Slavoj Žižek: Hipster Quackery

Let us start repeating the title’s ad hominem: Žižek is little more than an entertainer. As a philosopher, he often resembles a con artist more than anything.

Nevertheless, the factors that propelled him to fame are not limited to his charisma or his emotional sleight of hand with audience expectations. The primary culprit is the pervasive leniency on the general field we usually call “liberal arts” that the Sokal hoax so aptly exposed.

Lacan himself once stated that his writings should not be understood through reason but rather read as if producing “an enlightening effect similar to that of mystical texts”. The obscurantist strategy seems to consist of endlessly recurring epiphanies driven by pure apophenia, combined with the steady presentation of barely disguised cognitive dissonances, all designed to create a simulacrum of religious experience.

Thus, the existential emptiness and spiritual expectation of the listener are perpetually filled by a circular confabulation—a kind of “twilight jargon” or a doublespeak, which often means the exact opposite of what if appears to explicitly signify. This is accompanied by incestuously intimate references to psychoanalytic jargon, philosophy itself, and, from the 1990s onward, pop culture in particular.

The result is a blend of in-jokes, dirty jokes, and plain gibberish concerning the overall meaning of the original sources. So meta... At first such a lack of epistemological grounding might even feel liberating. But obscurantism ultimately falsifies what could be profound—a dynamic that explains both its allure and its tragedy.

The philosophic wine and the malt of the gods/the gutter and domestic violence

Žižek and his accomplices’ abuse of language resembles a if by whiskey fallacy— a relativistic tactic where it is never clear whether a thesis is being defended or attacked. This is mixed with loaded language to form what might more accurately be called “philosophical sensationalism”.

Add to this the post-modern quirk, popularized by Camile Paglia on Sexual Personae and David Foster Wallace, though it arguably began with Roland Barthes (if we aren’t willing to go back all the way to Sterne) and which might gladly have been so overused that is fast getting out of fashion. This trend involves blending scholarly research with lowbrow cultural references, delivered with tongue-in-cheek, geeky effect. It is like TikTok holding hands with JSTOR. Additionaly, there’s the mix os supposedly elevated concepts with crude, grotesque humor, violence and sexual innuendo. This gimmick amis to produce either “profound profanity” or “lowbrow spiritual insight”—a populist, reality-show version of academia.

Žižek’s defenders might argue that, like the prophet Lacan, has no clear thesis or philosophy, but rather a way of being—an intellectual praxis of public performance, standup shock philosophy as a form of life. But doesn’t this justify the ad hominen critique a little? Many believe an ad hominen attack is always falacious. However, if there is no clear argument, thesis or rational position to engage with with, all that remains is attitude, praxis—“the man working his little vaudeville show”. And an utterly personal act is not ad hominem impermeable, even if it is covered by the label “philosophy”. Here an ad hominen is not only justified but the most fitting response

Furthermore, to criticize Žižek’s ideas inexorably leads to mirroring his approach—freeing ideas from any anchor or standard, where even the horror of ethnic violence becomes “the sacred” and vice versa. If it shocks, it’s fair game. But should we follow that path or just call him a scoundrel? It is Žižek’s abandonment of philosophy that makes the ad hominem critique a quod erat demonstrandum. This showman posture demands a review, not a rational counterargument.

When Žižek does seems to mean something, it is often the most abhorent conclusion, delivered as if it were a Twilight Zone twist—a transubstantiation of day-to-day neurotic anxiety in hypernormal faux fear, a metamorphosis of self-congratulatory counterintuitive logic into a bonding moment for audience and performer while they reach the intellectual high of the absurd.

At one point in a lecture, Žižek jests, like some police chief from a totalitarian regime:

“Take note of the names of those two people who left the room before the lecture was finished. We might have to interrogate them later.”

His greatest joy seems to come from this sadistic epistemic uncertainty. “oh, it’s ironic, but what if... no, he must be joking—joking about joking... about totalitarianism...” Smoke and mirrors. There’s nothing there but the “mental tickling” he produces for an immature audience.

What makes you tic?

Many who pursue philosophy seem to have a condition described in Tibetan medicine as rlung (Skt. prana) disturbance, a highly incoherent flow of “subtle winds”, incessant “movement” in the nervous system. This is a matter of chicken and egg: are those people interested in conceptual masturbation because they have this disturbance (they are sick) or vice-versa? Actually the two things complement and reinforce each other.

When I was a philosophy undergraduate, one of my teachers had flying flies that he usually mistook for real flies. He started talking and soon was moving his hands in the air to capture or send off the “flies”—after a while he would finally say:

“Oh, right... I do have these floaters in my eye, I always forget about them.”

When this happens for the first time at an epistemology class, you start to wonder if that is not some kind of highly theatrical way to illustrate a point, but after a dozen times, you start to realize it’s actually just disorderly rlung! This professor always has those automatic reactions to the black dots on his field of vision, and it alwaus takes him several seconds to remember his own medical condition!

Žižek can’t stay still for a second. He needs to scratch his nose, or the ear, or clean away the sweat from his forehead, or adjust his t-shirt. You seldom see such level of afflictive tics on a public speaker.

