss finds a misogynist like Sartre profound, after all, Joss himself is a profound misogynist.

But let’s go back to Whedon’s little existential epiphany. I would argue that straight, white, rich, Western men like Joss are the only ones who have the luxury of waiting until they are 16 in order to realise that they exist and that their existence is meaningless. Straight, white, rich, Western men are the only ones who have the luxury of realising this and calling it philosophy. So Joss shared his touching memory about realising that he existed and that life and death happened. He called his Wank an epiphany even, as he sat in his rich, white comfort, watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

So I’m going to share my own story. Though it was not an epiphany, nor was it an existential awakening, and it certainly wasn’t philosophy. When I was about 11 I was living in a two bedroom apartment, on the second floor, in Finland. There were five children and 2 adults living in this apartment, and my mother was pregnant and suffering deep depression. We, with our dark skin and hair, were outsiders in this white supremacist country, and we felt it. But that sets the scene.

The story is me, sitting on the ledge of the second storey balcony and wanting to jump. It is my belief that the only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that it wouldn’t kill me. So I was thinking of ways of making sure that I would die when I hit the ground. If I dived from the balcony head first that would break my neck, but no, there was still a chance I would survive and then everything would be even worse than before.

I did not have the luxury of waiting until I was 16 to have an epiphany about the fact that the world existed, that I existed and that I was meaningless. I did not have the luxury of realizing that death existed in an abstract fashion while sitting in a cinema. The knowledge of death, for me, was graphically represented by the thought of my body lying lifeless on the concrete. My knowledge of life and death, my struggle to exist as a multiracial female under white male supremacy has been a struggle since the day I was born.

There were never any easy answers. But this story is not one about an epiphany, this story did not make me who I am today. The only thing that I learnt from sitting on that balcony was the fact that I am too spineless to kill myself.

But men like Whedon and Sartre take one look at the fact that their lives are meaningless and their next step is to make books and TV shows about meaninglessness and they call it philosophy!!!. The nerve of these fucking morons.

My discussions with Dissenter have provided valuable insight into the reasons that men Wank and call it philosophy. “Men’s lives are an exercise in futility,” she says, “males are essentially pointless so they have to have all of this existential angst about their lives.” This is true. Men, being rather superfluous creatures, must excrete Phallosophical Wank and believe it to be meaningful.

For women, life is not about meaninglessness. For women, life is a struggle to create meaning. Women do not write books about being nauseated by our own existence. There is a whole world FULL of men out there who are already nauseated by our existence. Women write about the power and the meaningfulness of existence, of life, in its own right. This is powerful magic; the beauty of existing, the beauty of surviving.

Let’s take me for example. A whole world full of people told me that my existence was meaningless. My first meaningful act of resistance was to love my mother, to break one of the most solid rules of male supremacy. The second was to love my sisters, and to love myself. Books, the wonderful cuntspeaking of women, helped me, more than anything else, to survive. So I learnt to write. Because myth-making and storytelling have long been used against us by men, but women were the first storytellers, we were the first poets. Believe it. We are more powerful with words than they are. And words can change the world.

At eleven, I believed that my life had no meaning. Now my life is full of meaning. I know who I am. I love. I experience beauty. I write.

I am not a philosopher. I am a poet, I am a cuntspeaker. Cuntspeaking is simple and meaningful. Cuntspeak is powerful and direct. Cuntspeak means. Cuntspeaking was a word Jane Caputi discovered by reading the work of an Athena who called Andrea Dworkin a cuntspeaker as an insult. I think cuntspeak is powerful as an image and as an ideology. You can read Caputi’s essay on cuntspeak in Not For Sale: Feminists Resisting Prostitution and Pornography.

In conclusion, Phallosophers suck majorly. Cuntspeakers rule!!!

First published on Gorgon Poisons.

