The Canary, the Historian, and the Ukrainian War

    I have a friend who takes other people’s suffering as her own, and almost physically. When she visited Babyn Yar — the place where Kyiv’s Jews, thirty-three thousand men, women, and children, were shot in the fall of 1941 — she described being torn by excruciating pain. Her experience reminds me of Simone Weil, who died in London in 1943, a year after she left Nazi-occupied France, refusing to eat because of her compassion for prisoners of the Nazi camps. Like Weil, my colleague has mystical experiences. Her health is frail, and she has experienced clinical death. From that time on she has claimed she could see the future. I am a rational person, and normally the last to believe such claims, but there was one episode in August 2021, when we were drinking coffee on a summer terrace in our native city of Lviv, in western Ukraine, when she told me that this was “the last peaceful summer.” She predicted the date when Russia would launch its invasion, erring only by a day. After the war started, she moved to Krakow. I have since met her there, and she told me when and how this war would end. I keep her words to myself, because I do not wish to expose her to derision. I can only say that with the development of events at the front, and after Trump’s victory, her forecast looks very plausible.

    My friend is a poet. In our part of the world, poets are believed to have a gift for prophecy. The greatest of them are even called national prophets. This is in contrast to us, the historians: we can barely deal with the past, so what could we possibly say about the future? Still, historians do have one advantage. They can look at daily events from a historical perspective and reveal long-term tendencies of the past that may be working both for the present and the future. In the 1960s, a group of historians and political scientists at the University of Michigan started a project entitled Correlates of War, or COW. Since then, they have compiled a rich dataset on military conflicts of the past two hundred years. The most significant finding of the project is a general constancy in warfare. There have only been twelve years during this period when a new war did not start — but there has never been a year with no war ongoing. These findings pose a challenge to the literature of “democratic peace,” and its projections of a declining trend in warfare.

    Ironically, one of the most bellicose periods was the end of the Cold War, at precisely the time when Francis Fukuyama published his infamous essay on the end of history. Its last paragraph reads:

    The end of history will be a very sad time. The struggle for recognition, the willingness to risk one’s life for a purely abstract goal, the worldwide ideological struggle that called forth daring, courage, imagination and idealism, will be replaced by economic calculation, the endless solving of technical problems, environmental concerns, and the satisfaction of sophisticated consumer demands. In the post-historical period there will be neither art nor philosophy, just the perpetual caretaking of the museum of human history.

    Would he have retracted his article if he had been familiar with the statistics of the COW project? In any case, for historians a “return of history” is not a surprise. History neither ended nor returned. It has been always with us, as have its darker themes of mass violence, wars, and genocides. The Russo-Ukrainian war is another proof of this historical tendency.

    This war can be compared with many military conflicts of the past. As a war between a smaller democratic state and a large authoritarian neighbor, it can be compared to the Greco-Persian wars, in which a smaller and more free-spirited tribe of Greeks gained an empire. If we remove democracy from the comparison, then this war is similar to the Finnish-Soviet war of 1939–1940. If we add a colonial dimension, then it looks like the French-Algerian war, or any other war of decolonization.

    When Putin started his full-scale invasion of Ukraine, he was counting on a victorious Blitzkrieg — just as Hitler had expected of his Blitzkrieg against Poland in 1939, against France in 1940, and against the Soviet Union in 1941. The facts show that those who start a war tend to lose it. The rate of victory for initiators of inter-state hostilities has been on a constant decline, and now comprises thirty-three percent. The reason for this is that decisions to go to war are often emotional rather then rational, with no real goals and no real appreciation of the war’s ultimate costs.

    After his Blitzkrieg plans for Ukraine failed, Putin resorted to a war of attrition. And here a comparison with the First World War — a classic case of this kind — comes to mind. In this type of war, the outcome depends not so much on what happens on the battlefield, but on who is able to bear the brunt of war longest. Such a war ends not in a military victory but in a collapse. The latter occurs, to borrow Hemingway’s famous remark about bankruptcy, gradually and then suddenly. Collapse can happen not only to one of the parties in the conflict but to all of them. World War I ended with the collapse of the Russian empire in 1917 and of the Austro-Hungarian and German empires in 1918. It may be said that the Russo-Ukrainian war is a competition between two countries for who will collapse first.

    Ultimately, in a war of attrition, the outcome depends on resources. If Ukraine is left on its own, its prospects — no matter how bravely the Ukrainians fight — look bleak, even doomed: Russia has a three-to-four times advantage economically and demographically. But if Ukraine has access to the West’s resources, then Russia’s chances are slim. Russia’s GDP is slightly larger than that of Italy, and comprises only about ten percent of that of the European Union and nine percent of that of the United States. It is not surprising that both countries are looking for allies. Ukraine counts on the West; Russia counts on China, Iran, India, and most recently North Korea. This is not a world war, but a war that is distinctly global.

    Comparisons can also be treacherous. In the summer of 2024, the Center for Applied History at Harvard’s Kennedy School prepared an analytical report on the possible outcomes of the Russo-Ukrainian war. The experts looked for the best possible solutions that could satisfy the national interests of all the belligerents and their primary patron states, i.e. Ukraine, Russia, the United States, and China. Their choice fell on the outcome of the Finnish-Soviet war. Although Finland lost a part of its territory and remained neutral during the Cold War, in the long run it aligned strongly with the West, joining the European Union in 1995 and NATO in 2023. Such a scenario offers a hope for Ukraine’s long-term democracy and self-determination under a similar outcome.

    The authors of the Harvard report, however, ignored an important detail. I refer to Putin’s attitude toward Ukraine. It has the character of an obsession. More than once, he and his spin doctors have stated that Ukraine is a nation artificially created by the West in order to undermine Russia. For this reason, comparisons with the Soviet-Finnish war, or the two similar cases of the Korean War and the division of Germany after World War II, do not quite work. Even Stalin, in his wars with Finland, Germany, and Korea, did not aim to destroy their national identity. Not so with Putin. In this sense, he can be compared with Cato the Elder, who ended his every speech with the words “Carthage must be destroyed.” Or with the current Muslim leaders who set themselves the obsessive goal of destroying Israel.

    In some ways this is an uprecedented war, and the longer it goes on, the less history has anything to say about it. Pavlo Kazarin, a Ukrainian journalist who volunteered for the war in its first days, wrote that he could not watch Hollywood war movies anymore: they did not reflect the realities of war as he experienced them.

    The protagonists of Apocalypse Now were not attacked by guided bombs. The de-miner from The Hurt Locker doesn’t know what tank combat looks like. John Rambo’s position was never hit by a 152-caliber shell. . . . We are the only ones who have ever shot down hypersonic missiles. The only ones who have destroyed long-range radar detection aircraft. No such experience exists in any army in the world — including the US Army.

    Before Russia’s full-scale aggression of 2022, there were futuristic speculations that wars would come to resemble scenes from the Terminator movies. Warfare, it was said, would undergo a transition from industrial war, with the clash of tanks, to war of the information age, when military equipment is controlled by computers via the Internet, with minimal involvement of manpower. The first phase of the Russo-Ukrainian war was nothing of the kind. It looked exactly like conventional modern warfare, with extended front lines, infantry, tanks, and planes. But soon drones brought a change. They now control large strips of territory on both sides of the front line, making close combat virtually impossible and snipers largely redundant. Drones helped Ukrainians to neutralize the Russian fleet in the Black Sea and to compensate for manpower shortages on the ground. The end of last year saw another breakthrough: in a location north of Kharkiv, Ukrainians conducted a ground attack using exclusively unmanned ground vehicles and drones for the first time.

    The war may move to other zones that were previously unaffected. The First and Second World Wars brought warfare underwater and into the sky. Now the sky is no longer the limit. The British philosopher A. C. Grayling warns that as the new space race intensifies, conflict over resources on the moon is all but inevitable. The moon, the New Frontier, may become a new Wild West. And I have not mentioned AI, which is being frantically integrated into the militaries of many countries. It was used in the war in Gaza.

    As the Russo-Ukrainian war drags on and acquires unprecedented features, it seems that history has less and less to say about it. Yet it is important to point out that many things are not new. We used to talk of the Soviet Union as the last empire and believed that with its demise the age of empires was finally over. Now the Russian Empire is attempting to return and reclaim its status as a superpower. The same can also be said about China, its ally. So we may indeed be facing a new age of empires. We also believed that “the short twentieth century,” 1914 to 1989, the era of war and revolution, is over. Ukraine may undermine this conclusion, too. Since the country’s independence in 1991, it has experienced two revolutions and two wars. You might say that Ukraine is stuck in the twentieth century.

    Moreover, the Ukrainian case may not be so exceptional. Since the end of the Cold War, the world has experienced two great revolutionary waves — the “Color Revolutions” of the 2000s and the short-lived Arab Spring in the next decade — as well as the wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan, and Gaza. From this perspective, the period between 1991 and 2001 looks like a short respite between two major periods of wars and revolutions, just as the period between 1919 and 1939 was a respite between two major wars. The twentieth century is proving to not be all that short. In significant ways we are still living in it.

    Two paradoxes characterize the current situation on the Russo-Ukrainian front lines. First, since the fall of 2023, the Russian army has overcome a positional stalemate and made a steady advance — but despite tremendous efforts and tremendous losses, it has made no strategic breakthrough. After three years of fighting, the front line is largely where it was at the beginning of the war, and no large Ukrainian city has been captured. Second, the war has entered a stage in which soldiers are becoming harder to send into a battle. An overwhelming majority of the Ukrainian population (88 percent in November 2024) believes in Ukrainian victory — but many if not most of them are not willing to go to the front. The same may be said about the Russians: they support Putin, but they want this war to stop.

    For historians, these paradoxes are not really surprising. They may easily recognize a familiar pattern from the First World War, when after three years of fighting the initial patriotism faded away and military advances had little effect. During the next two years, the front line collapsed, as did the whole European geopolitical order. The latter had been established in 1815 at the Congress of Vienna after the defeat of Napoleon. With all its imperfections, the Viennese system set a historical record. For almost a hundred years, the European continent did not have a major war, and the nineteenth century went into the annals of European history as the longest peaceful century.

    With the end of the Second World War, an opportunity arose to beat this record. Putin, with his aggression against Ukraine, destroyed it. In this war, another geopolitical order is at stake. That order emerged in postwar Europe. In the past, Europe was an exceedingly warlike continent: the two world wars originated there, and it was the Europeans who brought about major advances in military technology. Nowadays, it is hard even to imagine a war between England and France, France and Germany, or Germany and Poland — even though in the past these countries fought each other ferociously. After the Second World War, military conflicts were replaced with the politics of reconciliation. These improvements began with the Franco-German reconciliation of the 1950s and ultimately led to the creation of the European Union, which was defined as a “no war zone.” That was an unprecedented achievement. There had been nothing like it in the past.

    Since the fall of Communism, there was a chance that this “no war zone” could be extended further east. Polish-Ukrainian relations were a test case. In the past, Poles and Ukrainians fought frequently, and in the twentieth century their conflicts over the disputed Polish-Ukrainian borderlands took the form of mutual ethnic cleansings. There were fears that, with the collapse of communism, the Polish-Ukrainian war would resume with a renewed force. In 1969, the Polish poet Czesław Miłosz wrote to Jerzy Giedroyc, the editor of the Paris-based Polish émigré journal Kultura:

    For several years now and especially recently, I have been obsessed with the thought of a coming catastrophe . . . Politically we are facing the growth of nationalisms of the Nazi type. It takes place in Russia, it also takes place in Ukraine and other republics, and it is the same in Poland . . . If that outburst occurs, it will be completely blind, with people slaughtering each other, and the problems of Lviv, the Treaty of Riga etc. will be revived, and this time we are prepared to ultimately perish under the heaviness of that cataclysm.

    Fortunately, this did not come to pass. A solution to the conflict was proposed by Giedroyc. In the early 1950s he suggested that, for the good of Poland, Poles should agree that Lviv is a Ukrainian city. This proposal was so radical that a majority of Poles refused to accept it — for them, it was tantamount to treason. The situation changed when the anti-communist Solidarity came to power in Poland in 1989: Giedroyc’s doctrine served as the basis of its foreign policy. Since then, whoever comes to power in Warsaw or Kyiv — and regardless of any “ups and downs” in their relations — treat each other as allies.

    The “Giedroyc doctrine,” as well as the entire system of postwar European reconciliation, was built on the premise that while there are no just historical borders, the existing borders are best left alone, lest interference with them provoke a domino effect. History should be bigger than applied politics. Hence the “Never Again” slogan of the postwar European system. Nowadays, with the annexation of Crimea and other Ukrainian territories, this humane and pragmatic system is in jeopardy.

    In Putin’s mind, his war of attrition against Ukraine is just another episode in the millennial confrontation between Russia and the West. According to his worldview, the past dominates the present and there is no room for a future other than permanent war. After the start of the Russo-Ukrainian war, we witnessed how this precedent was used by Azerbaijan to reclaim Nagorno-Karabakh from Armenia; and Xi is brooding about Taiwan; and Trump is running his mouth about annexing or buying or conquering Canada, Greenland, Gaza, and Panama.

    Still, there is a basic difference between the language of Trump and the language of Putin. Trump talks about interests, however wildly, but Putin talks about values. On many occasions, Putin and his satraps have claimed that they stand for traditional values against a corrupted liberal West — that theirs is a holy war. In this rhetoric they sound similar to Muslim terrorists. No wonder they treat each other as allies.

    And so this war is not about Ukraine alone. Nor is it even about the global order. It is at its heart a war of values. This gives it a completely different dimension. It is easier to reach a truce when it comes to interests, but it is much harder to strike a compromise when it comes to values. For values, people are ready to go at each other’s throats.

    Values are like air: we cannot see them but they affect all our lives. This is one of the main findings of the World Values Survey, the largest academic social survey project, which has collected data from one hundred and twenty countries over the last hundred years. Societies with secular values that prize self-expression tend to be richer and democratic. Societies with traditional values and an overriding concern about survival tend to be poorer and autocratic. There are many differences between the two types, but the most distinctive difference concerns gender, particularly the status and rights of women.

    When we talk about values and living standards, it is impossible to determine what is the cause and what is the effect — they are forever locked in a “chicken-and-egg” relationship. What matters, however, is that the choices that societies make are to a large extent determined by their past. There are three major historical factors: traditional religious denomination — Protestant or Catholic, Christian or Islamic, and so forth; an imperial legacy; and the presence or absence of communism in the past. All factors combined, as Ronald Inglehart and Christian Welzel have shown, Western countries have fared better.

    With the fall of communism, Russia and Ukraine started from a similar position. They were somewhere between the West and the Rest. In the 2000s, however, their historical trajectories began to diverge. Ukraine tilted to the West and democracy, while Russia sank into isolationism and authoritarianism. In both countries, there emerged a large and educated middle class that stood for political freedom against predatory and corrupted elites, but the outcomes diverged. In Russia, the opposition was either suppressed or forced to emigrate; in Ukraine it came to power in the two Maidan revolutions. The last one, the Euromaidan of 2013–2014, was called the Revolution of Values or the Revolution of Dignity. Those were not empty words. The Ukrainian revolutionaries were risking their well-being, their health, and even their lives for what they saw as the European values of dignity and liberty.

    As a former KGB officer, Putin does not believe in spontaneous mass protests. He managed to suppress them at home, but he failed in Ukraine, despite his persistent interference since 2004. To explain his failure, he came up with the myth that the two Ukrainian revolutions were the result of a Western conspiracy against him and Russia. Putin believes — or wants us to believe — that he is waging a war not with Ukraine, but with the West on Ukrainian territory, in the name of traditional family values against the permissive Western liberal order.