I don’t know what sort of medication he takes, or how much coffee does he drink, but with those periorbital dark circles over his eyes and all those tics, it sure seems to me that, for his own health, he should re-prioritize his philosophical engagements. The whole theater is really not doing any good for his health. And only those who hypostasise some kind of ideal intellectual abstraction devoid of real consequence in the world would listen to what amounts to a convulsive zombie—babbling dirty jokes and anecdotal comparisons with a few interspersed supposedly philosophical lines of name dropping and jargon—and consider this to be a good source of knowledge, or even good ideas. If there is clarity that it is a self-mockery of all present, an existentialist absurd fuck you to all present, including himself, and academic reality show—at least some truth has been recognized and preserved.

As a show, there are worse, for sure.

I mention Tibetan medicine in connection to his physical appearance and gestures, and his whole “philosophical activity”, just because he opened this door when he started meddling with Buddhism. In fact, I would totally ignore him if I didn’t have to face from time to time people who ask me “hey, and how about Slavoj Žižek’s criticisms on Buddhism? How do you Buddhists answer him?” Also, I sure confess to want to know nothing about Lacan and other such delinquents because—most of philosophy is like that, but this is particularly true of obscurantists; that is, those who make no effort to speak clearly, and develop clear theses etc.—it all seems to be quite like quicksand: the more you move around it, the more it becomes quite impossible to escape. Just brain washing of the worst kind.

It’s not that I am advocating judging a book by its cover, but you don’t really need to read everything to dismiss it as bullshit. A few warning signs (and Buddhist-wise, someone’s demeanour is actually one of them) would suffice, and you don’t have all the time in the world to check everything already written, so you need to prioritize according to your best criterion.

There is no definite criterion with which you could evaluate the... we can use several words: validity, utility, coherence, practicality, the “what is this shit for” behind all the word salad available in the world. You have to establish your own heuristics for that, and a few checkpoints are truly useful. Look at the person! Does this seem a life worth living? Then, perhaps you should listen to him.

Of course, another circumstance where ad hominen type conjectures may be worthy. Of course the appearance or demeanour of someone is not what you check for in a mathematician, plumber, grosseries salesman. But you are supposedly listening to a philosopher, someone who teaches about the profound, who lives philosophy: then you should look at his face as an argument.

Besides the body, all the verbal hallucination many times seems to be there exactly in order to avoid evaluation, and so that we may be more focused on the text as an end on itself. That’s why, actually, this is so often referred to as intelectual masturbation.

The Charlie Sheen of philosophy

It has to be said that, on the context of Buddhist civilization (I won’t use “religion”, “philosophy” or “science” to refer to the transcultural phenomenon), the particular way in which Žižek’s expresses himself wouldn’t be respected. In the same way you would never hire a bum as a financial consultant, you would not listen to a balloon of spasmodic fluids as a beacon on good living or understanding the world, on anything profound—on the subjects considered valid and worthy of verbal expression on the Buddhist milieu (of course you wouldn’t stay there to hear about the opposite or pure ramblings).

When we are dealing with the Buddhist context, even a charlatan would have a good posture and would behave with a quite elegant disposition—he would certainly do that if he wanted to be convincing. There is no place for a middle-age-crisis-style Charlie Sheen. This actually is a good example: there is a tragic fascination over Sheen at his most public moment and this fascination seems to arise in a similar way for the Žižequian breakdown. We can see, in both men, the fascination for exaggeration for its own sake, for the dirty old man, for sheer decadence and effect.

It is sometimes like a bohemian adventure on the halls of dry academy, sometimes like Artaud's theater, sometimes like The Simpsons.

Furthermore, in particular, I understand a little about Buddhism, so I can try to evaluate Žižek’s charlatanism on the subject. Many times when he starts to express this or that idea about this cultural phenomena, he begins with a suspicious disclaimer: “I have heard this from people who know the subject, people with whom I have debated”.

I have no idea how wrong he might be about his guru Lacan, marxism, Gangnam Style, the movie Project X or Justin Bieber—only some of the possible subjects happening in a Žižek lecture, always preceded by some sort of excuse in the style of “I’m am not pulling your legs, I’m not the kind of French intellectual that comes here and ridicules the low-brow American culture... it is not that”—but again, it is and it isn’t, simultaneously and how best it fits the ears of those who listen... if by whiskey... Anyway, on those subjects I can’t really evaluate him.

I do have some kind of clarity over some of Žižek’s specific mistakes about Buddhism, and more than that, about the kind of overall naiveté over the complexities and vastness of the Buddhist tradition. Alas, something that he has in common to many other pseudo-scholars.

Buddhism is not what you think

Buddhism is vast (in number of texts, the time it has survived, and how broadly it adapted to different cultures during its existence) and quite complex, yet Žižek, through his lack of clarity, adds at least another four layers of useless wrong complexity. The stuff Žižek berates (or compliments with certain irony, and without, again, a clear epistemic ground: could it be an ironic compliment that becomes an even greater compliment exactly because it is ironic, or is it effectively sarcasm etc., ad infinitum: all tickling for the hipster audience) on Buddhism, when he is not just completely wrong, is mainly related to:

1. versions of purely untimely academic understandings of Buddhism, with several degrees of pertinence;

2. popular versions of misunderstandings on Buddhism, that still somewhat demonstrate or represent what it ends up being in its present forms, particularly in the West;

3. a series of plain misunderstandings on Buddhism, that should be common in an audience of non-experts, but not in an academic setting;

4. if by whiskey criticism of “zen militarism”, for which ironically a great deal of blame could be put precisely in the penetration of Japanese thought by German Romantism, such as exactly the hegelian stuff Žižek loves, from the last decades of the 19th century on until after the war.

