What people are saying about

The Manifesto Handbook

I think a full-length book like this is long overdue, and it couldn’t be better timed with the current climate of polarizing rhetoric, post-truth, Antifa, engaged art, etc. The brief history plus how-to lesson is a winning combination.

Mark Yakich, Distinguished Professor of English, Loyola University, New Orleans

A Wunderkammer of the aesthetics of revolution via revolutions in aesthetics, instructions included.

Joanna Walsh, author of Break.up

I am often suspicious of manifestos: they remind me of a more certain, mostly male-dominated, age, and I have grown impatient. But Julian Hanna’s book, which might also be described as a love letter to the manifesto, has pierced my doubts, offering the manifesto as a tender literary object whose optimism still upholds the word as a dynamic, almost magical, device out of which whole worlds are created. His book has been an antidote to my cynicism.

Lucía Sanromán, Director of Visual Arts at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, San Francisco

The Manifesto Handbook is something like a meta-manifesto, which proclaims the joy and necessity of the manifesto form. Julian Hanna shows us how to both read them and write them, to have some fun and maybe change the world. He also shows how this once distinctive form has soaked into the general style of writing of the internet age. But then the Manifesto has always found ways to outflank the received ideas and media habits of its era, no matter what the era. And in an era of cultural burnout and generalized depression, the short, sharp shot of mania that is the ground tone of the manifesto might not be a bad idea. Read this book, find your people, expose the enemy of the good life - and write your own!

McKenzie Wark, author of A Hacker Manifesto

Julian Hanna is an astute observer and critic of our world dominated by corporations and driven by technology. He is also a brilliant writer in his own right.

Andrew Gallix, Editor-in-Chief, 3:AM Magazine

Julian Hanna makes wisdom out of the most unreasonable of genres. A precious companion in a time of too much anger and not enough revolt.

Marta Peirano, author of El Pequeño libro rojo del activista en la red (The Little Red Book of the Network Activist)

The Manifesto Handbook

95 Theses on an Incendiary Form

The Manifesto Handbook

95 Theses on an Incendiary Form

Julian Hanna

Winchester, UK

Washington, USA

First published by Zero Books, 2019

Zero Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., No. 3 East St., Alresford,

Hampshire SO24 9EE, UK

office@jhpbooks.com

www.johnhuntpublishing.com

www.zero-books.net

For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.

© Julian Hanna 2018

ISBN: 978 1 78535 898 2

978 1 78535 899 9 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018961987

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

The rights of Julian Hanna as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Design: Stuart Davies

UK: Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

US: Printed and bound by Thomson-Shore, 7300 West Joy Road, Dexter, MI 48130

We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.

Contents

Cover

Half Title

Title

Copyright

Contents

Dedication

Preamble

Introduction

How to Write: A Manifesto

95 Theses on an Incendiary Form

Descriptions

Provocations

Failures

Futures

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

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Guide

Cover

Half Title

Title

Copyright

Contents

Dedication

Start of Content

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

For Simone, Clyde & Nico

At a higher stage, everyone will become an artist, i.e., inseparably a producer-consumer of total culture creation...Everyone will be a Situationist, so to speak, with a multidimensional inflation of tendencies, experiences, or radically different schools—not successively, but simultaneously.

Situationist International, Situationist Manifesto (1960)

SCUM will keep on destroying, looting, fucking-up and killing until the money-work system no longer exists and automation is completely instituted...

Valerie Solanas, SCUM Manifesto (1967)

Preamble

I was born in Vancouver the same year as Greenpeace, just a few blocks away. My parents lived in a communal house on West Broadway. Then as now, the West Coast was a place of extreme contrasts. In the 1970s British Columbia was a hippie dream, a destination for idealistic young Americans (like the writer William Gibson) who had dodged the draft. In the 1980s Vancouver was the city of the future, constantly demolishing anything remotely old to make way for the new. Expo 86, with its SkyTrain and IMAX 3D theater, symbolized this future. In City of Glass (2000) Douglas Coupland called our hometown one of the world’s youngest—which felt true when you walked around it. At the same time Canadians were finally starting to acknowledge the ancient history and land claim rights of the original inhabitants. Even my parents exhibited stark contrasts: my mother was quiet and gentle, a daycare worker who studied empathy, while my father went to work in the tense confines of a mental hospital (as they were called then). He was a nudist and prankster, more Yippie than hippie, a practical joker who swung between irreverent clowning and darker pronouncements.