    The values-based character of the war was evident from its first weeks. Back then, groups of Russian mercenaries were reported to have been in Kyiv with a mission to assassinate Volodomyr Zelensky and to destabilize the government. There was a debate among military experts regarding how this plan would affect the war if it succeeded. The consensus was: not very much. Ukrainian army commanders and city mayors acted independently and were not looking to Kyiv for guidance. These were the values of individual autonomy and self-expression in action.

    The Russo-Ukrainian war may be considered a military conflict between a vertical establishment and a horizontally organized society. Among other things, this is reflected in the fact that Ukraine has demonstrated the cutting edge in military technology. Very often these innovations come from private IT companies and other non-state organizations. Owing to their ingenuity, Ukrainians have managed to hold back a stronger and more numerous enemy. It is not surprising that the Pentagon and NATO are watching the Ukrainian experience closely — they are attempting to learn how to conduct a new type of war from Ukranians.

    But the enemy learns, too. Russians, using their advantage in resources, adopt and scale up many Ukrainian innovations. It takes months for this to happen, given the usual slowness of the administrative vertical. And the time lag is important: during those months the Ukrainians invent something new, and the race continues.

    All these stories may arouse skepticism. If Ukrainians are so resourceful, then why do they retreat all the time? Historical studies may provide an answer here, too. They reveal that free societies tend to fight better, but their advantage diminishes as the war drags on. The greater the losses and the suffering, the more survival values come to the fore.

    Values not only distinguish one society from the other; the dividing line also runs within every society. And since the army is a snapshot of the society, this division affects military forces, too. It has been said that there are actually not one but two Ukrainian armies, with two contesting military cultures. One army is trained according to NATO standards and is made up of units that are allowed to fight the way they want to fight. They are able to figure out the best way to use their people and resources and they have the authority, the duty, to improvise according to circumstances. The other one is very similar to the Russian or the old Soviet army, where commanders lack flexibility, strictly follow commands from above and demand that their subordinates follow them as well, without particular regard for rationality or changing conditions or consequences.

    The first army is made up largely of volunteers, often the same people who stood on the Euromaidan. They were at the front from the very first days. Many of them have perished or been promoted to senior officers’ positions; some are burned out after three years on the battlefield and the latest escalations in fighting. In short, their role has decreased, and the second army, the rigid army, has come to the fore. In the end, the conflict looks like a large Soviet army fighting a small Soviet army — and the situation is often saved by an even smaller NATO-like army. This affects the general mood. As a recent survey on Ukrainian concerns about military service shows, initial enthusiasm is being tempered by the reality of a protracted war. Apart from the fear of death or disability, there is the fear of unprofessional commanders, the fear that military equipment would be inadequate or not arrive in a timely manner.

    New realities have forced Ukrainians to redefine their understanding of victory. At the beginning of the war, they regarded victory as a return to the 1991 borders. Now many see it as the preservation of Ukraine as an independent state with international guarantees for its security. This would not be a complete victory. Still, it would be a strategic gain against the backdrop of Putin’s plan to erase Ukraine from the political map altogether.

    To be sure, a large part of the responsibility for Ukrainian failures falls on the Ukrainian leadership, its inefficiency, its corruption, its chaos, and its populism, which does not allow unpopular but necessary decisions to be made. At the beginning of the war, the Ukrainian state enjoyed enormous social trust. Now there is a rift between state and society, and the rift is growing.

    Yet the West also carries its share of the blame for the Ukrainian situation. It does not want Ukraine to lose, but neither does it want Ukraine to win. It fears the repercussions of a Russian defeat, just as in 1991 it feared the collapse of the Soviet Union. Experts say that if the Ukrainians had sufficient weapons and support from the West, they could have won the war as early as 2022. The same goes for the failure of the Ukrainian counteroffensive in 2023 and the fact that Ukrainians were slowly losing ground in 2024. The Russian army was able to go on the offensive because the package of military aid to Ukraine was blocked in the U.S. Congress for seven months — from October 2023 to April 2024. According to American officials, by the end of 2024 only about half of the total dollar amount that the United States had promised from American stockpiles had been delivered, and only about thirty percent of the promised armored vehicles had arrived.

    To better understand the importance of this factor, imagine what would happen to the young state of Israel if it were supplied with American aid at the same pace and level as Ukraine. One of the factors in the victory of the entente in the First World War and the Allies in the Second World War was American aid. This was recognized even by Stalin: he admitted that if the United States had not helped the Soviet Union, the latter would not have won its war against Hitler.

    They say that old generals fight wars in the old ways. President Biden was formed as a politician during the years of the Cold War. He believed in the containment strategy that had been central to keeping the peace for nearly seventy years. This strategy was carried over and applied to the current Russian “hot” war — so as not to turn it into World War Three and not to provoke a nuclear attack by Russia. His support of Ukraine was genuine but it lacked alacrity. Yet what worked during the Cold War does not necessarily work in the conditions of a hot war. The strategy of “helping Ukraine for as long as it takes” does not work, because for Ukraine, given its smaller resources, “as long as it takes” can be, certainly by impatient American standards, too long. It is true that Russia is exhausting its resources, and its economic prospects beyond 2025 look bleak. But it would be naive to think that the collapse of Russia is imminent, whereas Ukraine most certainly may collapse. As the Ukrainian proverb says, the dew will burn your eyes before the sun rises. The West, in sum, must move to more decisive action. Otherwise the Western leaders are themselves condemning Ukraine to protracted agony. The signs are not auspicious.

    It is not hard to imagine what would happen to Ukraine if Russia wins. Even before the Russian invasion, there was information about Russian “kill lists.” Their existence has been confirmed since the war started. The people on these lists included teachers of Ukrainian language, literature, and history; journalists, scientists, and writers; priests of the Orthodox Church of Ukraine and other denominations that support Ukraine; and public and political figures, chiefs of regional authorities and self-government. What may appear to the West as an exaggerated fear is for Ukrainians a harsh wartime reality, reinforced by the memory of the Holodomor, the Stalinist repressions, Chernobyl, and, most recently, in 2022, the massacres in Bucha, Irpin, and Izium.

    At demonstrations abroad in support of Ukraine, Ukrainians have adapted Golda Meir’s words — “If the Arabs put down their weapons today, there would be no more violence. If the Jews put down their weapons today, there would be no more Israel.” — but they replaced “Arabs” with Russia and “Jews” and “Israel” with Ukraine. It is abundantly clear that many in the West do not care about the fate of the Ukrainians, just as before they did not care about the fate of the Syrians. But unlike the savagery in Syria and elsewhere, the war in Ukraine has a stronger impact on the West and its people.

    For Putin’s war will not end with Ukraine. The degree of his contempt, if not outright hatred, for the West should not be underestimated. Oleksandr Lytvynenko, the head of the Foreign Intelligence Service of Ukraine, predicted that “having failed to defeat Ukraine in three days in a large-scale war, the Kremlin has passed the point of no return in relations with the West,” and left for itself only the options to “triumphantly win or lose crushingly.” Putin’s has geostrategic plans for the next ten to fifteen years; their implementation is to be accompanied by conflicts of various scales and intensity, possibly with the use of nuclear weapons. (I take this analysis from “A Few Theses on Putin’s Policy: How The Kremlin Thinks and Wages The War,” Foreign Intelligence Service of Ukraine, November 11, 2023.)

    Western intelligence confirms these assessments. The Kremlin could be in a position to attack a NATO member within the span of three to five years. The next most probable targets will be the Baltic States and Poland. This prognosis has been recently reiterated by the EU’s chief diplomat Kaja Kallas. She warned that “We are running out of time. The Ukrainians are fighting for their freedom and ours. They are buying us time.” And Valery Zaluzny, the former commander-in-chief of the Ukrainian army, went so far as to say that with North Korean forces fighting with the Russians on the front line and Iranian and Chinese weapons flying into Ukraine, a Third World War has already begun.

    To many skeptics in the West, the Ukrainians are crying wolf. But people who are under an existential threat must be believed over those who are not. People who are fighting for their lives generally do not lie. Ukrainians warned about Putin’s plans long before the war. He developed them back in 2008, right after the Georgian-Russian war. According to this plan, Ukraine was to be “punished” by a full-scale invasion if it continued to move out of Russia’s orbit. Most of the territory was to be either directly annexed by Russia or turned into a puppet state. The exception was the western part of the country, which historically is least Russified and Sovietized — it was to be divided between its “former owners,” Poland and Hungary. This plan leaked to the West and was published first in an Italian geopolitics journal, and then reprinted in one of the main Ukrainian newspapers. Putin spoke about this partition plan in 2008 during his meeting with then-Polish Prime Minister Donald Tusk and then- (and now-) Polish Foreign Minister Radek Sikorski. He offered them Lviv.

    Sikorski revealed this offer several years later, when he was out of office. His revelation created a scandal. In Poland, he was asked why he remained silent for so long, and in the West his words were taken as a provocation. Finally Sikorski had to disown his report. But it is worth noting that the British journalist and security writer Edward Lucas insisted that Sikorski was right and that the plan did exist, since he had himself heard of it at numerous off-the-record sessions at security conferences and think-tank meetings. The problem was that Western leaders did not grasp their significance. “Now the West is taking a belated class in practical geopolitics,” Lucas wrote in 2014. “It is an education paid for by hundreds of thousands of innocent Ukrainians, in blood and misery. But the full fee for the course will, I fear, be far greater.”

    Those decade-old words might have been written yesterday. In the very first week of the current war, the German Chancellor Olaf Scholz defined it as a “historic turning point.” Now, three years later, it looks like the turning of this point is proceeding according to the same formula as the Western aid to Ukraine — too little, too late. We are witnessing a situation that is reminiscent of the “springtime of nations” in 1848. Back then, the liberal revolutions that broke out in Europe ended in spectacular failure. As G. M. Trevelyan wrote, it was “the turning point at which modern history failed to turn.” We may face a similar scenario.

    Ukraine is not crying wolf. It is, rather, like the canary in the mine. Outside of Ukraine, many ignore its warnings or are even annoyed by their persistence. Life would be much nicer if the canary would stop chirping. And so they look through a microscope at all of Ukraine’s faults, at its corruption and its past sins, to prove that it is not worth helping. In the eyes of some, Ukrainians are the main culprits behind the protracted hostilities: if Zelensky were only more accommodating, the war would have ended a long time ago! All together, they are ready to sacrifice Ukraine to Putin for their own mental peace.

    They do not believe that what is happening in Ukraine today may happen to them tomorrow. They forget that attempts to appease aggressors do not work. Must one really remind Westerners of the Munich agreement of 1938? That surrender of Czechoslovakia to Hitler did not prevent the Second World War; it accelerated its beginning. This history lesson seems so banal that it feels embarrassing to bring it up. But as skeptics like to joke, humans do not make the same mistake twice, they usually make it three or more times.

    We are living in an era of enormous historical importance in which our politicians usually do not think historically. Their horizons are generally limited to the projected duration of their own political careers. This is especially the case if they, like Donald Trump or Elon Musk, come from fields that are a far cry from a knowledge of history. In their cases, indeed, they evince a contempt for the past and prefer to believe that they are completely without precedent. So they may put the Russo-Ukrainian war on pause, as a discrete matter of policy, but they can hardly stop the looming war crisis. If history has any lessons, one of them should be this: if you see war coming and you are not sure if there is a serious possibility of preserving peace, you would be wise to bet on war as the most probable scenario, and be ready for it. As the Latin adage says, si vis pacem, para bellum — if you want peace, prepare for war. Those words should be translated into every known language.

    The knowledge of history helps us to sort out what is new and what is old in the current Russo-Ukrainian war. This knowledge does not make us feel better. Still, it leaves room for cautious optimism. The revolution of 1848 was defeated, but seventy years later most of the revolutionaries’ demands had become political realities. It took the First World War to make the impossible possible. For war brings not only carnage, but also opportunities. To take constructive advantage of postwar opportunities, you must have a historical imagination.

    It was seventy years after the revolution of 1848 when the first volume of Oswald Spengler’s The Decline of the West appeared. Since then, the decline of the West has been predicted many times. And still the West is still vigorously with us. Over the last two centuries, it has survived several deep crises, including major wars. Some of those wars ended with solutions that provided an impetus for further social and political development. The Napoleonic Wars ended with the Congress of Vienna, which established the “long peace” of the nineteenth century. Without this peace, the quantum leap of the Industrial Revolution would have been impossible. The First World War brought the final collapse of the old regime, and the Second World War led to the emergence of a large “no war zone.”

    None of these solutions lasted forever, and the time always came for a new crisis and a new solution. The war in Ukraine may be the crisis that the contemporary West needed. Whether the West will take advantage of this opportunity, whether it will recognize the moral and historical lessons of this awful war, is an open question. But Ukraine should be for the West not only a source of anxiety but also a source of hope. Ukrainians are interested in a strong and free West and are ready to work on its renewal. For them, this is not a whim. It is an ultimate need: finally to escape the shadow of Russia, which has a centuries-long historical record of mass repressions and wars. Like the West, Russia also proceeds from crisis to crisis. There is an essential difference, though. Unlike in the West, short-lived attempts to democratize Russia after her defeats in the Russo-Japanese War, the First World War, and the Cold War failed, and ended with protracted periods of reaction by Stolypin, Stalin, and Putin.

    In principle, the Russians, too, should be interested in overcoming their harsh past. But for various reasons they are not capable of doing it on their own. The memorable words spoken by German President Richard von Weizsäcker on the fortieth anniversary of the end of World War II could be applied to Russia as well: “May 8, 1945 was not a day of defeat for Germany — it was a day of liberation.” The best thing that can happen to Russia is that it loses this war; if not right now, then in the foreseeable future. This will open up a chance for a new democratic Russia that no longer poses a threat to its own people or to neighboring peoples and will no longer constitute a threat to global stability. The “no war zone” could be extended further east of the Polish-Ukrainian borderlands of the West.

    According to the custom of the genre, an essay such as this one should end with a ringing conclusion. I will not do this. The text ends but history does not. As the war drags on, it is too early to close the book. Suffice it to say that the canary is still singing.

    Ominous Pieces

    A.D.

    My unchristian ancestors: for a lifetime
    they got along without God.
    Though something always happened
    that they had not foreseen. Two world wars,
    the downfall of their city, diseases, or

    what it is like to lose everything — freedom
    stripped from them, twice in a row.
    When unchristian beings (Hitler, Stalin)
    took this only world they had and turned
    it into a trap for millions, into hell.

    They survived, with a good deal of luck,
    though without religious persuasion. No word
    about the hurried prayers in the air-raid
    shelter, when under the sign of revenge, of justice,
    the one with the latest technology
    brought the empty skies crashing down.

    They (the ones who existed) never
    mentioned those fleeting moments
    in which fear dissolved and everyday life
    broke open like a fruit, a brittle fruit,
    that contained more than just seeds, tears, grief,
    and the ecstasies of the little people.