Obviously, the first three layers are not clearly separated: he may start a sentence talking about Buddhism as it is more or less practiced in the West today, throw in some remarks about Schopenhauer’s interpretation of Buddhism, mix in a peculiar excerpt from a classical text misinterpreted, and finish with the greatest erroneous stereotypes about Buddhism of all time. When it comes to what Buddhism actually teaches—its root texts, commentaries, and what living masters teach—Žižek remains almost completely silent, and this likely happens out of sheer ignorance rather than due to any of the real problems with his attitude, his philosophy, or the philosophy he appreciates.

Then he treats the bastardized German-Romantic militarization of skewed Zen with awe, as if it was related to what the Buddha taught, or to what was practiced in Japan for centuries—before the actual dissemination and degradation of dharma through particularly German ideology in the end of the 19th century.

Typical Žižek: “old Buddhism is somewhat worthy, but Mahayana… Mahayana is evil”. Now, remember, when Žižek says something is evil, that is simultaneously a criticism and a compliment. He delights particularly in not leaving the crucial thing clear. But why Mahayana Buddhism would be “evil”? Due to the Bodhisattva ideal, of course: someone who abandons nirvana to work in the benefit of other beings, something that might make him further away from this goal, nirvana.

How does Žižek interprets this to be evil? In his psychoanalytical view, he sees that as some sort of “delaying of reward", for some kind of idealism more fit for romantism.

But Mahayana’s deal goes much further than that, mr. Žižek. Mahayana in it is root is quite different from the romantism with which westerners first analysed it.

In the same way you “evil” can be a “glory of sacred horror”, nirvana is not univocal in all Buddhist traditions. Some schools would say nirvana is a goal for inferior schools, others would say that samsara (the seemingly endless cycle of suffering all beings find themselves) and nirvana aren’t essentially different. Even Wikipedia has separate articles on nirvana and enlightenment.

The nirvana Žižek is able to fathom, it’s easy to guess, is more akin to what we could call “conceptual heroin”: it is of the same nature of the epiphanies he delights in creating and absorbing, maybe just a little bigger (he actually wonders if he hasn’t reached nirvana himself, maybe at some point during some of his lectures). For him there’s no concept of mahayanist bodhi, which is considered superior to nirvana to the point that boddhisatvas should feel nauseated even to ponder much over such a lowly state.

His, to say the least, might be a very popular and common stereotyping of nirvana. There isn’t a careful examination of, for example, all the plethora of things described in Buddhist texts that people commonly confuse with the nomenclature “nirvana”. Nirvana’s explanation is often a via negativa, that is, it is mostly explained through what it isn’t. And it is not the achievement of some kind of intellectual clarity or diluted orgasm, a big chocolate or eureka moment, as sometimes we are led to think—even considering, also perhaps because of European romantic ideology, this has become the common use of the terminology outside strict Buddhism with its due measures of quality control. So Žižek might have a little leverage to argue around this, but on the other hand, it is clear that he himself doesn’t even start to have the least Buddhist scriptural and praxis based understanding of the concept in any longitude—so it gets, again, deceitful in many ways.

If you excuse yourself saying that you know it is a polemic issue, that you know it is a modern, temporary pervasive (or not) mistake, even if you go on and criticize the thing by its least rounded façade of a scarecrow, you, for decency sake, at least would mention what the real thing is supposed to be, wouldn't you?

Not wanting happiness is part of the definition of suffering

But it is when Žižek speaks on suffering that he really screws it up. For psychoanalysts in general, there are two very problematic things with Buddhism: first the fact that Buddha states (and, according to whoever has taken refuge, gives an example to be followed for) the possibility of total liberation from suffering and neurosis. But I would concede that this, the belief that the maximum potential of beings is total freedom of all forms of entrapments and habit, can be taken as a point of faith, a particularly religious aspect of Buddhism.

The second problem psychoanalysis has with Buddhism is the so-called demonization of suffering. Žižek states: “There are people who like to suffer”—and in fact he goes to say that most people, psychoanalytically speaking, do actually enjoy suffering!

But more than that, from time to time there arises a psychoanalyst who says “without suffering, how would the artist x created the work of art y? On a Buddhist culture we would never have the art of z!”. The confusion all those people engage is in not understanding the very peculiar use of the somewhat mistranslation of the term dukkha as suffering. Due to many old translations and mental habits created due to these translations, we are still using the word “suffering” to talk about dukkha, although, in general, any introductory lecture on Buddhism would clarify the expanded meaning of this word to the audience. It does not refer only to discontentment, pain, anguish, sorrow, discomfort.

