Wednesday, March 25, 2026

The Quantity Theory of Morality by Will Self

Will Self - The Quantity Theory Of Morality




Book Review: The Quantity Theory of Morality by Will Self

 Review by Ed Meek

I’m late to reading Will Self, author of 22 works of fiction and 9 works of nonfiction, shortlisted for the Booker prize numerous times, ditto the Whitbread novel of the year, the Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize. The Quantity Theory of Morality is a bookend to The Quantity Theory of Insanity written 35 years ago. The former claims there’s a surfeit of insanity; his current novel brings back a character to argue there isn’t enough morality in our age to keep us on track.

The novel focuses on a group of upper middle class British friends, gathering together over a period of years. Self includes a character named after himself. Each chapter is written from the point of view of one of the characters. Self plays with their identity by having them straight, gay, and trans in different chapters. Through the novel he lampoons middle class professionals, psychiatrists, government workers, spies, lawyers, financiers, Jews, AI, funerals, mortality, etc. It is clear they’re in a decadent era after the fall of the British empire-a fate we are soon headed for.

Self is a writer’s writer. He’s constantly pushing the limits of fiction. He knows and uses multiple languages and has an amazing word-hoard. The novel is packed with references. He knows his bible. Above all, he is laugh out loud funny and if someone else is in the room when you are reading him, you’ll want to read passages aloud.

As to the title, “The quantity theory of morality, Bettina, concerns the human propensity to do things they hold to be either right or wrong—to commit themselves to this exercise of justice, or injustice; and to allow either evil, or righteousness to enter into their being.” This brings up a question many of us find ourselves asking these days. How can these people running our country live with themselves? Self seems to think they are aware of what they are doing. His character, Dr. Busner, goes on to explain that if a group is immoral, their immorality causes others to also be bad. So, in a corrupt, immoral administration, the tone is set for bad behavior by characters like Noem and Patel and Witkoff (and the entire Trump family) by the President and his close associates. In the novel, moral laxity results in direct harmful consequences (as in the Epstein story).

Self’s writing is a pleasure to read. “I remember it was dark out as I walked towards the Barbican through the sepulchral emptiness of Smithfield on a Sunday.” The novel is replete with such sentences.

And what about the humor? “After all, we’ve all known each other for years, and we don’t have any real secrets, do we?” No, I thought to myself sardonically, except what we do for a living, how much we earn, how much we have overall, who were sleeping with, what we truly, in our innermost hearts believe, together with whatever we really think about someone…and everyone.”

For satire to really bite it has to be true. I have no idea how much any of my friends are worth and I’ve known them for 60 years! And who knows what we really think in our hearts? Or how about this? “On and on she went: I suppose Joanie was attractive once, but I think she must have sampled her own breakfast pots too much; so that now she’s just another big, solid, pear-shaped Englishwoman of uncertain age, draped unsuitably in flower-patterned cotton and with a face as red as a poppy.”

Lastly, each chapter is written in a different yet fully developed voice. If you are a reader hooked on detective novel plots or page turning thrillers, this is not the book for you. But if you love good writing and enjoy

invention and satire, you will thoroughly enjoy The Quantity Theory of Morality. And, as is the case with all good satirists, Self gives us plenty to think about.

Sunday, March 22, 2026

Springward Poetry Festival April 9 to 11 Medford, Ma.

 


When it’s April with showers sweet, poets in Medford come to meet at ACM for the inaugural Springward Poetry Festival!

This weekend event—April 9 to 11—is open to the public and will feature poets from across Massachusetts and beyond, an open mic, and interactive workshops for writers and anyone interested in the art of poetry.

Thirsty for more? Propose an activity for the festival using our online application. The deadline to apply is March 1.

Details about the festival program will be posted on the ACM website over the coming weeks.

#artscollaborativemedford #SpringwardPoetryFestival #nationalpoetrymonth #massachusettspoets #medfordwrites #bostonpoets
dreamworldsleeper's profile picture
Wonderful! So glad to be a part of planning this!
letiprieberochapoems's profile picture
So excited about this!! 🎉
27
2

Saturday, March 21, 2026

Red Letter Poem #292

 The Red Letters

 

 

In ancient Rome, feast days were indicated on the calendar by red letters.

To my mind, all poetry and art serves as a reminder that every day we wake together beneath the sun is a red-letter day.

 

––Steven Ratiner

 

 

 

 

 

Red Letter Poem #292

Beginning the Seventh Year of the Red Letter Project

 

 

 

 

The Old Words

 

The hole of it.  The dirt of it.

The wet seep.  The deepening dark.

The half-lit, head-first, half-gone.

The red-clay-veined cold cradle.

The dampening sounds.