     

    Nazi Party Rally Grounds

    It was a grey February day in Nuremberg. I was due to give a reading that evening, and I could think of nothing better to do with the time until then than to take the tram out to the site where they used to hold Nazi Party rallies. At the reception desk of the Deutscher Kaiser hotel, the young woman who requested that I speak English with her was so put out when I asked how to get there that I withdrew and sheepishly looked for a map of the city so as not to have to consult my cell phone. Not only was I a stranger in this place, but my interest in a location that was rarely sought out by tourists to this medieval city, the city of Albrecht Dürer, seemed strange to her. She looked me up and down, as if I might turn out to be a troublesome guest. In terms of age, I was not unlike one of those Germans who, for obscure reasons, make pilgrimages to places that are taboo for most. And yes, I must admit, it was film images, scenes from the notorious propaganda film Triumph of the Will directed by Leni Riefenstahl, that brought me here. And also curiosity about what remained of this central forum of the Third Reich and its real historical dimensions: the Zeppelin Field, the Congress Hall, the Luitpold Hall, the Märzfeld, the Silbersee (Silver Lake, a name that evoked associations of the fantasy world of Karl May and his Winnetou novels that I grew up with). I wanted to see it all for myself, this massive site built around the Dutzendteich Lake, which still lay on the outskirts of the city at that time.

    How reassuring it was to arrive there at last and find a formula that absorbed everything and steered the inconceivable insanity of National Socialist projection and construction into the reassuring channels of a democratic culture of remembrance. After several stops, the tram halted at the Nazi Party Rally Documentation Center. First impression: you could easily get lost there, the signs lead into a vast area, only a drone could give you the desired overview. You pass through a large parking lot, and only then does it become apparent that the building before you is the huge rotunda of the Congress Hall, the back elevation of an arena that remained unfinished at the beginning of the war in 1939, like so many kilometres of the planned Reichsautobahn. Plus, a surprise for any resident or admirer of Rome: the building turns out to be a remake of the Colosseum in the style of a film set. Shades of Cinecittà, remnants of the set for a Nazi blockbuster mixed with those for a historic film about the fall of the Roman Empire. The inner courtyard doesn’t make much of an impression with its construction site fences and containers of rubble, a garbage-strewn antiquity of yesteryear that was never realized, a shell that is reminiscent of many things — prison yards, stormed fortresses, ruins forever left wanting. Somewhere in the jumble of mock theater boxes and empty rows, it was designed to give pride of place to the speaker’s pulpit for the “Führer.” The whole thing was intended as the theater for a pseudo-parliament — a foretaste of the gigantic meeting rooms planned by Albert Speer for Berlin after the final victory in the capital called Germania. Yet the relocation of the Nazi court to the Reich capital of Berlin was already so advanced at the time that the Nazi Party Rally Grounds only ever had a symbolic function. Ruins by design in every direction, a monumental building abandoned midway; and yet everything testified to the ambitions of the regime’s leaders, their bid to capture the imagination of a physically trained and mentally aligned population with a kind of National Socialist theme park.

    Modern stadium buildings came to mind, arenas of all kinds, from rock concert stages to the Super Bowl fields to be found in major American cities — and one wondered where the mass audience was supposed to go back then. A colosseum in Nuremberg, was this to be the venue for political gladiator fights? On the eve of the war, were the Germans really ready for such grandiose imperial showmanship? The total state remained an irresistible vision until its demise — at least for the Nazis. At the Sixth Reich Party Congress, the one filmed by Riefenstahl, hadn’t Hitler admitted that it was not the state that created the German people,but the other way around, that the people created the state for themselves?

    Wandering about, lost among the open spaces beyond the Great Dutzendteich, or Dozen Pond (nomen est omen!), one began to suspect what all this was conceived to do. The state that was so densely concentrated in the relatively small space of Berlin was here to be given a symbolic parade-ground along with the Zeppelin Field, the so-called March Field, a festival site outfitted with various halls and groves, laid out according to the model of Rome in Augustan times. But by then Germany had become a modern industrial nation, so it also needed a substation, a train station, its own small “Strength Through Joy” city kitted out with a stadium and swimming pool to contribute to the general merriment.

    Laid low by the absurd scale of the place, exhausted, I gave up my inspection at some point. There was just enough time to take a look at Luitpold Hall, where an interim exhibition with pictures and panels instructed visitors about the temporary use of the whole thing at the time, the construction measures and their background. From the deployment of the German Labor Front, the architects and companies involved, to the forced laborers and Russian prisoners of war who were made to toil and die until the futile plan came to an end, everything here was pre-meditated. As is so often the case, history had fragmented, and was presented through individual stories and small erratic objects, the significance and meaning of which a good schoolteacher could unravel if the curriculum allowed. The city of Nuremberg and its museum directors tried to distract the accidental onlooker for the time being with the promise of an eventual and final reappraisal of the whole thing. Meanwhile, next door in the documentary hub, the good folks of Nuremberg courted the audience with evening concerts. Unfortunately, there was no time for Shostakovich and Schulhoff. I had to get back for my reading and was glad that a tram was there to restore me to the main station. At the reading in the Literary House that evening, I did not breathe a word about my excursion into the past.

     

    Spoils of War

    And they almost kidnapped the child,
    the girl with the black braids
    the broad cheekbones, my mother,
    who looked like one of their own,
    a child of the Siberian steppes.
    They would have just taken her with them
    on that dusty suburban street in Dresden
    on their march back to the East,
    just as they took anything with them
    that was not nailed down.
    She was already up on the small horse-drawn cart,
    a princess perched on top of the spoils,
    said the neighbour who ran after her
    screaming and snatched the child
    back from the Russians still screaming
    and cursing. From the victors of the World War,
    lads fond of children and a song.
    They didn’t like screaming women.

     

    What We Knew About Dictatorship

    I do research into dictatorship, said the young woman at the table that evening at her friend’s birthday celebration. That was the invitation to the dance: finally a conversation partner for a serious topic that interested no one else in the group. We establishedthat dictatorships can be divided according to the degree of severity — tryannies and autocracies. It comes down to the cooking time: how long it takes to prepare the dish. We know little about the recipes of cannibals. The longer people stew in a form of rule in which unlimited power deprives them of all natural rights, the easier it is to prepare them socially; particularly coveted is the brain. And it doesn’t take much for neighbors to turn each other into sausage meat, I recalled. At some point, having themselves fallen into the meat grinder of the murderous system, they dig into the frozen soil with their bare hands for edible roots (as in the Gulag). They rummage through the legacies of those who have fallen under the wheel, ensuring that they are utilized to the full (as in Auschwitz). They are ready to cull their fellow citizens, to send them to the gas chamber, into the cold, the fire, even to betray their own relatives, parents, the sick, people on a dying branch.

    Depending on the degree of bedevilment, a distinction is made between three forms of dictatorship: terrorist, trivial mythical (tinnitus-like), and totalitarian. There is not a single dictatorship that has not been based on law, rules of exclusion, even on a constitution, an implicit intergenerational contract. The young bring down the old, the old sacrifice the young to maintain their power until they themselves must be sacrificed before their time — for example, in war. The dictatorship records everyone according to their live weight, every gram of fat is counted in the food allocation. Without ever really asking themselves what happened to them, everyone is silently wondering how they can survive the centrifuge of mass mobilization, of mass management. The failure to speak, the silence of each individual is unmistakable even in the midst of the greatest jubilation — on the wide boulevards, in the lion’s den where they are whipped up by propaganda, in the fascist forums or even simply in the sports stadiums where they cheer on the victory of their own athletes. Dictatorships radiate out from a center of emptiness: a stable source of radiation, permanently sending out negative energies in the form of physical violence. This is, at the same time, also psychological violence, because all the morality consumed by a dictatorship emanates from the totalitarian state; the individual soul weighs next to nothing.

    Dictatorship grows imperceptibly. It is often confused with a medium that is considered the embodiment of all its fears and desires, a leader, a generalissimo, or a chairman, who appears on the scene one day out of the blue and can no longer be voted out of office. Dictatorship does not come from nowhere (whatever the Greeks say about it, and the Romans, and the annals of the Renaissance); for us, the moderns, it comes from democratic elections. A savior is elected, a redeemer in the guise of a party that hovers above all the other parties, “other parties” which the leader then forbids as soon as the populus has elected him. He starts straight in on culture, on the icons, the cooking recipes, the religion. He collects campaign money from those who have the funds and also the hope that the money is better invested with him than in the culture of a thousand opinions, which leads to nothing and only confuses the people. Once he has neutralized all his opponents, he is soon regarded in popular superstition as a benevolent sovereign, takes to stroking children, and is ubiquitous overnight in millions of images, with the help of newspapers and other media, in every size from postage stamps to monumental sculptures.

    What else? I asked her. Dictatorships, she said, have their own way of reckoning time, they can last for a shorter or a longer time, in which the lifetime of the leader plays a certain role. In any case that role is gradually absorbed under the daily overcast skies. False expectations are the binding agent of every dictatorship, barely visible to the naked eye (except under a sociologist’s microscope), interchangeable just like ideology, religion, or policies. It is like in the opera: the song of the chorus swells to fill the stage, but there are moments when the high C of a mortal voice emerges from the wall of sound. In an emergency (martial law, trouble among the cooks, betrayal in the innermost circle), the Iron Curtain is lowered, while the audience sinks into a collective trance. Until the prompter rises from the pit and signals that she has forgotten the text. Then, and only then, it may come to pass that a child appears, suddenly, in the emergency exit. It is looking for its father (shot long ago) or its mother, who has been dreaming of a better future all along, hidden behind a fan.

     

    One-way Street to Jerusalem

    Can anything be learned from anecdotes? This question arises when the experience on which they turn is so striking that it leads to far-reaching conclusions. In exile in America, the director and producer Erik Charell, one of the most successful in his field in the Weimar years, liked to describe a Berlin street scene from the time shortly before Hitler’s accession to power. He was a visitor to an automobile show on Kaiserdamm and got caught up in the crowd in front of one of the halls. Along with the police, uniformed SA men were passing through the crowd with collection boxes. One of the young men was going from person to person with the advertising slogan, “Donations please, donations towards the construction of the one-way street to Jerusalem.” The narrator, who could hardly believe his ears, asked for the snappy slogan, to be repeated to him, and approached the little man in the brown shirt and waited to see if the policeman nearby would intervene in the face of this open threat against Jewish fellow citizens. But he turned away embarrassed. The small incident had finally opened his eyes. From that moment on, he knew: “It’s over.” He left the car show that very moment. Over the next few days he organized his departure from Germany. The image of the one-way street had hit him so hard that there could be no hesitation. There was no question as to the future of road construction in this country.

     

    Gray Mice

    The twentieth century was, among many other things, also the time of collective laboratory experiments. Breeding humans so that they become grey mice, mottled mice, or completely uniform mice was the research goal to which not only the new mass leaders, but also many of the scientists, felt committed. Political views only counted if they could be scientifically substantiated. Entire faculties of racial scientists, behaviorists, and armaments experts were busy whipping the nation into shape. After the apocalypse of a world war that had swept away emperors and kings, many of the liberated subjects longed for a zoological dictatorship. It was the moment for mouse-breeding. A whole nightmare world of order-obsessed mice was released onto the streets, into their future professions: police mice, kapo mice, Gestapo mice, cultural mice, youth and sports mice, stewards and jumpers in all niches of society.

    They did what highly trained and meticulously conditioned mice do: monitor their own kind, ensure that the common mouse-life runs smoothly. It did not occur to them that they could have been something else, that each individual mouse could live in its own way and be happy. No, no, and again no: it was about controlling each other, rounding up men, women, and children and keeping them under strict laboratory conditions, in the glare of the anti-aircraft searchlights, keeping them together and reminding them of the misery of their mouse existence every second of their lives. They weren’t stupid, these mice. Each one of them knew what position they could hold in this new total mouse-state, or that they could make their way for themselves by maneuvering skillfully through the labyrinth of the laboratory.

    Let no one say that freedom did not exist in this system. It was only when the experiments were halted — another world war was necessary to bring that about — that it dawned on some that the conditions under which they were bred had nothing whatsoever to do with the world as such and with the fact of their uniformity. At that moment they were ashamed, as far as grey mice can be ashamed. It appears that their descendants are ashamed to this day. In any case, most have shed their grey and now prefer garish colors and exotic patterns.

     

    German Listeners

    Lübeck looked terrible
    when it was finished, an etching
    by Churchill based on a design
    by Adolf Hitler, recognized by
    Thomas Mann as a fellow artist.
    There was St. Mary’s Basilica.
    It was still standing there
    as if emerging from the smoke
    and next to it an empty portal
    in the light of the postwar sun.
    Lübeck marzipan was what
    my father always wanted
    for Christmas, he liked
    the bitter taste of almonds
    in memory of Thomas Mann,
    whom he liked to read, aloud
    ideally, in the small circle of family.

     

    THE MEAT GRINDER

    Were I a painter, my motif of choice to represent entire phases of world history in this century of my birth which has cast its shadows and its conflicts onto the next, would be a meat grinder. The device that was clamped to the table in my grandparents’ kitchen and used to twist a lump of meat into blood-red strands of “ground” or “minced” meat, even if there was never any sign of grinding or mincing, but always only twisting, until in the end a steel perforated disc produced portions of minced beef or minced pork, depending on the animal being processed. I would have put my motif through the meat grinder.

    Just as the painter Philip Guston finally limited himself to a few recurring forms — hooded figures, shoes, cigarettes, fingers, severed feet, open books — I would have concentrated on this one ugly device, the domestic meat grinder. I would have painted its maw, in an objective or maybe fantastic manner; or, no, as primitively as possible, this mouth-like funnel of cast iron, the belly of the monster torn open and rendered visible with its innards: the screw, the sharp-edged wing-blade. The hand crank with its wooden handle I would have given an especially crude shape: the screw clamp that held the voracious wolf fixed to the kitchen shelf, the desk in the torture chamber, the altar, the butcher’s workbench. Do not misunderstand me: none of this would be done in honour of its inventor, Freiherr von Drais, that quick and keen thinker, Citizen Drais, a democrat of the first hour in Germany, who, in addition to this practical monster-machine, also invented the two-wheeled hobby horse and the speed typewriter. Nor is it part of the quest for an equation to capture the acceleration of everything; the crank-accelerated processing of the mountains of meat into each individual household. Nor the urge for a symbol — yes, that is the right word — for the perennial suffering, the cycle of all flesh, in this murderous century, in which eating and being eaten has taken on something mechanical. Why, then? Simply so as to depict a meat grinder on a pink pedestal against a sky-blue background, a thing that in the end stood only for itself — useful and abysmal in equal measure, and in the most progressive way inconceivably primitive.

     

    The Historyless

    History seldom lands on their doorstep
    with burning car tires, chanting crowds,
    tanks on the prowl, ready to be deployed,
    the turret turned down.
    An Iron Curtain falls, a regime
    bites the dust, they don’t catch on until
    the late evening news.
    Then it’s routine again for a lifetime
    and it’s business as usual
    with the end of school exams, the driver’s license,
    the beach holidays and
    the children’s first teeth.
    Tears time and again
    at every bend of existence,
    sometimes accompanied by insight, rarely
    bringing any comfort.

    In retrospect: often resentment, muffled
    by something like nostalgia.
    That’s not what they wanted, not like that,
    just fell into it by chance.

    Later the arithmetic, they like to do their sums,
    balance sheets of disappointment. The politicians —
    none of them any different from the rest, all corrupt.
    What can we hold onto, culture perchance?
    The annual Christmas party,
    a few brands of car, the success
    of the local football club,
    a few hits belted out
    on karaoke night.
    And suddenly they say: give us
    our history back.