Also it is not only the (true) fact that nothing really brings us comfort. Dukkha is, besides all, the fact that our expectations and perspectives, our visions of the world and of things in general do betray us, time after time. We do have plain anguish, pain and lack of comfort in that, and the best word might be unsatisfactoriness. But the main point is that when you do not recognize the trappings, nothing changes. And most of our happiness’s are of the very same nature, they are sure bitter at end, even when a bit sweet all around. Even our apparent satisfaction, the lack thereof, our masochism, any justifications of "I would never do that again", or "I would do the very same", all of that, they are all part of dukkha, and sometimes part of the composite dukkha, that is the dukkha that doesn’t recognize itself as dukkha—the most common one.

So when Žižek says that not everyone wants to stop suffering, he needs to recognize that yes, there is masochists in the world, Buddhism accepts this. But, as the Brazilian playwright Nelson Rodrigues used to say, the really sadistic is the one that refuses beating the masochist. Not wanting to cease suffering is a very much recognizable kind of suffering for Buddhism. It’s just a vastly common, albeit a pinch larger, ignorance. If you are willing to become a Buddhist, then you should try to recognize suffering and avoid it systematically, whenever it can be avoided—but Buddhists do recognize that many beings do not see Buddhism as particularly interesting, and even can think that they enjoy suffering. It is actually very common, and described as very common. Much more common indeed that wanting to abandon suffering the Buddhist way!

This is so pervasive and recognized as pervasive that it becomes just so silly to have to point that out to a supposedly educated adult.

In a certain way it is kind of a miracle that some people do have the lucidity to approach Buddhism and think “yes, it makes sense”—Buddhism itself encourages a certain peculiar pride about this, and compassion, of course, for all those who say “well, but I enjoy suffering”, and those who randomly strive for the most weird kinds of happiness’s (Žižek lectures? erotic self-asfixiation? Cinnabon? Nickelback shows?), even in crazy bare concepts such as “not wanting (true) happiness is ok”. Bellow those who lack a coherent view, are those who have wrong views. These suffer the most, exactly because they are more ignorant: sometimes even not recognizing suffering, and not admiting the wish (or possibility) to get rid of it. Very common indeed.

People seek happiness in torture, in vengeance, in pettiness, in Hegel, in nazi salutes. All daily mundane things, very banal, our friend Hannah Arendt would point out.

Furthermore, the first homework most of us have when we start practicing is exactly to purify these kinds of notions: what is suffering, do I really want it?, how to avoid it. As a Buddhist, you should work on this. You should take time to reach and internalize such discoveries. They are not at all common! They are not “natural” for the common folk. Of course our habitual tendency is not recognizing it for what it is, thus we keep striving after it, exactly as an alcoholic or a drug addict. If it wasn’t like that, all the initial apparatus of Buddhism—recommending contemplations on such topics, and making clear the need to arrive at a experiential conclusion over that—would be redundant. There’s lot of work on that, after you become a Buddhist, after you take refuge, after you have hundreds of hours of meditation under your belt. Even after you reach some realizations. This can even be “beginner stuff”, but doesn't stop for years, or lifes.

What Žižek is saying is almost the same as claiming that Buddhism has no way to explain addictions, which is quite a big chunk of the Buddhist discourse, if I may say so. Habit, habit forming, how to deal with habit, how to overcome bad habits, how to foster good habits, how to go beyond habits, good or bad.

When the Dalai Lama tells us that all beings want to cease suffering and find happiness—that I believe may be the fragment wherein comes Žižek’s claim that it is (or shouldn’t be) like that—Žižek doesn’t really notice how His Holiness is actually being, on the Buddhist perspective, quite provocative and counterintuitive!

This kind of statement is quite uncommon in Buddhism. With this His Holiness is saying three things: mainly that all beings are basically the same, or the same when we are talking about basic needs; that all beings suffer, have problems, do become unsatisfied; and, that at the bottom of it, this yearning that all beings have is spiritual. But he does say this in a peculiarly neutral way: no one would deny that he wants a glass of water when he is thirsty (even an ascetic wants certain kinds of very material and basic forms of happiness). A true masoquist would refuse to eat or drink water. If you drink water, you are seeking to satiate a very intimate reflex for happiness.

In a sense, everyone gets thirsty and wants to get rid of that discomfort. Very rare people are able to, in the name of some idealistic goal, with lots of hope and expectation, voluntarily stop drinking water until they are dead. Animals don't do it. But Mr. Žižek seems to think we are talking about something different than this.

If we are talking about a masochist—or even just an ordinary person—it is precisely in their confusion, suffering, chaos, pain, and problems that they strive... so much... in pursuit of that strange and peculiar happiness. Nothing that weird about it, if we look at the situation carefully.

If someone seeks happiness in physical pain—according to the Dalai Lama, they are still seeking happiness. Can we really say this is “strange”, unless we are willing to engage in kink shaming? But even then this is not strange to the point of alienating us from dukkha. That is the weakest argument an armchair philosopher could come up with.

“Dukkha? Oh, but there are masochists.” They apply the principle of charity and seek the profound even in the lowest of reality-shows, yet they argue as if Buddhists are the most primitive kind of fools.

Irrelevant authors

Then Žižek quotes D. T. Suzuki, invoking the familiar argument that meditation can create better killers—, a claim rooted in militaristic distortions of Buddhism. Meditators, he says, do not see killing as killing but as an aesthetic act: a sharp blade passing through a butter-like neck. Simply atoms interacting with atoms, no emotions: “suffering is just an illusion” as medicine for those suffering from illusion.