They married on the day of the moon landing, my 19-year-old soon-to-be mother in a mini dress, then divorced when I was young like all of their friends. We moved from Vancouver to the Sunshine Coast and then to the island, where I drifted dreamily between their lives in the peaceful haze of a comfortable Canadian childhood. The public high school I attended had a distinctly colonial unreality about it: some of my fellow students spoke with English accents despite having never left Canada, and there were a group of mods who dressed in white and rode matching Vespas. There was a cricket club and something called the Existentialist Wine and Cheese Club, whose members wore eye patches and put on absurdist plays and read nihilist poetry while fencing with foils. It was a strange school set in the middle of nowhere, on an outcropping that dipped below the 49th parallel.

But there was also another world. My grandparents lived on the outskirts of town, across the highway from Western Speedway, an oval track with a rickety wooden grandstand in a clearing surrounded by tall pine trees. The Speedway held weekly stock car races, demolition derbies and monster truck shows. Every Sunday my mother and I used to visit the rust-red house on the hill, and the sound of those events—the announcer, the crowd, the collision of metal-on-metal—echoed through my childhood. Big race at the Speedway tonight, my grandmother would say matter-of-factly, frying sausages in the Formica-topped kitchen as the radio played a mournful country and western song. Though it unnerved me as a kid, I was thrilled when my grandfather or my uncles would take me across the road to see a show. The best was hit-to-pass: huge, battered, hand-painted American stock cars sliding drunkenly around the blacktop, their engines a deafening roar, colliding with each other and sometimes bursting into flames as they tried to take the lead. It was a ritual as fascinating as it was brutal and pointless. I still get that mémoire involontaire when I smell burning rubber and gasoline.

The people who went to the Speedway were pretty rough. There was no existentialism or wine and cheese here. The men wore torn flannel shirts and mustaches and trucker hats, held cigarettes and plastic cups of beer; the women hollered; the whole place reeked of destruction. They sat in the wooden stands in the middle of a patch of industrial wasteland cleared from the forest that naturally covered everything and cheered at the spectacle of exploding cars. They struck me as different, because I was already steeping myself in the snobbish borrowed culture of the Old World. But these were my people. This was what I came from. Immigrant farmers on both sides who found themselves trapped in the frozen north of the Canadian prairies and headed west until they found somewhere livable. Western Speedway was my culture. I could read all the Sartre and Camus I wanted, but as I stood there in the stands flanked by my tall uncles, ex-servicemen who hunted elk and deer in the forest behind the rust-red house, I knew it was Paris and London that were strange and distant, not this place.

And yet I had the luxury of changing identities when I wanted to. I could dress in black and listen to cassettes of bands with avant-garde names like Cabaret Voltaire (after the home of Zurich Dada), Art of Noise (named for Luigi Russolo’s 1913 Futurist manifesto: Today, Noise triumphs and reigns supreme) and Magnetic Fields (after André Breton and Philippe Soupault’s novel Les champs magnetiques, a founding Surrealist text). I could even return to the continent my ancestors fled or were expelled from, thinking they’d never return—I could work in a bookshop on the Left Bank or Charing Cross Road. But although I did eventually leave for good, I couldn’t shake my love of the reckless and random New World: its untethered fluidity, its fresh starts and radical self-invention. Even more than the freedom I miss the booming and banging: destruction and rebirth, the theater of authenticity, nihilism as entertainment, consumerism as spectacle.

One particular event at the Speedway seems to sum it up best in hindsight: the sideshow in which adults and children pay money to smash up a brand new car with sledgehammers before it is sent out to race. The barely contained energy of the crowd, like some Marxist fever dream. The loudness and brashness of the New World. The hope mixed with fuck you of the frontier city. The endless heavy metal solo of everyday life. Years later I read of Marinetti’s (not unproblematic) desire to "go out into the streets, lay siege to the