     

    The Button

    One day Franz Kafka sewed on a button. He did it thoroughly, as with everything he did. In his little room in his parents’ Prague apartment, the one that he was afraid to call home, he sat with his legs crossed and struggled with the needle and thread, as a bachelor might. But something kept getting in the way. First, a stork jumped out of the cupboard and wandered across the room; then a large black bird crashed against the windowpane flapping its wings wildly. Then a picture fell from the wall, a view of the old Prague synagogue; then there was a knock at the door and his mother came in, bringing him a glass of milk. Despite all this, he remained focused on his needlework. Indeed, he managed this feat better than many an experienced seamstress. In the end the button was fastened so firmly that you could have lifted not only the trousers, but their owner too, by the button, and slung them over your shoulder. A sturdy removal man would have been quite strong enough.

    Translated by Karen Leeder

    The Enlightenment, Then and Now

    What is the Enlightenment, for us? Are we its heirs, its continuers, its defenders? Or should we acknowledge our distance from it, and try to imagine a different sort of connection to this now-distant past?

    At the present moment, the temptation to identify with the Enlightenment is almost overwhelming. In dark times, after all, few historical subjects exert more allure than one with such a promise of illumination. How inspiring, how reassuring, to think that there was once a moment when reason challenged superstition, when justice promised to overcome power, when the spirit of toleration seemed to prevail over dogmatism and persecution! How tempting it is to think that if only we could reawaken the spirit of the Enlightenment, and rekindle the torches of the philosophes, we might yet dissipate the shadows now gathering around us.

    If those shadows seem especially menacing, it is partly because the Enlightenment itself is currently under explicit attack, and from many different directions. On the left, progressive scholars and activists denounce it as the birthplace of modern racism and the handmaiden of “settler colonialism.” On the right, “post-liberals” and Catholic integralists call it destructive of family, community, and religion. Populists of all varieties decry the faith it promoted in education and science as elitist and evil. If these groups agree on nothing else, it is that the Western world took a disastrous wrong turn sometime in the eighteenth century. They draw a straight line from “Enlightenment” to “liberalism” to “neoliberalism,” as if thinkers who failed even to predict the Industrial Revolution somehow bear responsibility for post-industrial decay.

    But is some sort of “return” to the Enlightenment the answer? In recent years, many prominent intellectuals have made this case, albeit in contradictory ways. In Enlightenment Now, the psychologist Steven Pinker credited the Enlightenment with virtually all human progress since the eighteenth century, equated it with his own brand of technocratic neoliberalism, and argued that everyone would agree if only they overcame some regrettable cognitive biases. The philosopher Susan Neiman, by contrast, in Left Is Not Woke, eloquently identified the Enlightenment with the promise of progressive politics and warned about the hijacking of that politics by “woke” activists hostile to Enlightenment values. The historian and legal scholar Samuel Moyn took an oddly similar position in Liberalism Against Itself, except that for him the nefarious force that has dragged the left away from its optimistic Enlightenment roots is not wokeness but a fearful “Cold War liberalism.”

    Historians, too, have been pressing the case for the Enlightenment’s living relevance, at sometimes inordinate length. A 984-page survey of the Enlightenment from 1680 to 1790 by Ritchie Robertson associates it with the broad cause of “human betterment.” Anthony Pagden’s monumental book on the subject describes the Enlightenment as the birthplace of tolerant cosmopolitanism. And then there is Jonathan Israel, the Stakhanovite hero of Enlightenment scholarship, who, since 2001, has produced nine books on or closely related to the subject totaling 7,886 pages. According to Israel, all the political and social values dear to liberal modernity, including human rights, social equality, sexual equality, and racial equality, were already present in a “radical Enlightenment” that emerged in the seventeenth century in the Dutch circles around Baruch Spinoza.

    But did the Enlightenment even exist? And is this a serious question? In a provocative new book called The Enlightenment: An Idea and its History, the British conservative historian J. C. D. Clark claims that there was no such thing. The various intellectual currents that today go by that name had no real unity or coherence, he argues. Historians and philosophers only started to claim they did long after the eighteenth century, in order to invent historical legitimation for their own progressive reform programs. He notes that the very phrase “the Enlightenment,” with the definite article, did not come into common usage in English until the twentieth century, as a Google Ngram search strikingly confirms. (The German “die Aufklärung” appeared earlier, but also had limited resonance.)

    It is true that mid-twentieth century liberal scholars had strong incentives to find a long and inspiring pedigree for their own beleaguered beliefs. Clark underlines, a little too insistently, the fact that Enlightenment scholarship owes a particularly strong debt to liberal Jews born in pre-war continental Europe (Ernst Cassirer, Peter Gay, Theodore Besterman, Jacob Talmon, Robert Wokler, George Mosse, and others). It is hardly surprising that these men, many of whom fled Nazism, would turn for inspiration to this earlier moment of light, and revere it for helping to emancipate their ancestors from ghettoes. Jonathan Israel, who has continued in this tradition (despite faulting his predecessors for getting almost everything wrong) has stated the core idea clearly: “Jewish emancipation became a realistic proposition from the moment Europe’s former predominantly theological view of the world began to crumble under the impact of Enlightenment ideas.” Still, the Enlightenment was not a Jewish invention, and claims like this can too easily feed the worst sort of conspiracy theories.

    Meanwhile, the idea of the Enlightenment as a coherent movement also owes a considerable amount to two Jewish refugees of a more critical and contrarian bent: Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno. But in place of the Enlightenment as salvation, they gave us the Enlightenment as perdition. Their Dialectic of Enlightenment, from 1944, speculated that the horrors of the twentieth century ultimately stemmed from a deadly Western “instrumental reason” that had come to maturity in the eighteenth century. “Enlightenment,” they wrote provocatively, “is totalitarian.” Their book had enormous influence on progressive thought, and it is in part thanks to them that so many scholars today condemn the Enlightenment as a sinister-sounding “project” that bears responsibility for modern racism, imperialism, misogyny, and intolerance of all sorts. The trend has become so popular that currently the best-known adage of Immanuel Kant’s — who famously offered his own definition of Enlightenment in an essay in 1784 — is probably, “Humanity has achieved its greatest perfection in the white race,” which he later abjured, and which in any case had little connection to the main lines of his thought.

    Clark is right to a certain extent. It is absurd to cast the Enlightenment as a single “project,” whether redemptive or malevolent. The canonical writers associated with it agreed about relatively little, and liked few things more than attacking each other, often quite viciously. Their number included atheists, deists, and orthodox religious believers; radical democrats and propagandists for absolute monarchy; proto-socialists and proto-libertarians. Intellectually, their works can be best represented as a Venn diagram with many areas of intersection but no union of all the sets. The Enlightenment was also geographically dispersed, with significant differences between the French, English, Scottish, German, and other national varieties. It is hardly surprising, then, that the Enlightenment’s contemporary defenders can see it in such different ways.

    But historical labels are, by their nature, nebulous and messy. There are always exceptions. There are always contradictions. The crooked timber of humanity — another adage of Kant’s — never fits into neat geometrical boxes, and virtually every commonly accepted label used by historians would fail Clark’s overly strict coherence test. Eighteenth-century writers may not have used the label “the Enlightenment,” but they often described their century as one marked by the triumph of reason and progress. D’Alembert spoke of a revolution “not only in the history of the human mind . . . but also in the history of states and empires.” Diderot praised “philosophy” for “advanc[ing] with great strides” and forcing “authority and precedent . . . to yield to the laws of reason.” Kant declared, “this age is the age of enlightenment.” Edmund Burke, meanwhile, set himself in opposition to what he dubbed, with exquisite sarcasm, “this new conquering empire of light and reason.”

    The fact that the Enlightenment existed, however, hardly means we should place it on a pedestal and worship it idolatrously. Yes, despite the differences between Enlightenment thinkers, we can identify a set of genuinely noble and admirable beliefs to which most of them (though not all) subscribed: the need for freedom of thought and expression, especially in religious matters; the need to judge matters of general interest according to standards of reason, objectivity, and utility; the possibility of historical progress; the illegitimacy of violence in the pursuit of political objectives. But at the same time very few of them had kind words for democracy, which they tended to equate with mob rule. Freedom of speech did not imply freedom of political action. Kant even wrote that the mark of a good enlightened ruler was to say: “Argue as much as you will and about whatever you will — but obey!” And while some denounced imperialism and advocated toleration of cultural difference, in most cases “Enlightenment universalism” meant defining Western Europe as the high point of human historical evolution and judging all other cultures by that standard. Racism and anti-Semitism disfigured the thought of many Aufklärer. Liberal modernity (whatever that means) did not burst forth fully and perfectly formed from the heads of philosophers.

    Nor is it even possible to find a coherent subset of Enlightenment authors who might deserve idolization — a “happy few” who fully professed modern liberal principles. Jonathan Israel has employed this strategy, attempting to distinguish a forward-looking “radical Enlightenment” that inspired everything progressive in the modern world from a “moderate” one that cravenly kowtowed to the European ancien régime. But for all his gargantuan energy and erudition, his ultimately unconvincing thesis has met with one of the most hostile critical receptions of any major recent historical enterprise. According to his numerous and persuasive reviewers, his “radical Enlightenment” is his own invention, not a historical reality. Yes, there were intellectual radicals in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: materialists who denied the existence of God and denounced Moses, Jesus, and Mohammed as the “three imposters”; republicans who opposed monarchy; egalitarians who wanted to overturn the social order. But some egalitarians were fervent Christians, some materialists had no problem with monarchy or privilege, and so forth. There was no single and coherent “radical” party.

    But we do not need to worship the Enlightenment as if it were a god we have failed. Most of the philosophes, despite their often immense self-regard, would have been horrified at the idea. Condorcet, one of the last great Enlightenment writers, asserted that “it is easy to see how imperfect the analysis of men’s intellectual and moral faculties still is,” and predicted that his successors would move far beyond him. Thomas Jefferson memorably asked whether “one generation of men has a right to bind another?” The question has implications for intellectual life as well as politics. We should be free to take from the Enlightenment what we find valuable and disregard the rest — to construct our own twenty-first-century Enlightenment rather than placing ourselves in thrall to an imagined eighteenth-century one.

    As we do so, we should remember that what made the Enlightenment so extraordinary was not just a set of ideas but also a set of practices — not just what was said but also how it was said, and how it was understood in its various social contexts. Far too much of the contemporary discussion of the Enlightenment ignores this point, reducing it to a set of disembodied abstractions. The result is to distort the history and impoverish the analysis. If we wish to construct our own twenty-first-century Enlightenment, and we should, the practices are just as important.

    Start with the basic issue of audience, and how it was appealed to. Before the eighteenth century, key Western works of thought often still appeared in Latin, and even when they were published in the vernacular they tended to employ recondite and difficult language which appealed principally to fellow scholars and patrons. After the eighteenth century, meanwhile, thanks to the development of modern research universities, intellectual life increasingly retreated into the ivory towers. Enlightenment authors, by contrast, wrote principally in the vernacular for a general educated public, and strove to make their works as accessible, as engaging, even as entertaining, as possible. To be sure, they, too, could sometimes produce arcane philosophical and scientific texts; but more often they presented their ideas in the form of stories, novels, plays, dialogues, reference books, essays, and travelogues. Think of Voltaire’s Candide, Montesquieu’s Persian Letters, Lessing’s Nathan the Wise, Hume’s Essays Moral and Political. Even didactic treatises tended to employ a clear and accessible prose style. Baron d’Holbach’s provocative materialist treatise The System of Nature became one of eighteenth-century France’s biggest bestsellers, although it had to be sold illegally, “under the cloak,” because of government censorship. Enlightenment writers wanted to be widely read.

    Audiences, meanwhile, did not just read but became infatuated. They tried to model their lives according to their favorite authors’ instructions, wrote those authors worshipful letters, hunted for every scrap of information they could about them. The historian Robert Darnton gives the example of a French merchant named Jean Ranson who for years bombarded publishers with letters asking for news about Rousseau, whom he, like many others, called “friend Jean-Jacques.” When Ranson married, he wrote that everything Rousseau had set down about conjugal life “has had a profound effect on me, and . . . will serve me as a rule” (perhaps not the best idea, given that Rousseau admitted to having abandoned five children of his own to orphanages). After Rousseau died, Ranson promised to visit his grave and shed tender tears on it. Many other readers reacted in similar ways, with some claiming that after reading the heroine’s death scene in Rousseau’s melodramatic novel The New Eloise they had to take to their beds for days out of grief. One of the first modern literary celebrities, Rousseau himself felt increasingly oppressed by the insistent public attention.

    Readers found it all the easier to get drawn in because they had so much more information available than just the books themselves. In the eighteenth century, for the first time, what we would now call an entire media infrastructure had come into being around authorship and book publishing. Literary periodicals reported on new works and printed stories about writers. They published reviews summarizing and evaluating new books. Printers made cheap engravings of authors available for display in homes. Venues for literary discussion, from officially chartered learned academies to lending libraries to informal societies and café gatherings, all expanded at a furious rate.

    This same infrastructure also made it easier than ever for readers to become writers themselves. Periodicals needed contributors (they also published extensive letters to the editor). Diderot and d’Alembert enlisted hundreds of collaborators for their Encyclopedia, whose length eventually ran to seventeen million words. Darnton has highlighted the plight of the poor but ambitious young men who flocked to Paris in the hope of becoming the next Voltaire, only to end up as “poor devil” hack writers, desperately churning out crude pornography or political libel, or even spying on fellow writers for the police, to earn money. Meanwhile, learned academies throughout Europe sponsored essay competitions whose winners could leap in a moment from obscurity to glory. The most famous case involved an eccentric thirty-eight-year-old failed music teacher who had spent years fruitlessly promoting a new and unwieldy system of musical notation. After seeing an advertisement for an essay competition on whether the progress of the arts and sciences had proven beneficial to society, he boldly answered in the negative, won the prize, and gained immediate fame. This, of course, was Rousseau.

    All these developments were inseparable from rapid and ongoing social and economic change. A warming climate, the end of destructive religious warfare, and furiously expanding global trade — much of it powered by chattel slavery in the Americas — was bringing unprecedented prosperity to Western Europe. The first consumer revolution was underway. Asian spices, porcelain, and tea; American sugar, coffee, tobacco, and textiles, all flooded into European cities. Even modest artisans and shopkeepers could now purchase a wide new range of household implements and decorations, musical instruments, foodstuffs, medicines, religious paraphernalia, clothing — and books. Printed advertising developed, and a new daily practice became part of urban life: shopping. In short, a new sort of public was coming into being that could exercise a new range of choice on a daily basis: choice about what to eat and drink, what to wear, how to furnish homes, how to entertain oneself — and what to read.

    This new range of choice seems so familiar today that it is easy to forget how novel it was at the time, and what it meant to ordinary people to exercise such banal but important forms of personal autonomy. Consumerism, in what the historian William Sewell has called (without irony) “capitalism’s rosy dawn,” was not yet an insidious and exploitative system manipulated by large corporations, but — at least in part — an opportunity for unprecedented forms of self-expression and self-cultivation. Yes, the opportunity was available only to a limited population: urban and relatively well-off. But it was still a much larger population than had previously enjoyed anything similar, and it included women as well as men.

