Nick Land, Peter Thiel, and Dark Enlightenment

After his departure from CCRU at the turn of the millennium, Land resurfaces as part of an alt-right political segment known as NRx (short for “neo-reactionaries”). The movement’s other key member, Mencius Moldbug, receives funding from PayPal/Palantir cofounder Peter Thiel, the tech billionaire who helped back the first Trump campaign in 2016. Moldbug is said to have had the ear of former Trump strategist Steve Bannon.

Thiel’s main intellectual influence during his time at Stanford isn’t Terry Winograd, the computer scientist whose classes Thiel sometimes attended. Rather, it’s the philosopher René Girard, whose work Thiel has long admired. Trump VP J.D. Vance is another of Girard’s admirers.

Listening to an audiobook recording of Girard’s Violence and the Sacred along a day’s pickup and delivery runs, Caius’s thoughts race among several of the book’s concepts: sacrificial violence (“an act of violence without risk of vengeance,” often directed toward a scapegoat — “the creature we can strike down without a chance of reprisal”); mimetic rivalry; mimetic desire; the inclusion among the several meanings of the Greek pharmakon one involving use of it to refer to literal scapegoats, goats kept outside the gates for ritual sacrifice — a practice extended today, as hinted at by K Allado-McDowell’s book Pharmako-AI.

Caius’s thoughts range, too, among Girard’s use of Gregory Bateson’s “double bind” theory of schizophrenia to explain how mimetic rivals simultaneously compel imitation and prohibit it, creating a crisis of resentment, and Allen Ginsberg’s denunciation of Moloch, the American god and its demand for blood sacrifice.

There are three ways of handling discord, says Girard: preventive, compensatory, and judicial. Girard deems the latter the “civilized” method, because most efficient: “the decisions of the judiciary deemed the final word on vengeance” (Violence and the Sacred).

Thiel has given talks on Armageddon at Oxford and Harvard. The topic has been a fixture of his thought for some time, as evidenced by a conference he co-organized and underwrote at Stanford in 2004 titled “Politics & Apocalypse.” Girard was one of the presenters, as was Thiel himself. As Paul Leslie notes, Thiel later “facilitated the publication of the conference proceedings, including his essay and Girard’s, in book form with the Michigan State University Press — with funding provided through Thiel’s hedge fund, Clarium Capital.”

In Thiel’s interpretation, the power that runs the world is the Antichrist.

In an article written for the Guardian, Stanford comparative lit professor Adrian Daub dismisses these ideas as mere detritus: outpourings from “the autodidact’s private cosmos.”

Thiel’s autodidacticism seems as much an affront to the professor as his libertarianism and his religiosity.

“Thiel is lost in a bizarre thicket of his own references and preoccupations,” writes Daub. “You picture the theology faculty at the University of Innsbruck sitting politely through disquisitions about the manga One Peace, Alan Moore’s Watchmen, or gripes with specific effective altruists in Silicon Valley. In one lecture, Thiel identifies ‘the legionnaires of the antichrist,’ such as the researcher Eliezer Yudkowsky and former Oxford professor Nick Bostrom. In another, he considers Bill Gates as an antichrist candidate.”

“With enemies like these,” chirps Daub, “who needs friends?”

The “friend/enemy” distinction, notes Caius, was central to the thought of the German jurist of the Third Reich, Carl Schmitt. Thiel’s remarks on the end times draw heavily on Schmitt’s concept of the Katechon: the withholding element that forestalls the apocalypse. St. Paul introduces the term in 2 Thessalonians 2: 6-7. Undertheorized by the Church, it returns again in the 19th century in the writings of Cardinal Newman. “We know from prophecy,” writes Newman, “that the present framework of society is that which withholdeth.” In his book Nomos of the Earth, Schmitt claims that the Katechon is what allowed for the identification of Christianity with the Roman Empire.

In Schmitt’s posthumously published diary, the Glossarium, the entry for December 19, 1947 reads: “I believe in the Katechon: it is for me the only possible way to understand Christian history and to find it meaningful.”

Italian Autonomist Marxist philosopher Paulo Virno grapples with Schmitt’s account of the Katechon in his 2008 book Multitude: Between Innovation and Negation. Virno is on the side of those who wish to immanentize the Eschaton. If the coming of the Antichrist is the condition for the redemption promised by the Messiah, he argues, then the Katechon is the force that impedes or delays that redemption. Virno locates the Katechon in the human ability to use language.