12 Responses to “Joss Whedon and Jean-Paul Sartre: The Wanker Phallosophers”

  1. “In the following passage the protagonist describes a man exposing himself to a little girl:

    “I… was fascinated by the little girl’s face. Her features were drawn with fear and her heart must have been beating madly: but on that rat-like face I could also distinguish something potent and evil. It was not curiosity but rather a sort of assured expectation. I felt helpless: I was outside, on the edge of the park, on the edge of their little drama; but they were riveted to each other by the obscure power of their desires, they formed a couple.”

    Fucked up shit. Little girls are evil and desperately want men to come up and expose their penises to them. They desire it, you know, ‘cause women and girls can never get enough of the Phallus Supremus.”

    Those male words epitomise that complete rejection of responsibility that is the pure evil of the men in this situation. The man watching, as well as the one involved; distance themselves from their cruelty and their responsibility for the welfare of the child, by projecting onto her emotions she simply does not have. Anyone who has been a little girl knows she has no “assured expectation” that she will be raped by older men; only fear of what she may have experienced before, or simply fear alone. The man on the other side of the fence is allowed to feel helpless! How convenient, he does not have to interfere, because he has stolen the reality of the child’s position (helplessness) and declared it as his own.

    Great post Allecto.

  2. That is awesome and has made my day how true are your words that men adopt male artist syndrome, it sickens me that the phallocraps get womon to adopt their meaningless art and garbage how powerful it is to assert one loves our own sex more than menz. All the money that is spent on male art syndrome is utterly pointless, as is the art that costs millions or the millions of sexist and hateful books that are decreed works of art. Sarte work sounds so ugly and hateful you are courageous to read it tx u for all your insight here and affirming how as womon OUR lives have love beauty and meaning, loving ourselves in our wommanishness is what they hate us for. When we put our sex first we obliterate their own meaninglessness, as stated so clearly in SCUM wherein, in order to have meaning in general, menz have to obliterate womon and our talents and humanity. They want to suck us dry to lubricate their own hollow huskness . Great subject great post xxx

  3. Here is a link from a facebook group, where I linked this post. Gives another ugly insight into Sartre’s mind and his weird sexual ideas about women. Guess what, they are his ideas, the way he sees things; but once again he projects them onto women. Women are not as he sees them! He sees them the way he does because of something he intrinsically is; not because of something they intrinsically are. Why don’t men understand that because they view a swan as potential dinner, dinner is not what a swan is.

  4. Allecto, thank you for this wonderful post. It rings so true for me!

    Sartre’s ennui is completely structured around his male values. We, as women, cannot stop there. We must create meaning.

  5. Way back at the beginnings of feminist philosophy, somebody did a great essay critiquing Sartre’s obsession with ooey gooey female sexuality, and how he was so freaked out he was by it. Will have to find somewhere.

    It’s too bad Simone de Beauvoir wasted so much of her life with this freak. Frankly, I thinks she was much smarter and far more profound than Sartre, though the boys in the philosophy club will NEVER admit it.

  6. ‘Little girls are evil and desperately want men to come up and expose their penises to them. They desire it, you know, ‘cause women and girls can never get enough of the Phallus Supremus.”’

    It is amazing how men are desilusioned with the thought that girls are so impressed by their phallus… do they really belive this shit? The psychological mess which can produce such an assumption is just.. well i guess it’s just phallosophic.

    I had the infortunate experience to work with sex offenders at a halfway house and looking at the files of these offenders, you would not belive what these men would put out as excuses for their behaviors (such as this guy who claimed that his girlfriend’s 6 year-old daughter who inadvertently entered the bathroom while he was in there and who, by seeing him naked, insisted to put his penis in her mouth (yes, really!)). Do they think anyone would be that stupid and buy that (beside other fellow sick minds like them). Sorry, but the first time i heard about blowjob, the act of putting a penis in a mouth, I was 12 years old and so disgusted I promised myself I would never do such a thing (I changed my mind a few years later but that is another story…).

    Men are phallo-obsessed and can not envision that there are other human beings on the planet who are not. As a little girl, I found the male sex very ugly and was very happy not to have one of those things beside my legs… just to learn years later that I was indeed suffering from penis envy and deeply wished I had one, thank you Freud!

    Allecto, loved this post, loved the ending, it really moved me, cant wait for more cuntspeaking!