    This was the world into which the Enlightenment was born, and its practices shaped the way writers appealed to their expanding new audiences. These audiences wanted help navigating the brave new world of consumer choice, and they found it in the criticism, advice, and information offered by the new periodicals and reference works. Beyond this, they also wanted entertainment and edification, and the Enlightenment provided it. They did not, however, want preaching or indoctrination, and despite what is often thought, very few of the great works of the Enlightenment offered anything of the sort. Indeed, especially in France, many authors deliberately refrained from advancing any sort of clear didactic thesis at all, opting instead for playful ambiguity. In Candide, Voltaire offers a savage satire of intolerance but concludes with the deliberately elliptical line “we must cultivate our garden.” Montesquieu’s Spirit of the Laws pivots between endorsing the English constitution and taking the relativist position that countries should choose the government that best fits their climate. Diderot adored the dialogue form, which prompted his readers to evaluate apparently opposing viewpoints. The Encyclopedia allowed readers to follow a trail from volume to volume through the editors’ provocative series of cross-references (most famously in the article “Cannibals”: “See also Eucharist, Holy Communion, Altar”). Voltaire perfectly summed up the spirit of this Enlightenment in the preface to his Philosophical Dictionary: “The most useful books are the ones that are half written by their readers.”

    Even in places such as Scotland, where eighteenth-century intellectual life was less playful (because it was more centered on universities), Enlightenment thinkers mostly took care to write in an accessible manner. Adam Smith, famously, did not simply expound his theory of the division of labor in abstract terms, but led readers to follow his reasoning by offering the example of a pin factory. His fellow Scotsman, David Hume, an admirer of the French salons, wrote that “learning has been . . . a loser by being shut up in colleges and cells, and secluded from the world and good company. . . . Even philosophy went to wrack by this moping recluse method of study, and became as chimerical in her conclusions as she was unintelligible in her style and manner of delivery.” Hume’s own philosophical works, while intellectually demanding, remained clear and engaging.

    Hume insisted that liberating serious intellectual life from “colleges and cells” would have beneficial effects on the public as well. “Must our whole discourse be a continuing series of gossiping stories and idle remarks?” he wrote. “Must the mind never rise higher . . . ?” But for people to benefit, they would have to put in their own intellectual labor, using what they read for the purposes of self-cultivation, and drawing their own conclusions — writing half of the books themselves. In this sense, the Enlightenment was part and parcel of the enterprise of self-cultivation that social and economic change was making possible in the eighteenth century. Kant would describe it as humanity’s emancipation from its “self-imposed tutelage.”

    Not all Enlightenment writing fit this pattern, and as time passed less and less of it did. The idea of letting readers make up their own minds, especially on questions of religion and political authority, did not sit well with established eighteenth-century authorities, especially in Catholic Europe, in parts of which the Inquisition remained a going proposition. (It was not abolished until 1834.) As Enlightenment writing gained popularity, these authorities increasingly perceived it as a threat — indeed, as a unified conspiracy against throne and altar — and moved to repress it. In response, Enlightenment writers themselves turned increasingly rigid and militant and intolerant. “O my philosophes!” wrote Voltaire to his followers in the 1760s. “You need to march in close order like a Macedonian phalanx.” And he scolded them for a lack of zeal: “You bury your talents and are content with despising a monster you should be struggling to abhor and destroy.” When the cranky French cleric Augustin Barruel tried to prove that the philosophes had deliberately plotted to overthrow France’s Old Regime, he found much to quote from in Voltaire’s published correspondence. Later works of the French Enlightenment, such as d’Holbach’s popular but turgid treatises, increasingly told readers what to think rather than prompting them to think for themselves.

    Moreover, absolutist rulers found that they could make use of Enlightenment works that insisted on applying standards of reason and utility to matters of general interest. Frederick II of Prussia, Joseph II of Austria, and Catherine II of Russia all invited philosophes to their courts, flattered them, debated with them, and sought their cooperation. They did so above all because Enlightenment ideas justified their campaigns to exert greater control over established churches and social elites, and not for the purposes of promoting toleration and equality. The point was to weaken domestic opposition, and to make autocratic regimes more powerful and efficient. In the end, these sovereigns mostly treated their visiting philosophes as hired help. “I shall have need of him for another year at most, no longer,” Frederick wrote about Voltaire. “One squeezes the orange and throws away the peel.”

    And we should remember that even when the Enlightenment did prompt readers to reflection and self-cultivation, the results still could be pernicious. One infamous French academic essay competition invited participants to explain why Africans had dark skin. Some of the entries veered off into the far extremes of racist speculation. Enlightenment natural science emphasized that humans did not represent a separate creation, but in many respects belonged to the animal kingdom. Although the idea represented a fierce challenge to Christian beliefs, it also encouraged speculation about the differences between human races, which slaveowners in the Americas jumped upon to justify holding people of African descent in bondage or civic subordination. One of the French revolutionaries most influenced by Enlightenment writing, Emmanuel Sieyès, speculated about breeding humans with monkeys to create a race of natural slaves.

    In sum, putting the Enlightenment back in its social and cultural contexts, looking at practices as well as ideas, makes it much harder to celebrate it simply as the birthplace of an admirable liberal modernity. The Enlightenment contained multiple tendencies, both laudable and deplorable, both constructive and pernicious. As already noted, it was not a single thing. Horkheimer and Adorno’s intellectual heirs are not wrong to see some danger in the Enlightenment, although they mistakenly conflate this danger with the Enlightenment as a whole. The abuse of reason, instrumentally and otherwise, should not be mistaken with reason itself.

    If we decide to draw as we please from the eighteenth-century Enlightenment to construct our own Enlightenment, we should not neglect what we can learn from these contexts — what we can learn from its practices. In our own world, increasingly dominated by social media and video and podcasts, it is as important as ever not to keep serious learning “shut up in colleges and cells” — cordoned off in university echo chambers where the faculty only hear each other talk. It is all the more important to find ways of engaging a larger public in a serious manner, and using every available genre and medium to do so. And all the more important to do so in a way that encourages people to seek the answers for themselves and to undertake the work of their own cultivation. This is not asking too much, even now. A liberal society cannot flourish without the confidence that its members can do the work of Enlightenment themselves, as best they can.

    On Skin Color and the Individual

    In memory of Albert Murray

    I am what might be called an integrated black man. Many of my friends are white, and I live in a mostly white neighborhood; my long marriage is an interracial one, my grown children are biracial. I offer these facts neither as a lament nor as a boast. They are simply facts. Born in the 1960s, I am a member of a generation who grew up in the wake of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination and, more importantly for me, in the light of his message of openness, his call to judge one another, if we must judge one another, as individuals. That is how I have tried to live my life. In an era of the greatest divisiveness of my lifetime, what I am saying may sound hopelessly naïve, and, indeed, a few of the public responses to my work have included that word among other critical ones — one reader declared that I was merely “singing kumbaya,” another that I was speaking “nonsense.” I am not complaining. To write about so-called race is to invite an especially vehement and personal kind of criticism. The criticism has done nothing to change my view, which is that for black people to judge white people on the basis of their whiteness, however understandable that judgment may be, is to fail to grasp the most important lesson of slavery and its continuing aftermath: that the way we treat others must not depend on skin color. I will hold this view as long as I have a head to hold it in.

    Yet I am vividly aware that this belief in the importance of the individual is not, by itself, an adequate response to the racial challenges that we face, for two reasons. One is that this belief may seem not to take into account the sheer enormity of what was done to people of color in this country in the past, as well as its implications and ramifications for the present. The other is that this belief may have the effect of entrenching people in comfortable indifference to ongoing problems. But my purpose here is to point to two ways in which this belief in treating people as individuals can serve as a radical tool for understanding history and for addressing the challenges we face today.

    Thankfully, when it comes to American slavery, no equivalent of the Holocaust-denier movement appears to have gathered steam (which is not to say that it never will). So far no one is claiming that slavery did not happen — only that its effects on black people were not entirely bad, that the enslaved learned useful skills, to cite one argument of the Ron DeSantis crowd. I want to sidestep that argument, which is ridiculous on its face — roughly comparable to a man’s saying that, yes, he beat his wife, thereby teaching her self-defense — and widen the lens to include not just slavery and discrimination themselves but what was done to justify them, which is the true source of the trouble that plagues us to this day. A visitor from outer space, told about American slavery and left to observe the current reality, might ask why so many white people have contempt for black people rather than the reverse (not that the reverse isn’t also true — I will come to that in a bit); and the answer to the space alien, ironically enough, is white people’s egregious violation of their own sense of morality.

    The impetus for slavery was economic. In order to square America’s slavery with the Christian beliefs of most of America’s citizens, it became necessary for religious figures, scientists, politicians, educators, newspaper editors, editorial cartoonists, and others, like men coming together to push a stalled car, to put all of their energy into advancing the notion that whites were superior to blacks intellectually and (more irony) morally, and that whites were the rightful beneficiaries of the condition that Americans never tire of celebrating, that is, freedom. A measure of the resounding and tragic success of this campaign was that so many white people’s sense of identity came to rest on that belief in their superiority.

    Whatever disrupted the white sense of supremacy was considered a threat, an attack. That was true during slavery and for a century afterward, and among some whites it is true today. Hence the Tulsa massacre in 1921, in which whites decimated a thriving black business community; hence the white woman depicted in Bliss Broyard’s memoir of her father, One Drop, who researched her lineage and was reduced to tears by the discovery of her black ancestors (Broyard’s father, Anatole Broyard, was a distinguished book critic at The New York Times who passed for white); hence, as well, the way some reacted to Barack Obama’s election with the feeling of betrayal that a man might have if his wife ran off with his brother. This sense of superiority was enshrined in law, encoded in every detail and nuance of cross-racial interaction. Underneath it all, no doubt, like the pea under twenty mattresses in the fairy tale, was a feeling of guilt, remote but still felt — but one of the paradoxes of human nature is how guilt midwifes the vilest of acts.

    The black victims of these acts can easily be thought of as one undifferentiated, and thus not quite human, mass. Focusing on such people as individuals, however, helps us to think about the actual experiences of these victims, each one a real human being with hopes, emotions, and people who loved them, and to consider, at the human level, what these experiences meant. Pain is supremely an individual feeling. No essay, no book, no series of books could capture every instance of blacks’ suffering due to racism, so I will cite only one. Think of a woman who was owned by others and forced to breed human beings; think of a woman in your life — your mother, wife, sister, daughter, favorite aunt, friend, lover, yourself — and imagine her having no say in who had sex with her, or how, or when, or whose children she carried and gave birth to. Such a woman was my great-great-great grandmother.

    Speaking of individuals, let us consider one individual in the present. As a boy, I was raised in the bosom of a loving family and never once got into trouble with the law. I had the benefit of a college education, and today I live in an area that is as safe as a city neighborhood can be, one that does not provoke an aggressive police presence. I have a driver’s license but drive very rarely and thus have never been stopped for Driving While Black. I am polite — to a fault, some would say — and do not make a habit of arousing people’s ire, whatever those people look like. While I love my whiskey, I have imbibed no illegal substances to speak of, and I have certainly never sold any, not least because I have never had to do so; I have never had a lot of money, and at some points in my life I have had very little indeed, but even in those moments I was spared the bleak choices facing those for whom the legal economy simply has no place, so that I have not once run afoul of the law for drug-related reasons and been subject to the inequities of the criminal justice system.

    Consider, in short, that I am probably as protected against racism as it is possible for a black man in America to be. Now consider that over the course of my life I have been followed out of stores, chased by a police car, told by an officer with his hand on his pistol to put my hands in the air, addressed with a nasty slur on the street, in a bar, and via email, told that I could not rent an apartment, greeted by police who were called after I was spotted at the door of my own residence, prevented from completing a job application, stopped by a cop who told me to quit following a group of women I had not noticed before then, told on the morning a job ad appeared that the job had been “filled,” stopped by a security guard on a college campus where I was a visiting writer, and I’ve forgotten what else — all for one reason, and perhaps I do not have to tell you what it is. My point here is that if these things have happened to me, we should consider what has happened to other black people in contemporary times. Better yet, read about the individual stories of flesh-and-blood individuals such as Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Sandra Bland, and the others whose skin color became their lethal fate.

    Now here comes the tricky part. It is difficult for black people to go from being immersed in thoughts of anti-black racism to considering the ethics of their attitudes toward whites. For many, the thought would simply never arise, and many others would not see the need or the benefit. It is a lot to ask of a historically oppressed group, one that continues to face discrimination and its attendant psychological burdens in the present, to bring objectivity and fair-mindedness to their encounters with representatives of the group that oppresses them. To be honest, I sometimes wonder why I care about this issue as much as I do, whether it means that I am just a strange person or have suspect motives, and I cannot say with perfect certainty that neither of these factors plays a part. I can say, with equal honesty, that I am not a self-hating black man who is prejudiced against other black people, as I have been accused of being. Do I, though, simply want to justify the life path on which my interests have taken me, in others’ eyes if not my own?

    That path led from the all-black neighborhood in Washington, D.C., where I grew up, to a mostly white college in the Midwest, the very first college to contact me, one that had what I wanted: a writing program. Certain that so-called race would be unimportant on a college campus in the post–civil rights world of 1981 (yes, I know), I thought nothing of being surrounded by so many whites. I held onto my high school friends, and I made new black friends, but I also made a slew of white friends, and that extended, eventually, to my dating life. I sigh, thinking of those friendships. One of my favorite memories from those years — really, from any years — is of staying up all night with a black friend, my roommate during our semester in London, drinking wine and gin and laughing our damn heads off in an upstairs room in the home of our host family, who were out of town. A white female friend still recalls the time I ran to her dorm room after she phoned me upset over a young man she was dating. Those friends and I still think of one another lovingly, even if, in some cases, we talk only sporadically. Our bond is eternal: we were young together.

    One of my black friends from that time, who is gone now, had the experience in high school that I had in college, of having a mostly white group of friends. If I discovered white people in college, he discovered black people — the tightly knit and frankly separatist group who lived for the most part in a dorm called African Heritage House (and who were deeply skeptical of me). “These black people here got their shit together,” I heard him say once, and for a time — which did not last for the rest of our college years — he put distance between himself and whites. For better or worse, probably some of both, I never went through that kind of rebellion, maybe in part because I grew up around black people who had “their shit together.” No, my rebellion, if it can be called that, was of a different sort and, unlike my friend’s, seems to be permanent. While I happily celebrate my black heritage, I also rebel, if only in my mind, against the importance that everyone attaches to skin color, and I rebel against those — and they are white as well as black — who feel there is something odd about me because of the way I have lived my life. I am not insensitive to those judgments, and perhaps I have internalized them to some degree, but something deep in me also shouts back, Am I crazy, or are all of you?

    The question may or may not be rhetorical.

    Perhaps a black person would have to be a little crazy, or at best hopelessly naïve, not to be wary of certain situations. I have a desire to tour large swaths of the country by car, but I am very leery of some of the people I might encounter on such an adventure. Most black people I know, including me, will look through the window before entering an unfamiliar bar or restaurant, scanning for brown faces, just to make sure we are not unwelcome. This kind of wariness is a tradition for us, a part of survival. These are not examples of what I mean by judging whites on the basis of their whiteness — and, by extension, judging blacks who associate with them. Here, rather, are examples. Another black college friend of mine told me that a black man visited his apartment, saw a picture of my wife and me on the wall, and wanted to know, “What’s up with the brother and the white chick?” To my friend’s lifelong credit, he replied, “That’s my brother and sister-in-law.” Then there was the flak that Darius Rucker of Hootie & the Blowfish got for making music with white guys. Such examples, and they are numberless, may be trivial and harmless in themselves, but I am troubled by the narrowness and provincial nature of the attitude they suggest — an orientation that defines blackness not by what it is but by what it must not become, as if blackness were mortally threatened by mere contact with the infamous “Other,” like the Wicked Witch of the West doused with water. Are we that fragile?