Two points here: First, it is true that, particularly in Japan but to a lesser extent elsewhere, Buddhism has been distorted and misused for war and violence. Meditation predates Buddhism and can indeed be co-opted for secular or non-virtuous purposes. A person could meditate to become better at video games, for example. Meditation sharpens the mind, and this clarity can be applied to any endeavor—good, neutral, or harmful.

But this is not what Buddhism teaches. It is a well-documented distortion of Buddhism, particularly in Japan during the militaristic pre-war era. Yet Žižek seems to conflate this distortion with Buddhism in general. This conveniently aligns with his Hegelian fascination for the counterintuitive and grotesque if by whiskey style arguments. What Žižek misses is exactly the fact this militarized “Zen” emerged through the influence of European ideologies—particularly German Romanticism and Hegelian thought—on Japanese intellectuals in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Second, who still reads D. T. Suzuki as a credible source on Buddhism? Certainly not Buddhists. With the vast and rigorous scholarship on Buddhism emerging in the West since the 1990s, why rely on such a controversial and outdated figure? Suzuki, after all, was a Christian who never formally studied or practiced Buddhism. His writings are deeply influenced by German Romanticism—the same ideological poison that caused devastation in Europe and Japan alike. And he is similar to Heidegger in that he participated in and was complicit with the totalitarian state and fascist nationalism. He is basically a Japanese fascist writing about Buddhism from a German Philosophy perspective, and I repeat: with no formal training or education whatsoever in Buddhism!

Žižek might argue that Suzuki’s influence persists in Western popular Buddhism. That may be true in regions like Brazil, where there are few translations of Buddhist works. However, on a global scale, Suzuki’s works belong more to the history of distortions about Buddhism. To critique Buddhism using Suzuki is like claiming expertise in the field after reading Blavatsky, Schopenhauer, Lobsang Rampa, or Kerouac—or after watching Seven Years in Tibet, Memoirs of a Geisha or Lost Horizon. These works and authors, alongside Suzuki, have become artifacts of Orientalist fantasy.

If someone insists on criticizing the shallow, mainstream portrayal of Buddhism or the oversimplified versions taught in low-quality “orientalist” courses, we as Buddhists risk missing the opportunity to set the record straight. Strawman Buddhism is not a worthy opponent—especially when built upon misrepresentations and invented authorities.

The militaristic distortions of the Buddhadharma—particularly in Japan—were amplified and shaped by European ideologies that became fashionable among Japanese intellectuals in the late 19th century. Given this, it is hardly surprising that Žižek fixates on them. D. T. Suzuki—again, a Christian and fascist that never studied or practiced Buddhism—, for example, developed his so-called “Zen style” deeply influenced by German Romanticism—especially the regressive ideology of Hegel. The very distortions and violences that Žižek both praises and condemns, and which he indulges in, are rooted in and reinforced by the same Eurocentric ideals that he recognizes in his own way of thinking. None of this, strictly speaking, has anything to do with the many forms of Buddhism that never underwent these distortions, nor even with the original Japanese forms that suffered these colonial assaults.

Emptiness and pumped-up on steroids capitalism

Even considering D. T. Suzuki’s irrelevance, Žižek’s criticism regarding Zen militarism is ok-ish. It holds merit because it highlights a historically true facet of Buddhism—Buddhist militarism, samurai ethics and aesthetics within the Buddhist milieu, etc.—and reflects Buddhism’s vulnerability to Western influence. Žižek also touches on the contemplation of what emptiness could mean or, more accurately, be misunderstood as.

He mentions that in today’s world—where the stock market is governed by algorithms and everything is so “virtual”—Buddhism is the de facto ontology (or perhaps more accurately: non-ontology, or “nontology”¹Buddhism denies the possibility of ontology as an ever-doomed attempt of philosophical imperialism perpetrated by the ignorant mind on the wisdom mind.) that aligns best with the mindset of brokers and businessmen who must navigate this volatility. This argument, while framed as Marxist criticism, also carries a subtle compliment, as Žižek often does. (He also name-drops Steve Jobs, whose connections with Buddhism and Asian Thought are more a fleeting curiosity than substantive. While relevant to Buddhism’s presence in popular imagination—the apparent target of Žižek’s critique—this hardly holds deeper significance.)

Žižek’s core assertion is that Buddhism has replaced socialism as the spiritual and ideological refuge of middle-to-high-class people—a valid observation. Yet, as a religion, Buddhism undeniably outperforms Marxism, a fact Marxists would not need to be hard pressed to concede. (It is by now widely known that Marxism often ironicaly functions as a substitute religion, akin to how Lacan cunningly exploits religious yearning to sell epistemic orgasms.) Ironically, His Holiness the Dalai Lama—himself exiled by Maoists and an activist for a population culturally, economically, and physically ravaged by Chinese Confucio-Marxism²Another tragic instance of cultural imperialism: European ideology, once again connected to Hegel, fused with distorted strains of Eastern thought systems, culminating in genocide, famine, and cultural obliteration.—openly declares himself a socialist.