  7. This is such an amazing post, thank you , Allecto. I’ve long thought that this stuff men call philosophy is akin to something that comes out of the rear end of a bull. The uninformed, subjective musings of privileged men with way too much time on their hands, universalised and disseminated as wisdom. Also, love the male artist syndrome theory, so true and so pervasive. So much ugly shite has come from the pens of so called Great Men. Men get to indulge in their hateful fantasies about us and our children under the guise of being deeply profound. And it would be interesting to find out just how many of them write about men raping children – I bet it would turn out to be most of them.

  8. Love this! Love the language, too! Naming things is so important and “wankers” is one of my favorite words. It really sums up that meaningless, slightly embarrassing, mental masturbation that many so called male experts produce. For crying out loud, stop penis gazing for a moment and look out at the world around you!

    “This is powerful magic; the beauty of existing, the beauty of surviving.” Yes! I’m going to post that on my refrigerator.

  9. Linda – regarding “And it would be interesting to find out just how many of them write about men raping children – I bet it would turn out to be most of them.” Here’s an example. Dostoyevsky’s character Stavrogin in the Possessed seduced, then murdered, a young girl. The censors banned a chapter in which Stavrogin talks about his joy at this act. The chapter is freely available now. Dostoyevsky was kind of a hero of mine growing up because he showed emotion and his women characters seemed human. But this “banned” chapter – well, another male “genius” writer seems to have no clothes…

  10. karmarad, Nabokov also comes to mind, a writer I used to admire back before the awakening. I was also a fan of the music artist, Nick Cave, for many years. Cave has written two novels during his career and both of them had child rapists as the central characters.

  11. Perfect post!! I was thinking about that some days ago. I really like writing so I’m naturally attracted to literary critique. In my wish to write a good prose, a good story, with good characters and a good message; I stumbled in male-dominated sites about literature. Soon I was reading about how Sartre was deep, how Joyce was the best writer ever, how Nabokov was awesome, and, sometimes, how women can’t write a good story. I asked why they thought Joyce, Sartre and Nabokov were so good, and they told me something about “philosophical struggles”, “psychological, deep thinking”, “the wonders of the problems of men”… But why couldn’t I relate? I relate so much more to books about womyn’s struggles – REAL struggles – Than to imaginary problems made by them to let them have something to worry about.

    I remember when a male “friend” (Just a contact, he asks me about writing and stuff) said to me he had an awesome story in his head, but he didn’t feel mature enough because he didn’t “knew people enough”. I thought that was so asinine, but maybe it’s because he’s male he can’t truly understand people, and so he writes that off as “immaturity”, but when will that maturity come? A lot of male works seem so superficial, so shallow. I wish I could read more of things about Womyn, from womyn, for womyn, with womyn being friends, sisters, lovers, womyn loving each other. Womyn struggling to live in a cruel, cruel world, without that “what am I, from where I am, what is my objective in life, ohhh death, ohhh life, life is sooo miserable” bullcrap.

    What amazes me is that, in fiction, men can’t write women. They can’t. They can’t, they can’t, they can’t. Some don’t even try, and I kinda respect them because they know their limits. Some try and end up with stereotypes or things that look like men disguised as women. But women can write men. We know how men are.

    Anyway… As a genre writer, people (mostly men) told me to read A Song of Ice and Fire, but then I read about it being full of misogyny (And liberal feminists love it, of course, because someway GURLS KICKING ASS!1!1 so feminist), rape, murder, sex slavery, incest… Like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I don’t wanna read them, I know their part of misogyny and I don’t want to read about womyn being battered via a male point of view, a point of view which sexualizes us any, any way. Does someone here have read them? I wanna be proved wrong, but mostly when I ask about them the liberals say “well, the gurls kick ass1!1!1 so that’s feminist and they kick ass”. I don’t wanna read about “girls kicking ass” via that male POV, the one that says we can kick ass but only if we’re sexy, available for PIV, are saved by the manly hero, need the manly hero, and usually talk like males and act like males. In fiction, anyway.


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