    I have digressed. Perhaps, as I was saying, some part of me simply wants to justify my life. But I also believe, deep in my heart, that the bulk of what I feel is something else.

    It is natural, even commendable, to want to protect and support one’s own, whether that means one’s immediate family or the people who look like oneself and thus have many of the same life experiences. No reasonable person would dispute that. We would think amiss of a father who did not care what happened to his children. Black people, including me, have great respect for a black person who stands up for them. And yet there is a sense in which to stand up for one’s own is to stand up for oneself, and while I admire this, there is something else I admire, too.

    If we are not careful, society can become one interminable game of Us and Them, and if Team Us is perpetually outnumbered and on the losing end, life for its members can be a never-ending effort to correct this imbalance. But this game is not all there is, because there is, or should be, more to life than self-defense and survival. I have in mind such things as pleasure, love, friendship, a sense of purpose, and another item I would sneak onto the list, which is the desire to be the best versions of ourselves. Many turn to religion for this; others of us do not see the need to enlist God in the effort. For me, being my best self has a very particular meaning. It means not placing my skin color over my own humanity, especially since others, some of whom wear badges, seem only too happy to do that for me. It means not judging others on the basis of superficial characteristics. Does this not sound like something we were all taught early in our lives? And is not skin the most superficial of all our traits, as in the phrase “skin deep?” It also means treating others, all others, as I would like to be treated. How I would like to be treated is with forgiveness, with the understanding that I intend well even when I don’t do so well.

    This brings us back to white people. I have known many in my life, some casually, some well. To be sure, those I have known might be called — if I am using this term correctly — a skewed sample, since I move in liberal circles. It has been my experience that most of the white people in those circles — by no means all — have good hearts and mean well, even if their experiences do not necessarily give them the insights that others of us gain just by walking around with brown skin and kinky hair. I have reached this conclusion, which is based on decades of personal experience, by being open to people as individuals. Can appearances of good-heartedness be deceiving? Of course. Is the most open-hearted progressive white person capable, in a bad moment, of saying something most black people would find objectionable, something that may reveal a questionable attitude? Yes, and I have experienced that, too.

    I have seen the horror on a white person’s face when they realize what they have just said. It is the same horror I feel when I have unthinkingly misgendered a student, the same horror I felt many years ago when I made a joke about the SS to a co-worker who was, as I remembered two seconds too late, Jewish. The horror is often followed by a heartfelt apology. But not always; sometimes there is not even horror. Would I want to keep company with someone who tells racist jokes and can’t be convinced that they are not funny? Or with someone who otherwise will not be made to see his own cluelessness? As some black folks say, Aww, hell naw. (Or as some whites say, Hard pass.) But others respond well to being told that they have crossed a line. I have done this with people whose friendship I value. To the initial unease of one friend, I did it with her father, who responded very graciously. (I had told him I would have a story in an anthology of African-American fiction. He joked, “I didn’t know black people wrote.” I sent him a lengthy list of black writers.)

    Some will say that life is too short to spend trying to teach white folks how to behave. But I want to stress two points here. The first is that life is not only short but also thrillingly unpredictable, and you never know where your words will end up or the impact that they may have. Thanks to a conversation I overheard in a Starbucks, I went the next night to a screening of a film by Bertrand Blier, whose work I now want to explore further — and now you have heard of him too, if you hadn’t before. For a brief time as a young man, I, the son of two postal clerks, had the ear of a former First Lady of the United States, and the most famous and glamorous one at that; she was an editor at the publishing company where I worked as an editorial assistant in the years rights after college, and at one point her office was about ten feet from my desk. I remember talking to this woman about my mother, who was still living then, and I like to think, though I cannot recall, that I passed on some of Ma’s folksy Virginia-bred wisdom.

    The second point is that I would not have been in a position to share my point of view with my friends, to speak words to them that could — you never know — someday end up far from my mouth, had I not been open to those friends as individuals. I lay much of the blame for the divisiveness of our era on our forty-fifth president, whose election (and now re-election) was, to my mind, the worst thing to happen to this country in my lifetime, largely because he has made so many people feel that it’s fine not to give a damn about others. I do not know to what extent the treatment of others as individuals, as a tool for both conveying an understanding of the past and emphasizing what needs to happen in the future, can help put an end to this divisiveness. Nor do I know to what extent individual encounters and personal relationships can have an impact on institutional racism. I applaud the efforts of Black Lives Matter and earlier civil rights organizations to address institutional racism through group-based direct action, but I do know that institutions are made up, in the end, of individuals. And I know that while individuals do not necessarily care about groups to which they do not belong and which, for that reason, may live in their minds only as abstract notions, they care about other individuals, who can serve as their entry points for thinking about the concerns of those groups. This is where my hope lies.

    It was this hope that led me to a small experiment.

    Through social media and email, I asked volunteers to write to me if they had had the following experience: “meeting and talking with someone whose skin color, ethnicity, or sexuality was different from yours led you to consider, in a way you had not before, the experiences of the group to which that person belongs.” Sixteen people responded, thoughtfully and at some length, in ways that underscore, for me, the importance of cross-groups encounters; many of these encounters and exchanges would not have been possible without the willingness, on both sides, to treat others as individuals. In the following paragraphs I paraphrase some of the respondents’ stories and quote a few lines directly.

    A white woman, when she was much younger, asked her late brother-in-law, who was black, if black people use sunscreen. He responded, “Some do, some don’t, just like white people.” That response, spoken without anger or a lecture, was “a brilliant way of getting me to consider that ‘Some do, some don’t, just like other people’ is the answer to most questions about how any group behaves or any group’s preference.” The same woman worked, in the pre–George Floyd era, on publications for a college where a black colleague and friend capitalized the word “Black”; the woman told her colleague that the organization did not cap the word, but when the colleague explained her reasons, the woman agreed and relayed the explanation to higher-ups, who did not change their minds. This revealed to the woman “the kneejerk response of all of us gatekeepers to just do the same old thing unthinkingly; and then how quickly it all changed, as if there had never been a rule to begin with and all the old reasons we relied on went out the window.”

    A man of mixed black and Hispanic heritage noted that he has friends who are Chinese and gay, and that “their world and experience is so different from that of the Hispanic, white, or black gay men whom I know. Based on what they have told me, they have it tougher with little to no support.” Another black man came to a similar conclusion, thanks to interactions with Asian friends. A Chinese-American friend, he said, “blew my mind for thirty minutes straight with tales of micro and macro aggressions.” The friend told of riding his bike while carrying takeout food and hearing a white man, in the course of “explaining the world” to his toddler, saying, “That’s the delivery guy who brings us food ” — words that left the friend “literally dizzy with rage.” The black man learned that Asians “are on the receiving end of a particular kind of dehumanizing that I’ve never experienced in white liberal spaces.”

    Whites who responded also told of realizing from individual encounters what other groups — blacks in particular — experience. One white woman wrote that a friend of hers, a black woman, confided that she is leery of being friends with white women because she doesn’t know if those women simply want to have a black friend. Another white woman, accompanying her daughter’s fifth-grade class on a trip to Ellis Island, watched the white kids “happily looking up their ancestors on computers” while the black kids “just sat on the steps with their faces in their hands. All they had to look at was a lone and unimpressive map of the slave trade.” The kids who got in trouble with the teacher that day were mostly black, and when the woman told the teacher that “maybe the field trip triggered some resentment,” the teacher refused to hear it. A third white woman wrote, “A black friend ended up in handcuffs when she went to check her mail because the police didn’t expect a black woman to be living in a white neighborhood. I’ve never had that problem.” Still another white woman, who had not been around many blacks while growing up but made black friends as an adult, wrote that “it took some intimacy to progress from the intellectual conviction that human beings are human beings, that racism is a foundational American evil, etc., to losing in my bones a sense of the otherness of Black people. . . . Now that I’ve written this I’m kind of embarrassed about it.” One white man recalled that in high school, he joined a previously all-black music group. His experience of becoming close to the band members “helped me see how being black meant you were less likely to be seen by whites (like me) for who you were. You were simply ‘black.’” A couple of other white people wrote of their surprise on hearing black people celebrate the European parts of their heritage — and of what their own surprise revealed to them about their previous assumptions, which one called “totally stupid and narrow-minded.”

    Several people had their eyes opened by the experiences of spouses or close relatives. A white man wrote of talking to his transgender son and other young trans people and becoming “very conscious that the feeling of being trans is deep-going and genuine, not some fad.” A white man observed that seeing his child’s transgender male friend appear “so much happier and lighter than throughout the years before” made him realize “how right this seemed.” A white immigrant woman who married a biracial/black man in the 1970s was exposed to many instances of racism, such as hearing that the apartments the couple went to see together had already been rented — even though those apartments “had been available when I called 30 minutes earlier.” One white woman respondent was raised Catholic, married a Jewish man, and raised their sons as Jews; the woman wrote of “being able to witness [Jews’] collective identity and faith and then . . . witness their collective fear as well. I’m not sure I had connected those before.”

    All well and good, as Ma used to say. But in one of my books I identified indifference as being at the heart of our troubles surrounding so-called race. The obstacle to equality is not that white people are racist — though of course many are — but that many, perhaps most, simply do not care enough to want to make a change. Indifference is a chillingly powerful force. The testimonies that I have cited above, which come from exposure to the experiences of individuals, are heartfelt, and all of them are stories of personal enlightenment that may lead in some cases to the waning of indifference. But are the feelings that they express of the kind that ever translate into change at the institutional level?

    Here are two more testimonies, which I present to suggest the value of cross-racial exchanges and the potential power of a focus on individual experience. One story is from a white man who directed a creative writing program. He was in charge of hiring guest faculty, mostly through his network of personal acquaintances. “I don’t remember,” he writes, “if I even thought about the fact that most of them were white. At some point a few MFA students talked to me about their frustration with the lack of diversity among the teachers in the program. One Hispanic student told me that in both of the workshops she’d taken so far, her teachers and peers compared her writing to that of Sandra Cisneros, a writer with whom she said she actually had nothing in common — it was just that they seemed to lack a better frame of reference. These conversations really stayed with me and in their wake I completely rethought my hiring practices. This took place before the modern era of DEI bureaucracies, which, whatever their problems, do much to ensure that white ‘gatekeepers’ no longer rely unthinkingly on their personal networks, as I did at first.”

    The second story is also from a white man, who in this case was moved by the death of an individual: George Floyd. What happened to Floyd “made me wake up and recognize,” he writes, “that I couldn’t just let myself rest in my accomplishments and privilege.” He went on to build a startup company called Homesy, which “is designed to lower the barriers to home ownership by creating a data-driven, no-commission network of homesellers, buyers, and real estate–curious people who have faced a history of ‘real estate racism’” — racism that was “supported by the US government in concert with the National Association of Realtors.”

    I want to end with the most important thing I have to say, which is that what I am suggesting is not for the benefit of white people. No, I have others in mind.

    I am at my desk, writing this by hand, using the pen that Ma gave me, in the room where my children used to sleep. My wife now calls this room my office. I suppose it is. Taped to the wall in front of me are handwritten lists of names, including Jackie Ormes, Sam Milai, Mansa Musa, and Ali Ber; there is a sketched likeness of E. Ethelbert Miller, and to the left of that, a postcard reproduction of a work by William H. Johnson. If some or all of these names are unfamiliar to you, I encourage you to investigate them, should you feel so inspired. They all have one thing in common, and they have it in common with the group of people for whom I am writing.

    Near my desk, beneath my hat rack, is my stereo. On days when I am in my office preparing to teach, jazz plays. I hear the mostly wordless eloquence of Louis and Lil Armstrong, Charles Mingus, Eric Dolphy, Booker Little, Joe Pass, Bill Evans, Esperanza Spalding, or Lafayette Harris, and even when I am too absorbed in reading student work to take in every note, I feel sustained by this music, this black creation (whoever is playing it now), this testament to our resourcefulness, grit, imagination, intelligence, and adaptability. I was reared in the black world that created this gift to world culture. I care profoundly about our heritage and our well-being. I want us to be as fine as we can be.

    It Takes So Little

    Thousands of minutes and hours,
    deeds and words,
    specifications,
    delusions,
    mistakes
    without end,
    longing,
    flesh —
    it takes so much
    to create
    a single person —
    that he be,
    that he survives,
    that he feels a hand on his shoulder,
    that others say to him “It is you.”

    And it is so easy for him
    not to be,
    not to be this person,
    to be done,
    to be gone.
    Or for a place that was a home
    to no longer be the home
    that it was.
    It takes so little
    for a home to cease,
    to crumble,
    to return to dust,
    and for a land that was a place
    no longer to be the place
    that it was,
    for a home to fail in it
    and for a person to return
    to its dust.

    So little is required for a place
    once again to not be a home.
    So little is required
    to not be.

    The desire must be so strong,
    so strong the desire to live,
    so as to come back,
    so as to come back to being.

    December 12, 2024

    Translated by Leon Wieseltier

    Haydn: Order and Contradiction

    It is well known that over the years the evaluation of Haydn underwent a number of changes. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, no one would have hesitated to call him the greatest of all composers. According to the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung in 1802, “The inexhaustible spirit of his masterpieces is admired from Lisbon to St. Petersburg and Moscow, as well as behind the ocean and at the Polar Sea.” In the London press he was even called “the Shakespeare of music.”

    This international fame was triggered by the six string quartets Op. 33, owing to the recent proliferation of newspapers and musical publishing houses. As soon as his works ceased to be the property of Count Esterházy, Haydn offered them to a multitude of publishers at once, even inviting subscriptions to handwritten copies. Ten years earlier, the incredible novelty of the string quartets Op. 20 had created a stir among musicians: Mozart and Beethoven copied them out, and later Brahms ended up being the happy owner of the autograph. Has there been another composer who bestowed us with a musical cosmos comparable to Haydn’s quartets? Schubert’s lieder may qualify.

    In the nineteenth century, a counter-reaction occurred. Schumann, Liszt, Wagner and their spokesmen Adolf Bernhard Marx and Franz Brendel (no relation) voiced criticisms, while Mendelssohn, Weber, and Brahms seemed to have remained faithful admirers. Opinion-makers such as Eduard Hanslick and Theodor Adorno saw in Haydn mainly the precursor of greater masters. A different kind of sympathy and insight came from musical thinkers such as Heinrich Schenker and the composer, pianist, and brilliant writer Donald Francis Tovey, who dared to express the view that “in the history of music, no chapter is more important than that filled by the life-work of Joseph Haydn.” Haydn scholars such as H. C. Robbins Landon, Jens Peter Larsen, Anthony van Hoboken (who created the standard catalogue of Haydn’s compositions), James Webster, and Georg Feder — to mention only a few — then discovered missing works, eliminated inauthentic ones, and helped to correct mistakes. By 1935, not even one tenth of Haydn’s works had been printed. We cannot be grateful enough to the publisher Henle, whose complete Haydn edition is now available.