The stiff canvas bundle smeared with tar.

The thrum of the old words, repeating.

The stubborn drumming of the heart.

The blackened hands.  The tamped mound.

The ache of the spine uncoiling.

The going, and then the going on.

The forever-knowing what is up

by never forgetting what is down.

 

                                ––Steven Ratiner

                                   

  

 

 

Astonishing!  This poetry project––born out of the fearful climate and physical isolation brought on by the Covid crisis––was intended to last for the month or so I imagined it would take for the government to get a handle on the outbreak.  I am stunned today to think back on my naiveté!  This installment marks the beginning of our seventh year(!), and I’m delighted to report that The Red Letters is stronger than ever.  The driving force behind this literary project has grown and diversified over the years––as have the voices I’ve been able to bring you in this forum.  Beginning with poets from my home in Massachusetts, I’ve now had the privilege of featuring writers from across the United States as well as several from foreign shores­­––whose poems put the lie to the word foreign Despite the political borders that raise such a furor these days, poetry slips easily from country to country (with no passports required), celebrating both commonality and difference, and reaffirming Walt Whitman’s declaration that “every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you” (and, of course, vice versa).  When I write in the subject line of each week’s mailing “A Community of Voices,” what was once an aspirational concept now feels quite tangible.  I’ve been spurred by a faith that the creative impulse is not only an essential human endeavor, but the very emotional and imaginative ballast we need to weather any storm, personal or global.

 

I feel I’ve been given a rare opportunity: to engage with scores of fine writers, bringing together a tremendous range of poetic voices and approaches––and to attempt to respond to their poems in as honest and intimate a way as I am able.  I see my job as being an astute and committed reader which, in turn, might form a correspondence with a host of unseen readers who wait for these Friday missives.  (Perhaps astute is debatable, but I hope I’ve earned that second attribute with the hundreds of weekly commentaries.)   The ultimate measure I use in making my editorial judgments: if I feel a deep urge to continue thinking (and writing) about one poet’s text, I assume that poem will prove of interest to many, if not most of you, as well.  Happily, you’ve let me know (in the most generous of terms) when I’ve been right in that assumption–-and in equally passionate messages when you’ve disagreed.  A community of languages, of histories, of dreams––this is a foundational aspect of human consciousness.  In the way that the fish probably don’t think much about the sea in which they swim, nor the birds about their sky, we humans navigate, mediate almost all of our lived experience with words.  And yet only rarely do we stop to pay real attention to these conceptual devices with which we grasp, explore, record, and share what happens in our busy days.  Poets are that rare breed that cannot help but consider, question, tinker with, and repurpose language, spoken and written; we shape it to our own intuitive needs, and attempt to intensify it with a musical charge.  When we’ve done this task well, we walk buoyantly through the tumultuous days, smiling with a momentary contentedness.  And some readers–– whose acquaintance we may never make––may use these linguistic assemblages as a means of enlarging, illuminating one of their own experiences.  Though Americans, it seems, have something of an uneasy relationship with poetry (perhaps the residue of old classroom tyrannies), that is far from universal.  There are countries around the world that rely on their national poets, embrace them as pivotal figures, even plaster their faces on their currency––something we, here, can barely imagine.  Such poets take the matter-of-fact of shared experience and reveal it to be the stuff of red-letter days.

 

Once a year, I’ll share one of my poems in the Letters.  Today’s installment comes from Grief’s Apostrophe, published last spring by Beltway Editions.  The majority of the poems in the collection focus on the personal and societal losses we all face, as well as the myriad ways we use poetry, story, art, and music to grieve, cry out, question, comprehend, find some way back into life––not healed, perhaps, yet somehow fortified.  But a number of poems are about language itself, that strange creation by which our species alerts members of the tribe.  “The Old Words” is a kind of meditation on the physical, emotional, spiritual excavation we must do to find out what our ancestors have buried beneath this world we walk upon––the dust we are and (as was so powerfully phrased in yet another text) the dust to which we shall return.

 

 

 

 

The Red Letters

 

* If you would like to receive these poems every Friday in your own in-box – or would like to write in with comments or submissions – send correspondence to:

steven.arlingtonlaureate@gmail.com

 

 

To learn more about the origins of the Red Letter Project, check out an essay I wrote for Arrowsmith Magazine:

https://www.arrowsmithpress.com/community-of-voices

 

The weekly installment is also available at

the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene

http://dougholder.blogspot.com

 

For updates and announcements about Red Letter projects and poetry readings, please follow me on BlueSky

@stevenratiner.bsky.social

and on Twitter          

@StevenRatiner

 

And visit the Red Letter archives at: https://StevenRatiner.com/category/red-letters/