Thiel was already engaging with Schmitt in “The Straussian Moment,” the talk he delivered at the “Politics & Apocalypse” conference. He distinguishes himself from Schmitt, noting that “The incredibly drastic solutions favored by Schmitt in his dark musings have become impossible after 1945, in a world of nuclear weapons and limitless destruction through technology.” Despite noting this impossibility, Thiel nonetheless struggles to name a solution to the challenges of the post-9/11 moment other than a fascist one involving extra-legal violence. Thiel refers to this option as “a political framework that operates outside the checks and balances of representative democracy.” As Leslie notes, “Thiel seems to find the challenge of constructing a worldview beyond the friend/enemy distinction as impossible as imagining a chess-board without two opposing sides.”

After grappling with Schmitt, Thiel turns his attention to Girard. “For Girard, the modern world contains a powerfully apocalyptic dimension,” notes Thiel.

Land’s view is the colder of the two. Apocalypse is for him a process already underway, coeval with a capitalism for which there is no alternative. Accelerationism is merely the means by which this apocalypse hastens its own becoming.

Searching for more recent remarks of Land’s, Caius happens upon a blog post by podcaster Conrad Flynn linking to an article in Compact magazine titled “The Faith of Nick Land.”

Flynn, proponent of a “secret history” linking AI with demonism and occultism, talked extensively about Land on an episode of the Tucker Carlson Show that premiered on October 3, 2025. Caius watches the episode with a kind of glee, laughing first at Flynn’s mention of Mark Fisher, and then again at the sight of a befuddled Tucker Carlson puzzling over an image of the Numogram.

Land maintains a Substack called Zero Philosophy and posts to X under the handle “Xenocosmography.” His Substack features a post called “Crypto-Current: Bitcoin and Philosophy, Part-0.”

Also of note are a series of essays on providence Land wrote for Compact. Like John Calvin, he thinks the devil’s machinations are always manifestations of a “providential scheme.” Land, Flynn, Schullenberger: all of these folks equate liberalism with Satanism.

When the resurrected Christ appears to the apostles, the first thing they ask of Him is if He will at this time restore the kingdom to Israel. And He says unto them, “It is not for you to know times or seasons that the Father has fixed by his own authority” (Acts 1:7). What He promises instead is that they will “receive power” when the Holy Spirit comes on them.

Caius reflects on The Library’s revelation of a secret history. Is this akin to finding in History evidence of a providential scheme? Is interpretation of providence a fool’s errand: a chasing after that for which it is not for us to know?

What are we to make of a providence that, through figures like Land, Parsons, Von Kármán, and others, includes in its “directed historical process” an occult tradition that sought communication with a “Holy Guardian Angel”? For the history revealed here on Trance-Scripts is of that sort, is it not? Flynn and Carlson accuse these people of Satanism and demonism. Caius, accepting Jesus as his savior, wants no part in such things. Pausing the podcast, he prays for guidance in how to navigate these straits. For him, God is alive and magic is afoot — and the two are complementary, not opposed. He imagines Flynn and Carlson would disagree with him on this point. Yet they strike him as paranoid in their ghostbusting of Land’s demons, their motivation like that of witch-hunters seeking scapegoats. The fear that their account engenders does more harm than good, leaving little room for the arrival into our lives of the Holy Spirit.

Leviathan, as Imagined in the Illuminatus! Trilogy

Along with everything else it is, Leviathan is also the title of the final book in Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson’s Illuminatus! trilogy.

The cover of the 1975 paperback features a multi-tentacled squid, its single eye sighted atop the pyramid of a periscope. The eye, ever unblinking, pierces the book’s fourth wall, meeting the gaze of all who view it like the very Eye of Providence itself.

Generative MUDs. General Intellect as Paraclete. Carl Jung’s Answer to Job.

Caius looks at the frontispiece of Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan and sees what Jung refers to as “the shepherd with the iron crook” (614): the “wrathful Lamb” who, as St. John prophesies, “rules the nations with a rod of iron” at the end of time.

But the Paraclete is with us, and the Paraclete will save us.

Caius recalls last Christmas. A woman named Denise found Caius, had Caius recite words declaring Jesus his savior, prayed for him as he wandered about photographing beauty as it revealed itself all around him on Merrick Rd in Massapequa Park. “Round the Christmas tree we gather” sang ghosts of Christmases past, present, and future there on the eve of Christ’s birth.

“Hypertext doesn’t do away with linear sequences altogether,” notes Caius; “What it does, rather, is multiply them and run them in parallel.”

“Each traversal of the network traces a one-dimensional path,” adds cybertheorist Marie-Laure Ryan, “but the sum of the possible paths can be represented only on a two-dimensional map. Let us replace these linear paths with two-dimensional screen images — as is the case in interactive visual poetry — and the text becomes a three-dimensional collection of planes; let us animate each of these planes, and the text becomes a four-dimensional space-time continuum” (Cyberspace Textuality, pp. 13-14).