    In comparison to most of the other great composers, it is anything but easy to acquire an overview of Haydn’s work. Let us try to assess his life’s achievement. His compositions include sixty-seven string quartets, a hundred and four symphonies, fifty-five piano sonatas, forty-five piano trios, fourteen masses, three oratorios, one Stabat Mater, and one Te Deum — not forgetting his seventy-three operas and other music for the stage. We should also mention the approximately two hundred baryton trios that he composed for the pleasure of Esterházy, whose hobby was playing the baryton, a now-defunct string instrument with some added strings to be plucked. There were also approximately four hundred canzonettas and settings of Scottish and English folk songs, and more than forty canons. Haydn liked to sit down at the piano after dinner and sing some of his canzonettas for the pleasure of the English nobility. (As a boy he had been trained as a singer, and he remained particularly fond of cantabile even as an instrumental composer.) In addition, Haydn mounted twelve hundred opera performances for his employers the Esterházys, and was responsible for running their marionette theater. Conducting some of the performances of his oratorio The Creation, he seems to have used a baton, which did not become standard practice until a few decades later.

    Let us also not forget his numerous piano, voice, and composition students who, in his later years, he taught in the early morning before breakfast. Unlike Mozart or Beethoven, Haydn’s constitution seems to have been unshakeable, enabling him to live productively into old age. Only after the composition of his oratorio The Seasons did his vitality decline. In this weakened state, he carried visiting cards pronouncing “I am old and frail,” and enjoyed playing his “Kaiserlied” three times a day on the clavichord, happy if one of the performances turned out to be particularly emotional. With all these activities, Haydn was no quill-driver. Please note the spectacular increase of achievement in his late symphonies and quartets. Haydn himself resisted being labelled a hasty composer. How all this can be reconciled in a single human life is hard to comprehend.

    The Esterházys belonged to the wealthiest of noble families. To spend a large part of his life in their service was, for Haydn, a stroke of luck. No one has expressed this more clearly than Haydn himself: “My sovereign was pleased with all my work, I was able to earn his approval, I could, as the director of an orchestra, experiment, observe what makes an impression and what would diminish it. I could improve, add, subtract, dare; I was separated from the world. No one in my vicinity was able to lead me astray or distress me. Thus, I had to become original.” This last sentence gave rise to controversy: is it possible to become original, or is a genius, in Kant’s sense, born an original, endowed with an ability that surpasses what can be acquired? To the last question I would cautiously reply in the affirmative — after all, Haydn himself seemed to have been sufficiently aware of it.

    Today we see in Haydn not only the foundation of later music but also a phenomenon of originality and inexhaustible vigor. The fact that during his lifetime vocal music ceased to dominate while instrumental composition gradually gained the foreground was in no small measure due to Haydn’s activity. It was Haydn who led the string quartet from its rudimentary beginnings into the most concentrated, treasured, and “democratic” way of music-making, the democratic element becoming even more pronounced when a growing public gathered in larger halls to listen to Haydn’s “overtures,” as the symphonies were called in England.

    In the more recent Haydn literature, the image of Haydn has become many-faceted, with some old notions still cropping up. According to these views, Haydn was rustic, and devoid of melancholy (Stendhal’s opinion). This is incorrect, but the bright side does dominate. Haydn was a formalist, the composer who put the house of music into order, and at the same time an audacious adventurer, as well as the musical humorist par excellence. He was popular and “simple,” but he was also complex. He was naively religious but also an exponent of the Enlightenment. He was ironic and sophisticated, but at the same time a revolutionary. He was “the friend of the house who is always welcome without having anything new to offer,” but also the master of surprise and amazement. He incorporated both harmony and contradiction, risk and inner confidence.

    The formula derived from Friedrich Schlegel that was spelled out by Goethe and Zelter in the journal Athenaeum as signifying genius — namely, a fusion of naivete and irony — seems to aptly sum up Haydn’s musical persona. Let me quote more extensively from Goethe’s and Zelter’s text:

    Our Haydn is a son of our region and brings about things without heat: Who would enjoy being hot anyway? Temperament, sense, spirit, humour, flow, sweetness, power, and finally the true ingredients of genius, naivety and irony, should be assigned to him. As the elementary particles that we cannot imagine without warmth and substance can be recognized as Haydnesque peculiarities, we welcome his art as antique in the best sense. On the other hand, no one known to us has disagreed in finding him modern, which would be a difficult task as all modern music rests on him.

    Here we have a remarkable early insight, but it should not mislead us into underestimating Haydn as a mere forerunner, only a precursor of greater things to come. Haydn constantly invented music anew. A typical feature of many of his quartets and symphonies is the fast burlesque finale, likened by an English writer to a clown suddenly appearing onstage. Haydn toys with the listener who should be pleased and thrilled as long as he or she enjoys the comical, and relishes the superior appeal of nonsense. Already in his lifetime Haydn was compared to the great humorists among contemporary writers, Laurence Sterne and Jean Paul. With the author of Tristram Shandy he shares the sudden stops, the jerkiness, the countering of expectations.

    Haydn bestows on his music its formal order but at the same time provides us with its contradiction, the relentless detail that seems to place this order into question. For some of the Romantics, the words humor and irony were interchangeable. When the word “irony” entered the German language, Lessing translated it as Laune — mood, frame of mind. In this sense, it has remained a keyword for Haydn’s music. Many of his contemporaries — his early biographers Georg August Griesinger and Albert Christoph Dies as well as the music aesthetician Christian Friedrich Michaelis — were well aware of it. Ignatz Ernst Ferdinand Arnold made this acute comment on Haydn’s comic style:

    Being in command of all artistic means, this play of easy imagination endows even the smallest flight of genius with a boldness and audacity [Keckheit und Dreistigkeit] that expands the area of aesthetic achievement into the infinite without causing damage or anxiety . . . the last allegros or rondos consist frequently of short, nimble movements that reach the highest degree of comicality by often being worked out most seriously, diligently and learnedly . . . any pretence at seriousness only serves the purpose of making the playful wantonness of the music appear as unexpected as possible, and of teasing us from every side until we succumb and give up all attempts to predict what will happen next, to ask for what we wish for, or to demand what is reasonable.

    I cite this because, on the occasion of the two-hundredth anniversary of Haydn’s death in 2009, I came across a number of obituaries that not even in passing mentioned the comic aspect of Haydn’s music. In Columbia University’s massive Encyclopedia of the last century, the only explanation for the word “humor” was that of bodily fluids, while the Haydn Encyclopedia of Oxford University Press does not mention humor, irony or wit at all. It appears there are still people who are not prepared to take humor seriously.

    Next to the confounding diversity of his production, the other main reason for underestimating Haydn’s greatness seems to me an absence of humor. As we know, many thinkers have suffered from it. Among the exceptions were Spinoza and Darwin, who believed in the cheerful and blissful roots of laughter. I am happy to join them. Over long spans of time, religions did their best to stifle laughter. Adversaries of laughter were called agelasts. I side with the anti-agelasts, the advocates of laughter. It depends, however, when you are laughing, and how. In his novel A Raw Youth, Dostoyevsky tells us: “Show me how you laugh and I’ll tell you who you are.”

    What happens while we laugh? We shake, emanate strange noises, “lose control.” The body seems to be in charge and not the mind. Some philosophers seem to think that this abandonment of self-control represents the worst that could possibly happen. Others, however, may see laughter as a welcome liberation from the constraints of reason. Not for nothing is laughter at the center of Dadaism. One can laugh softly as well; Haydn is said never to have laughed out loud. And even music can laugh. Listen to the beginnings of Haydn’s late C Major Sonata or to some of Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations! At the end of this C Major Sonata, Haydn seems to be making fun of his listeners.

    The means of expression that Haydn applies in order to achieve comic results have been thoroughly scrutinized. For my part, I would mention: seeming absentmindedness, sudden interruptions, repetitions of motifs, marking time, sudden manifestations of power, feigned naivete next to the genuine kind, musical twinkle, the idea to start a piece with its end, unfounded insistences, the relish of the unforeseen. And of course the surprises of instrumentation. Not all that is unexpected is necessarily comical: in the magnificent Military Symphony No. 100, we may prefer to experience the incursion of pandemonium as a frightening memento mori. And not every finale is a big joke: the whispered fugues in some of his early quartets convey a different, partly cryptic, partly intellectual message.

    Among the surprises that Haydn springs on us is his string quartet Op. 42. It stands all on its own, a wallflower between those larger quartets in series of six or three. It is terse and avoids virtuosity, a work of touching modesty, a starting point for a new mode of expression that Haydn decided not to pursue. On the interaction between Haydn and Mozart, Tovey writes that Haydn’s effect on Mozart resulted in an increased concentration of symmetry, while Mozart aided Haydn in liberating himself, making it possible to be no less capricious in his larger pieces than in his minuets and anti-minuets. In his quartet Op. 42, it seems the reverse: Haydn simplifies. Only the finale makes use of counterpoint.

    The diversity of Haydn’s composing becomes most readily evident in his string quartets. According to Mary Hunter in The Cambridge Companion to Haydn, it reaches from the gallant to the learned, from the supremely original and progressive to the universally accessible, and from the popular to the sublime. Let me add: from the capriccio to the fugue, from opera singing to the virtuosity of his violinists Tomasini, Tost, and Salomon, from the idiosyncratic to the refined simplicity of Op. 42.

    Haydn was not handsome. Of less than medium height, short-legged but always scrupulously dressed, his features were notable for a prominent nose and a protuberant lower lip. He continued to wear a wig even after it had ceased being fashionable. His marriage was a mistake, but there seemed to have been no dearth of feminine company. For Luigia Polzelli, a singing member of the Esterházy Ensemble, he transcribed, transposed, and facilitated operatic arias. His later piano sonatas and most of the piano trios are dedicated to lady pianists. For good measure, string quartets and orchestras remained in male hands.

    Three of his sonatas are particularly forward-looking. The C minor Sonata Hob. XVI: 20, from 1771, as well as the last of his E flat Sonatas, XVI: 52, open up new vistas: important sonatas by Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert would take up the key and character of C minor, while the big Sonata in E flat was the first one to turn the fortepiano into an orchestra. But not even Schubert, with his predilection for chromatic neighboring keys, would have dared to follow up a first movement in E flat immediately with an E major adagio; in his Wandererfantasie, it needed an extensive transition to get from C major to C sharp minor. In Haydn’s Sonata XVI: 50, the display of grotesquery ranges from the shortest staccato to mists of pedal. 

    I shall mention the magnificent achievement of the late symphonies only in passing. A number of recordings of the twelve London Symphonies are available, but in the concert hall we encounter them all too rarely. Let me point to Frans Brüggen’s performances of the 1980s, and among contemporary conductors, Simon Rattle, as a most sensitive Haydn exponent who, both in concert and on records, has realized in some of Haydn’s most perplexing movements documents of this composer’s inclination to surprise.

    The fact that Haydn was able to conclude his career with his two great oratorios brought him supreme international fame and the most ardent admiration of his fellow composers. What he didn’t achieve with his operas he clearly accomplished with the universal success of The Creation and The Seasons. I wish there were a sufficient number of listeners to bring about concert performances of his Stabat Mater or the late masses. In his religious music, naivete is more than capable of foregoing irony and standing on his own.

    The Missing Shade of White

    Would you rather see the world in black and white or live without music? This is one of my favorite questions. Most people tell me that they would give up color before giving up Bach and the Beatles and so on — except kids, who usually make the opposite choice. I’m with the kids, and I always have been.

    In the third grade, we were asked to name our favorite book. Mine was The Wizard of Oz, because it was colorful. I remember how disappointed my teacher was to learn that I was referring to the brightly colored watercolor drawings in my edition of the book. The right way to use the word “colorful” to praise a book, she explained, is to describe distinctive or memorable characters, such as the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion, or surprising and whimsical events, such as a house falling on a witch, as being, in a metaphorical sense, “colorful.” The Wizard of Oz was good because it was colorful, but not in the superficial way I meant it. This was the same teacher who got annoyed when, having told the class to draw a picture of spring, she observed I had drawn a metal coil. (The possibility of drawing trees and birds and sunshine did occur to me, but that seemed harder, and I am not good at drawing.) There is a flat literalism to the way I think, and there is a flat literalism to color as well: somehow, color flattens the world. The puzzle is that it also, at the same time, enlivens it.

    The movie version of The Wizard of Oz builds a bridge between literalists like me, and sophisticates like my third-grade teacher. Dorothy starts out in the sepia-toned plains of Kansas, a world of dirt roads and open sky and old scattered farm equipment, and when the color gets turned on she is in a place chock-full of amazing, impossible wonders. The advent of color means the exit of the dull, the flat, the ordinary; with literal color comes metaphorical color. You can experience a version of the opposite when you switch the display of your phone or computer into black and white mode. Suddenly it is a much less appealing world to spend time in; you have drained it of life, even though it was never alive in the first place.

    Color means liveliness, despite the absence of any correlation between how alive something is and how colorful it is: some colorful things are alive, some are not; some drab things are alive, some are not. When a given instance of color is very colorful, it is often described as vibrant, a word related to the word “vibrate,” as though the color were in the business of moving rapidly, even though it is not moving at all. Arguably, color is one of the things that never moves. Things that are colored can move, and your eye can move across a field of colors, but colors are no more capable of motion than numbers are capable of emitting smells. So here we have two features of color: it is flat and it is lively. This is not exactly a contradiction, but there is some kind of tension between the reality of color as literal, as flat, as shallow, as a property of the outermost surface of things, and our sense that color is a mark of liveliness, of vibrancy, of energy, pointing us to the life that teems deep within. I want to explain why I choose color over music; to do that, I am going to have to make sense of how color vibrates without moving.

    Let’s start with a different question: which comes first, color or shape? You might think that this is a bad question, but Plato, a top questioner if there ever was one, disagreed. There are no fights about the chicken and the egg in the Platonic corpus, but there is one about the relative priority of color and shape. It starts when Socrates defines shape in terms of color: “Let us say that shape is that which alone of all existing things always follows color.” Socrates is saying that shapes precipitate out of colors, in the sense that we identify shapes by tracking color boundaries. Socrates’ interlocutor, Meno, calls this definition “foolish”: what if a person came along who claimed “that he did not know what color is, but that he had the same difficulty as he had about shape?” Meno is complaining: what if I were blind? So Socrates offers Meno a second definition: “shape is the limit of a solid.” But Meno is not satisfied and pushes Socrates to define color. Socrates complies: “color is an effluvium from shapes which fits the sight and is perceived,” by which he means that objects emit streams of tiny shapes, which we perceive as color when they enter our eyes. At this point, Meno is satisfied. He loves this definition, “This seems to me to be an excellent answer, Socrates.” And Socrates rebukes him for loving it: “it is a theatrical answer so it pleases you, Meno . . . it is not better . . . but I am convinced that the other is.”

    The dispute between Meno and Socrates is this: Meno prefers to define color in terms of shape, whereas Socrates prefers to define shape in terms of color. Consider trying to actually use Socrates’ second definition of shape — “the limit of a solid” — in order to identify a shape. If Meno were blind, he would find the limits of solids by attending to tactile changes, but as it is, given that he is sighted, he relies on color differences. Socrates’ first definition stands behind his second one. Color is what helps us find limits. You are using color that way right now, to read these words. Maybe that will be easier to see with words you (probably) can’t read:

    ἔστω γὰρ δὴ ἡμῖν τοῦτο σχῆμα, ὃ μόνον τῶν ὄντων τυγχάνει χρώματι ἀεὶ ἑπόμενον.

    Look closely at those marks, and pay attention to where each shape comes to an end. Notice something? You keep running into color boundaries! The limit of each shape is the place where the color changes. Color lets us see shape. And notice that it doesn’t go the other way. If you look closely at the unprinted margins of this page, you’ll find you can attend to an indeterminately bounded patch of white within the larger, unprinted margin. You see the color of that patch — white — but not by seeing any particular shape. Color does not follow shape, shape follows color.