From the Buddhist perspective, competitiveness is one of the five primary kleshas (afflictive emotions): indifference, attachment, aversion, competitiveness, and self-satisfying false contentment (often called ignorance, desire, anger, envy, and pride). While capitalism may offer certain benefits, its core reliance on exploitation and unchecked competitiveness, coupled with its self-serving, individualistic focus on efficiency (whether societal, market-based, or personal), is fundamentally incompatible with Buddhism.

One of capitalism’s key features—advertising—stands in direct opposition to Buddhist mind training. If Buddhists influenced policy, they would undoubtedly restrict invasive advertising (which, it could be argued, includes all advertising). Advertising hijacks attention and entraps the mind. Buddhism, being the foremost system for mastering attention, naturally rejects such manipulative intrusions. While debates around Buddhist views on free speech may be nuanced, the “free speech of capital” would undoubtedly receive a resounding no. Equality, after all, implies equal voice—not an amplified voice for big money, about money, and for money. While Buddhists may not inherently oppose wealth, they are deeply concerned about money’s corrupting influence on both mind and society.

Buddhism can certainly thrive in fast-paced and unstable environments, but it is not inherently suited to volatility. While it adapts to all circumstances, most practitioners prefer slower, more stable conditions—like those of Classical India—which are often more conducive to deep practice and study. Though Buddhists can navigate market fluctuations or societal instability, such conditions are not ideal, as Žižek suggests. In chaotic, degenerate, or high-speed environments, Buddhism takes on a more revolutionary role, providing strength through compassion and clarity.

Reducing Buddhism to a mere response to volatility, as Žižek implies, overlooks its depth and historical resilience. Spanning 2,600 years across diverse cultures, Buddhism is one of the most adaptable traditions known to humanity. According to Buddhist teachers, it may take another two to three centuries for Buddhism to fully integrate into the West or modern society. Its longevity and flexibility demonstrate that it is far more adaptative than a passing trend.

Buddhism’s critique of capitalism does not prevent its ability to penetrate any environment. Where suffering exists, Buddhism sees potential for transformation. Whether in settings of mundane power, money, or degradation, a Buddhist practitioner can work skillfully, using upaya (skillful means). The great Bodhisattvas—those Žižek dismisses as psychoanalytically deficient—venture into the darkest mental landscapes to liberate beings. As such, we may encounter “crypto-Bodhisattvas” at all societal levels: crypto-animals (animals who are, in fact, enlightened beings), crypto-prostitutes, crypto-stock-brokers, crypto-crypto-bros and so forth.

Žižek might find irony here, but Buddhism emphasizes practical engagement over lofty ideals. The practitioner works with what is workable, using available resources for the benefit of all. It’s a process akin to MacGyver’s—disarming mental poisons with whatever tools are at hand. Buddhism excels in recycling attitudes, concepts, and situations, uncovering potential benefits within seemingly toxic conditions. The active ingredient of a poisonous plant might be medicinal. This pragmatic approach, far from passive, embodies total engagement.

While Marxism champions abstract utopian ideals—often criticized by the right as attempts to “immanentize the eschaton”, make heaven on earth or to make earth a kind of heaven, which is taken as far too idealist—Buddhism remains grounded and earthy. It rejects holier-than-thou opiate-of-the-masses-style yearnings in favor of a practical path toward liberation.

As for Lacanian gibberish... well, in general we are better without coaches or con artists.

That said, Buddhism does offer myriad possibilities for revolutionary engagement, born from the tension between confusion and clarity. It operates like a network of causes and effects, generating opportunities for transformation across countless worlds.

Buddhism arises from a place free of ideology, yet it skillfully utilizes temporary ideologies when beneficial. Its foundation is the union of a refined, stable meditative mind, empirical study, and rational inference. With such clarity, ideologies may be adopted, discarded, or recycled according to the situation. An honest, undeceived mind radiates contentment, transforming everything and everyone it encounters.

Three kinds of beings in the path of enlightenment

Žižek also critiques the Buddhist polemic regarding the three types of Bodhisattvas, expressing preference for what he perceives as the Theravada view, where there isn’t this thing of renouncing nirvana in order to benefit beings.

The three Bodhisattva types are: kinglike, captainlike, and shepherdlike. The kinglike Bodhisattva seeks enlightenment first, believing he can better assist others from a position of strength. The captainlike Bodhisattva reaches enlightenment alongside all beings. Finally, the shepherdlike Bodhisattva guides all beings to enlightenment before attaining it himself. According to some schools, the shepherdlike Bodhisattva—being the most selfless—is ideal for those aspiring to the highest path.

Žižek’s problem stems from misunderstanding the distinction between aspiration and application in Buddhist practice. While aspiration may appear counterintuitive or impractical, it serves as a remedy to deeply ingrained habits. For example, the shepherdlike Bodhisattva ideal counteracts habitual self-centeredness, even if ultimate reality does not align with its literal interpretation, that demands beings in different levels of benefitting and being benefitted to exist in some hard sense.

A common metaphor illustrates this principle: a curled piece of paper cannot be flattened immediately. It must first be rolled in the opposite direction and left to settle. Similarly, counterintuitive aspirations help undo harmful mental tendencies. Though someone may intellectually recognize a truth—e.g., that smoking is harmful—habit often overrides intention. This phenomenon, known as akrasia by the Greeks, highlights the elasticity and gradual reconditioning required to transform the mind.