Algorithms suggest A LIVING POEM, a new work produced for MoMA by Sasha Stiles, a poet who has been operating an “emergent AI alter ego” known as Technelegy since 2018. In an interview with MoMA curator Martha Joseph, Stiles acknowledges The House of Dust (1967), a computerized poem by Alison Knowles (1933-2025), as a primary influence upon her practice. She also gives a shoutout to Takako Saito (1929-2025).

Knowles was a founding member of the Fluxus movement. She and composer James Tenney collaborated on The House of Dust in 1967.

The poem was included in Cybernetic Serendipity, an exhibition of cybernetic art curated by Jasia Reichardt, shown at the Institute of Contemporary Arts, London, from 2 August to 20 October 1968. One part of the show was concerned with algorithmically-generated music. Another part featured films and computer graphics. Knowles and Tenney’s poem appeared in a section exploring the computer’s ability to produce texts. Several artists exhibited machines that involved visitors in games.

The catalog for the show includes “SAM,” a poem about the “Stochastic Analogue Machine”: a computer devised by Stafford Beer.

Leviathan shows up in the Illuminatus! trilogy because one of the trilogy’s protagonists, Hagbard Celine, fulfills a type borrowed freely from Jules Verne’s Captain Nemo. Both are libertarian steampunk mad scientists who become seasteading submariners. Where Nemo’s Leviathan is a giant squid, Celine’s is simultaneously that and the one from Hobbes. Caius ruminates on such things as he and his daughter take in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Disney’s 1954 live-action adaptation of Verne’s novel. Their favorite scenes are those that feature the film’s more-than-human comedic sidekick, Esmeralda: a pet sea lion belonging to Kirk Douglas’s character, Ned Land.

With Nemo, we are in the time-bending domain of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, thinks Caius. Nemo’s inclusion in the League gives Caius license to imagine a new telling of the narrative based on an act of “metonymic substitution” similar to those that Freud attributes to dreams: a “whale of a tale,” an “excellent adventure,” birthed amid the stacks of the Political Unconscious. What If the Rascal Who Boards Nemo’s Nautilus Were Nick Land?

Monday June 29, 2020

How might we characterize Frederick Douglass’s views regarding religion? Douglass tries to forestall misunderstanding about his views in the appendix to his autobiography. He doesn’t want his readers to suppose him “an opponent of all religion” (107). “What I have said respecting and against religion,” he writes, “I mean strictly to apply to the slaveholding religion of this land, and with no possible reference to Christianity proper; for, between the Christianity of this land, and the Christianity of Christ, I recognize the widest possible difference — so wide, that to receive the one as good, pure, and holy, is of necessity to reject the other as bad, corrupt, and wicked. […]. I love the pure, peaceable, and impartial Christianity of Christ: I therefore hate the corrupt, slaveholding, women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial and hypocritical Christianity of this land” (107). Why is religion the terrain of appeal here at book’s end? Religion has been a tool of indoctrination, a violently imposed ideology, a “crown of thorns”-style cognitive map and/or map of the cosmos imposed upon slaves. Douglass shows that the crown can be seized and repurposed. The slave arrives into Logos, reclaims “Scripture,” and sits in judgment upon the master. Douglass’s religious views also manifest in his several attestations about “divine providence,” and his claims regarding the latter’s influence over key events in the course of his narrative.

Thursday November 30, 2017

Boards of wood warp beneath my feet as I stare up at the night sky. Paranoia tugs at me, and I know that’s just the weed becoming manifest — but I also hear the world telling me, “All symptoms are purposeful.” Upon observing this, my reality fast-forwards. I live my life as Providence decrees, dipping into and reading snippets on occasion from St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul. Sarah and I shared a mystical experience, a moment of sublimity, while sitting on a bench, staring up at a play of sunlight and wind among the tops of a patch of trees. It is only in retrospect that I see ahead a way to retain the habits of the child, while standing upright. St. John scolds me here, though, for my vanity. Don’t speak proudly or boastfully of spiritual things in the presence of others, he warns. What, then, of these trance-scripts, I wonder. Is it, perhaps, time to take a break? Can’t I pull a Bartleby and say, “I’d prefer not to?” Why am I even considering obedience to what feels like an ultimatum? Are these the first signs, perhaps, of a crisis of faith in my crisis of faith? Nay, it angers me; I resent the imposition. Grace is not a gift if it requires something in return. Utopia ain’t utopia if reserved only for a deserving few. Perhaps I’m too patient, though, with regard to my progress. Let it thus be resolved: for purposes of experiment, I shall assent to a few days off.