Even considering that you must strive to think of others as more important than yourself, in the end, you are not fundamentally different from anyone else. Therefore, you don’t “deserve less,” nor should you place yourself absolutely behind others. However, for the purpose of training the mind, it can be important to consciously put yourself a little behind, temporarily—like folding a piece of paper in the opposite direction to straighten it out.

This kind of confusion regarding Buddhist polemics—mixing it with psychoanalysis—cannot help anyone. First, you study the subject; then you compare it with others. If you mix ideas while studying, without first establishing a clear understanding of the subject you intend to analyze or critique, you will never attain clarity. The scope of the polemic also seems misunderstood. It primarily pertains to Tibetan Buddhism, though Theravadins and Mahayanists have similar discussions at other levels.

Selfish attachment and plain attachment

Žižek stubbornly portrays the Buddhist concept of nonattachment as a kind of aloofness, which he sees as a problem we—coming from a Jewish-Christian background—do not necessarily need to adopt. He ties this to D.T. Suzuki’s militaristic emptiness, that I addressed before.

From both scientific and anecdotal perspectives, empathy is consistently shown to be higher among Buddhist meditators. The issue, then, does not lie in Buddhism itself, nor in isolated cases of misinterpretation among Buddhists, but rather in a fundamental misunderstanding of the Buddhist concept of attachment.

One of the three core mental afflictions (commonly translated as “ignorance”) is better understood as emotional alienation or a feeling of separation rather than a lack of knowledge. What is not understood—this ignorance—is the basic interdependent nature of all things and beings. Attachment arises because we mistakenly view ourselves and others as separate. Similarly, anger or aversion arises from this same ignorance, but with a focus on fear and blame.

The common Western misperception is that Buddhists aspire to a quality of aloofness. Yet, the defining characteristic most people cite when describing prominent Buddhist teachers is quite the opposite: warmth.

Attachment, in Buddhist terms, is the artificial reinforcement of separation. Ironically, this sounds very psychoanalytic. In training the mind, one begins by shifting attachment from oneself to others. Step by step, attachment is purified of its ignorance, transforming into empathy and compassion.

Cold-blooded or surgical approaches to compassion are also present. Take, for example, the Buddhist story of Atisha, who cleaned maggots from a wounded dog’s flesh with his tongue to avoid harming the maggots while still saving the dog. This kind of passionate engagement and interest in the well-being of others is highly valued in Buddhism. One need not replicate such extreme actions, but the point remains: compassion must be passionate and fully present.

Tip of the iceberg

Beyond Žižek’s distortions, there is an entire body of Buddhism unknown to him—and to most of us in the West. Some scholars estimate that only 5% of Buddhist classical texts have been translated into Western languages (and some put this number closer to 1%). For instance, Žižek seems entirely unaware of the Indian mahasiddha tradition—a rich lineage with figures whose magical powers are not even their most compelling aspect.

Žižek, like some Western commentators, might have critiqued the diverse social backgrounds of these mahasiddhas: there were kings, monks, prostitutes, and even gay teachers among them. Perhaps he might have even identified himself with a communist Stasi mahasiddha of dark rings under the eyes and nervous tics, or something like that. Yet diversity is not Žižek’s focus—it lacks the shock value that resonates with the postmodernist crowd. It's more geared toward kale-eating liberals than the so-called cool, intellectual hipster provocateurs that Žižek tends to attract.

Furthermore, Žižek completely overlooks deeper discussions of Buddhist politics, language, and other topics. These are entirely lost to him. If he had done his homework, he might have uncovered better arguments for his critique—or at least avoided his caricatured presentation of compassion and emptiness, which he has evidently inherited from an unreliable Japanese scholar and Schopenhauerian/Nietzschean misreadings of dukkha.

“The problem of evil” as incompatible with the Buddhist “operational system”

Žižek and his tradition are deeply fixated on evil—a concept that is largely irrelevant in Buddhism. The problem of evil is primarily a Jewish-Christian (or at least theistic) neurosis. In Buddhism, harm inflicted upon others inevitably causes suffering for the perpetrator—like someone drinking poison after failing to read the label.

From a Buddhist perspective, what we call evil—even atrocities such as the Holocaust—are simply large-scale manifestations of the same ignorance that leads to small daily corruptions, such as hurtful speech or laziness. The point is not to trivialize major harms but to underscore that small afflictions must also be taken very seriously.

Try explaining the Western notion of evil to a Buddhist teacher unfamiliar with Western culture. You’ll spend days trying to articulate something that inherently exists, whether as an external force or an intrinsic characteristic of the world. Is evil an innate feature of the human mind, or is it merely a temporary confusion—a product of our natural freedom? Either way, you would likely leave that teacher bewildered at the philosophical entanglement of the Western mind.

Žižek also fixates on the dung chen—the Tibetan longhorn trumpet—interpreting its deep, low frequency as symbolic of a “dark side” of nirvana. Tibetan teachers, however, explicitly state that wrathful deities and ceremonies have nothing to do with evil, nonvirtue, lack of compassion or afflictive emotions; they are extreme expressions of compassion. The dung chen itself, often described as sounding like “dragons mating,” is used in processions and ceremonies — not as some sinister manifestation Žižek implies. To say things like that is absolutely a lack of sensibility and cultural context.

This abuse of language is perhaps Žižek’s most egregious failure. He could have explored scholarship on Tibetan Buddhism and violence or even investigated monastic conflicts fought on a “spiritual” level. Instead, he reduces complex cultural phenomena to pub-level occultist ramblings, reminiscent of “the Nazis went to Tibet to find spiritual weapons.”

The funny thing about Buddhist Tantra is that it focuses on transforming afflictive emotions—meaning it does not demonize even the most Mahayana-challenging or “evil” aspects of the mind, like the basic afflictions I have described elsewhere in this text. Tantra itself is vastly complex, with its own extensive history of polemics. Reducing this depth to a commentary on the sound of a Tibetan ritual instrument is not only irresponsible but pure sensationalism.

Sure, how come no one thought of that before? To criticize Buddhism, great!

Žižek's motivation for criticizing Buddhism seems to stem, at least partially, from how unusual such criticism is. Buddhism’s public relations are remarkably good: the critiques we typically encounter are either aesthetic (too kitsch, out of fashion, or overly fashionable—Žižek toys with all of these) or rare and shameful occurrences, like monks fighting or sexual misconduct within the sangha.

When Buddhism does come up in conversation—and this is a little Žižekian itself—people might voice small objections here and there. After all, adding a bit of friction always makes for a livelier discussion, doesn’t it?

Žižek, ever the entertainer, bypasses the predictable and jumps straight to the most unimaginable critiques. This strategy tickles his hipster audience with polemics of all kinds—particularly the easy, petty, and phony ones.

(This rant was partially inspired by two videos Zizek waxes on about Zionism, Sex, Gangnam Style, Justin Bieber, the Pope, and Buddhism and Slavoj Žižek: The Buddhist Ethic and the Spirit of Global Capitalism. It was originally written in Portuguese in December 2012 as Slavoj Žižek: Velhacaria Hipster then expanded and rewritten in English, going back and forth between the two languages over the years. The most recent updates were made in March 2025.)

I must confess this text is not particularly “Buddhist” in tone or form. Criticism of this nature is unusual. There is a delightful anecdote about His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s first talk in the West, in Poland during the 1970s. The very first question a Westerner asked him was, “What do you think about Lobsang Rampa’s books?” His response embodied the Middle Way and the Buddhist ethos: “Well, I believe his books are not 100% trustworthy.”

Žižek seems to be a kind of Lobsang Rampa for Western philosophy: popular, grotesque, sensationalist—and wrong. What, then, can be said about his views on Eastern thought?

I harbor no anger toward Žižek. In fact, I find him quite entertaining. Beneath this rant lies a thinly veiled compliment. I’m no philosophy fanboy, but I do wish academics would elevate the level of discussion around Buddhism. There are rare bright spots in Asian Studies, particularly among self-confessed Buddhists—lineage holders, in some cases—who work from the “inside” as secret agents. But overall, the noise is too loud to benefit Buddhism or society in general. That’s my two cents on “academic Buddhism.”

Some people call me Padma. A commentary I once received on social networks about my name and this article read: “Most interesting of all: the author is named Padma, almost like Padmé Amidala from Star Wars, that most Buddhist of movie series and a frequent object of Žižek's criticism. You can’t make this stuff up.”

I don’t consider Star Wars Buddhist at all, though the producers themselves claim to have drawn on a mélange of New Age ideas—including bastardized versions of Buddhism. I’m not a fan of Star Wars, either.

“Padma” is Sanskrit for “lotus flower” and remains a common name for girls in India today, much like “Daisy” in English. To connect it to Star Wars in the first place reveals a symptom of this intellectual wasteland. I—a cis male—received this name from a Tibetan Teacher in early 1998, over a year before the Star Wars movie featuring Padmé Amidala premiered in shopping malls and megaplexes. “Padma” here is the lotus, but also relates do Padmasambhava, Guru Rinpoche, the central figure in the Buddhist tradition I practice.

However, the comment from that random Žižek reader is, in a sense, emblematic of the slavic’s own thought process: fragmented, poorly reasoned, and in bad taste. It borders on occultist thinking, a kind of conspiracy-theory apophenia, where unrelated dots are connected through sheer lunacy.

Once again, people in the West appropriate certain elements of Buddhism—often distorted and diluted—and then another Westerner comes along to criticize these same misappropriated elements as if they truly represented Buddhism. This is precisely what Žižek does when he complains about D. T. Suzuki’s views.

As if my own name, as it was given to me, had anything to do with Star Wars! Stop attacking the strawman—it’s nothing more than a poorly constructed dummy!

To borrow the peerless words of Belchior: “I’m just a Latin American lad without money in the bank nor influential and powerful relatives...” I live in Porto Alegre and have been trying to practice Buddhism for the last 28 years.
Sorry for my awkward English.

You really can’t make this stuff up.

◦ The dirtbag zen of Steve Jobs, tzal.org article (there is a Brazilian Portuguese version.)

tzal.org

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The Death of Postmodernism And Beyond

Alan Kirby says postmodernism is dead and buried. In its place comes a new paradigm of authority and knowledge formed under the pressure of new technologies and contemporary social forces.

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The Chokgyur Lingpa Terma Cycle

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