    If you know ancient Greek, you may have struggled to overcome your inclination to read the sentence — which gives Socrates’ first definition of shape — instead of seeing its shapes. Even if you aren’t able to translate the sentence, you still had to fight against your recognition of many of the letters. That struggle is good practice for our next exercise, as we move into the third dimension. You are going to lift your eyes from this page, but before you do, instruct yourself to adopt an infant mindset. I mean: try to remember that once upon a time you didn’t know there were such things as books and carpets and windowpanes. Before you learned to parse the visual language of the spaces you are in, it was all Greek to you. Keeping that in mind, look up.

    Welcome back. It’s time to reflect on your experience. How did your eye decide where one thing stops and another starts? It looked for color changes. Once again, shape boundaries track color boundaries. That’s the only way you get keyed into a new shape, at least if you are using vision. To see shape, you are forced to rely exclusively on color.

    Shape is that alone of all existing things which always follows color. Every time I say this sentence to myself, it literally changes the way I see everything: instead of recognizing familiar groupings of familiar things, I find myself gazing at a sea of patterned color. If the definition favored by Socrates immerses me in the act of seeing, the one favored by Meno has the opposite effect. The shapes of which color is an “effluvium” must be so tiny as to be invisible, and when they enter my eye, they do so, in a sense, unseen. Meno is trying to get behind or underneath color experience; he is eager to move away from the vocabulary of the first person into terms that are abstract and alien, or, as Socrates puts it, “theatrical.” Socrates is encouraging us to dive into our experience, to allow it to make itself intelligible on its own terms. I could tell Meno’s story about color to a blind person, whereas in order to tell Socrates’ story about color, I had to get you to use your eyes.

    A variant of the dispute between Meno and Socrates would recur, a few thousand years later, when Goethe resisted Newton’s conception of color. Newton understood color as a property of light, whereas Goethe insisted that color is a kind of subjective experience: the numerical wavelength of light might be a property of the light, but redness is a property of how things appear to the seeing subject. Wavelength is quantitative whereas red is a quality. Wittgenstein takes the side of Goethe and Socrates when he writes: “I don’t see that the colors of bodies reflect light into my eye.” Let us separate the question of what I see from the question of what happens — with light, and retinas, and tiny invisible shapes — when I see. Those inquiring into the second question will come upon all sorts of surprises, such as the surprising fact that white light can be split into the other colors of light, and surprises about whether light is a wave or a particle, about the structure of the eye, and of the brain, and so on. But these surprises are themselves unsurprising. When the journey is meant to end in a full understanding of the apparatus of seeing — the eye–brain interface, the surface, the light, and so on — we know in advance that it will be a long journey, full of alien and “theatrical” twists and turns. But if we turn our attention to the first question, the Socratic one, we don’t expect the unexpected. What do I see? The answer is color, and that is the end of the story, right?

    Wrong.

     

    In 1950, a year before he died, Wittgenstein was thinking about color, and his reflections were collected into a little book called Remarks on Color. The question that runs like a guiding thread through his remarks is: why isn’t there transparent white?

    At first I took this question as proof that even great philosophers can ask bad questions, because there definitely is such a thing as transparent white. You can look down through the clouds from an airplane and see the world below through a whitish tint. And there is also frosted glass, and wax paper, and ice when it is filled with tiny air bubbles. And then I realized: those objects are not transparent, they are translucent. You can have milky white glass, cloudy glass, but the analog to that is milky or cloudy green glass, which is not the same as transparent green glass. Translucency blurs the boundaries of things, transparency does not. So I posed Wittgenstein’s question to a friend, and he said, “Of course there is transparent white!” I demanded he show me some and he promised to do so. He returned, hours later, defeated. He couldn’t find any, either.

    Why isn’t there transparent white? This question became an obsession for me, as it was for Wittgenstein, who poses it over and over again, in many different ways. For example:

    Why is it that something can be transparent green but not transparent white?

    “White water is inconceivable, etc.” That means we cannot describe, (e.g. paint) how something white and clear would look, and that means: we don’t know what description, portrayal, these words demand of us.

    Why can’t we imagine transparent-white glass — even if there isn’t any in actuality? Where does the analogy with transparent colored glass go wrong?

    And it does not suffice to say, the word ‘white’ is used only for the appearance of surfaces. It could be that we had two words for “green”: one for green surfaces, the other for green transparent objects. The question would remain why there existed no color word corresponding to the word “white” for something transparent.

    “Why then is transparent white impossible? Paint a transparent red body, and then substitute white for red!”

    You might be inclined to say that it is obvious why there isn’t transparent white glass: a transparent medium filters out the relevant color and only lets that kind of light through, but white is all the colors, so “transparent white” glass can’t do any filtering. But then perhaps a clear transparent glass should count as “transparent white”? Yet it doesn’t. As Wittgenstein would say, look at it! Does it look white? (“We don’t say of something which looks transparent that it looks white.”)

    Wittgenstein considers a potential rule for transparency: maybe transparent X glass, for any color X, has to change the colors of what is behind it so as to make white things X-colored, and it must make everything else appear in some shade between X and black. This rule does indeed work for “transparent red” and “transparent blue.” But then he has us imagine that there were a glass that drained the world of color, rendering everything black and white — I suppose it is the glass you would have to look through, for the rest of your life, if you opted for music. Viewed through this “decoloring” glass, as we might call it, whites are white, and everything else is in a shade from white to black. This glass should, by the rule proposed above, qualify as “transparent white.” And yet, notes Wittgenstein, we are not inclined to call it that, because whether or not something is white is not a matter of whether it satisfies some rule but, again, whether it looks white. Whiteness is not stipulative. But if it is not stipulative, then why would we assume that there would be a white version of everything? That is the real question.

    Why should there be transparent white? Wittgenstein also notes that there are no luminous greys: “the fact that we cannot conceive of something ‘glowing grey’ belongs neither to the physics nor to the psychology of color.” Moreover, “a shine, a ‘high-light’ cannot be black.” And yet, he goes on to observe, “a flag may be yellow and black, another yellow and white.” White and grey and black are interchangeable on flags, but not when it comes to flames, or transparency, or shadows. When it comes to flags, anything goes, but when it comes to shines and shadows, only some things go. We should, I propose, be less surprised by the flames and shadows, and much more surprised by the flags: how marvelously unstuck their colors are! Transparent white is the rare exception to the rule that if you pick out almost any object in your visual field you can easily imagine it being a very different color from the color that it is. Pink squirrels? Sure. Lavender grass? No problem. Color is layered very thinly on reality, which gives it a life of its own. 

    Contrast sound. There is no single, unified way to refer to the sonic analog to “lavender” or “maroon.” We must mention both the pitch of a note — how high or low it is — and its timbre. Timbre picks out the difference between the same note played on a piano, or a flute, or sung by a human voice — each gives the note a different “coloring.” Notice that in order to refer to those different timbres, I have to refer to their causal underpinnings: the most natural way for me to describe the distinctive sonic quality of a trumpet’s blast is to mention the brass thing that produced the sound, namely the trumpet. The same goes for the other senses. I do not think that just anything can taste sweet — salt, for instance, cannot taste sweet. The fact that salt cannot be sweet, or granite cannot be squishy, does not induce in me the feeling of perplexity that I feel when I learn that what is transparent cannot be white. If I try to imagine a book that tastes salty or sour, I find that my mind has deposited a fine layer of salt or lemon juice on the surface of the book. The smell of a rose or the ocean is associated with a very specific thing, namely, a rose or an ocean. Against the backdrop of the causal embeddedness of our other senses, it is remarkable that we have such a concept as “red,” which requires no mention of tomatoes or fire or lobsters or Coca-Cola cans or carpets used for celebrities. I conceive of red as something in its own right, detachable from any of the objects that cause me to experience it. And this is, in general, how I think of color, as something that can be peeled off of reality, as something that inhabits a strange realm called “my visual field,” a mental arena to which there is no analog in any of the other senses. Is a color “patch” a piece of the world or a piece of my mind?

    Had he not died a decade before it was published, I believe that Wittgenstein would have loved Josef Albers’ The Interaction of Color. Albers was a Bauhaus painter, printmaker, graphic designer, photographer, art educator, and color theorist — in sum, a practitioner of color. The Interaction of Color is not a treatise about color but a workbook filled with exercises designed to teach the reader to do something she thinks she already knows how to do, namely, see colors. The thesis of the book is in its title: colors interact. The interaction of color can cause two colors that are the same to look different, or several colors that are different to look the same — it causes “the Weber–Fechner Law,” which says that transparent colors must be layered upon one another geometrically in order to produce what looks like an arithmetic progression, and it causes “the Bezold effect,” by which proximate colors can lighten or darken one another. But the “most exciting of all color phenomena,” according to Albers, is an interaction effect that causes the vanishing of boundaries at the border between two different colors of equal light intensity. When Wittgenstein asks, “Why is green drowned in the black, but white isn’t?”, he is gesturing at Albers’ favorite interaction effect. As an artist, Albers is most famous for his series of paintings of nested squares called Homage to the Square, which makes frequent use of this same effect. Albers wrote, of his series paintings, “I’m not paying ‘homage to a square.’ It’s only the dish I serve my craziness about color in.”

    Early in the book Albers makes clear that he is taking the Socratic path:

    Our study of color differs fundamentally from a study which anatomically dissects colorants (pigments) and physical qualities (wave length).

    Our concern is the interaction of color; that is, seeing what happens between colors.

    We are able to hear a single tone.

    But we almost never (that is, without special devices) see a single color unconnected and unrelated to other colors.

    Colors present themselves in continuous flux, constantly related to changing neighbors and changing conditions.

    In an early chapter called “a color has many faces,” Albers writes that “color is the most relative medium in art,” but it is not until the end of the book that he dares to explain what he means by this: “The purpose of most of our color studies is to prove that color is the most relative medium in art, that we almost never perceive what color is physically.” Albers is saying: we don’t see the colors that are there. What we see, instead, is the interaction between colors.

    If this seems like a crazy claim, the book is filled with proof. The wonderful images in his book are sadly copyrighted, so I can’t reproduce them here, but here is an (inferior) example of my own construction. Take a look at this set of shapes:

    Ask yourself how hard it is to determine the relative color values of the shapes that I have marked 1, 2, 3, 4? Is 1 darker or lighter than 3? Is 2 darker or lighter than 1? Now look at Figure 2, where I have rearranged the same set of shapes. I have not adjusted their color values or even rotated them; I have simply changed their relative positions. Notice, first, that it is now easy to determine which is darker, and second, that in their new arrangement the shapes composing (what now appear as a) triangle and rectangle are transparent. Albers would chalk both of these differences up to the interaction of color. The colors in Figure 2 interact in such a way as to produce transparent color, and in such a way as to make it easy for you to tell that 1, 3 and 4 have the same value, whereas 2 is lighter.

    My images echo a thought experiment described by Wittgenstein:

    Imagine a painting cut up into small, almost monochromatic bits which are then used as pieces in a jig-saw puzzle. Even when such a piece is not monochromatic it should not indicate any three-dimensional shape, but should appear as a flat color-patch. Only together with the other pieces does it become a bit of blue sky, a shadow, a highlight, transparent or opaque, etc. Do the individual pieces show us the real colors of the parts of the picture?

    Given that our color assessments are more accurate for Figure 2, why might we think that it is Figure 1 that shows us “the real colors”? The answer must be that “real colors” means “colors in the absence of interaction effects.” I believe that this is also what Albers means by “physically,” when he tells us that “we almost never perceive what color is physically.” Of course we cannot remove all interaction effects, because a color patch is always seen against some background. Figure 1 frames each grey shape in white, and in Wittgenstein’s example we must imagine that we are examining the painting fragments strewn on a rug or held up against a wall.

    Still, we can remove many interaction effects by “deconstructing” an image: we can bring it about that we can no longer identify the blue as the blue of the sky, and no longer pick out items such as shadows or highlights, no longer distinguish between what is transparent and what is opaque. Wittgenstein points out that in a painting, a transparent object, such as a glass vase, will be painted using the same sort of paints as an opaque one, such as the table on which the vase rests. The “building blocks” of a transparent image will not be transparent. Figures 1 and 2 illustrate this as well: transparency is an interaction effect. We can chop an image up to the point where many such interaction effects are removed, even if not all of them, and we have the sense that this brings us closer to the “real” color. Oddly enough, the “real color” is not what we tend to see.

    Once again it is worth noting that our atomism about color is unparalleled in our other forms of sense experience. We don’t instinctually decompose music or food into its component parts and claim that those components are what we are “really” hearing or seeing. That is why you didn’t notice that my initial framing — comparing losing color to losing music — was guilty of a lack of parallelism. Strictly speaking, the parallel to losing color is losing pitch and timbre, whereas losing paintings and stained glass windows should be on par with losing classical and pop and so on. But when I frame it in the first way, people translate pitch plus timbre into music — they care about being able to distinguish a voice from a trumpet exactly insofar as they care about being able to hear Bach. And framed in the second way the choice is too obvious, even for me: I would pick music over paintings, because so much of my aesthetic experience of color can be salvaged. It comes naturally to balance red against Bach, turquoise against the Beatles; somehow colors are on par with much more organized experiences of sound or taste. I own a book called The Secret Lives of Color, which contains hundreds of pages of detailed discussions of many colors, including sixteen shades of yellow and orange (amber, saffron, minimum ginger, orpiment, gamboge) — and yet it is missing my favorite yellow-orange, ochre. I could not imagine a book called The Secret Lives of Notes that discusses middle C as played on a piano versus A sharp on a flute. Who cares about notes? We care about flavors mostly insofar as they are clustered into foods, and likewise for textures, but ochre shows up for me as an important citizen of reality, it stands on its own two feet. We are blasé about the existence of notes we cannot hear (a dog whistle) but we feel very differently about the prospect of colors we cannot see. (Wittgenstein: “There is, after all, no commonly accepted criterion for what is a color, unless it is one of our colors.”)

    In 2015, a picture of a dress worn to a wedding went viral because people could not agree whether it was blue and black or white and gold. A few years later, there was an analogous acoustic disagreement: in a brief audio recording, some heard “yanny” where others heard “laurel,” shortly followed by a variant with “green needle” and “brainstorm.” Notice: in the visual realm, we are torn between colors, in the auditory realm, between words.

    A color is in many ways less like a sound, or a taste, or a smell, and more like a word. A word presents itself as separate from the causal structure that gave rise to it; it floats in the air, Homer observed, as though on wings. A word is also a unit — standing apart from other words — even though, as with color, we only ever encounter words in the context of other words, and the “interaction effects” are, to put it mildly, significant. When the person I am talking to is angry with me, or boring me, or I am in some way averse to the interaction I am in, the words they are saying sometimes materialize in the air in front of me. I see the words more than I hear them, and their presence comforts me, as though they were saying: you can interact with us instead.

    Color both flattens and enlivens the world, and words do the same. On the one hand, it is a truism that there is much that cannot be expressed in words, that a word only conveys a whisper of the thing itself; on the other hand, when we do succeed in describing something that we previously found difficult to describe, or even just inventing a name for it, the phenomenon is thereby, in some sense, brought to life. Suddenly being able to speak something you couldn’t speak before is a lot like having it jump out at you, visually, in the form of a bright gash of pink, or a garish polka-dot pattern.

    Your eyes show you a world of things, immediately, and in the same glance they show you color and shape and transparency and shine. Unless I am instructing you to perform strange Socratic exercises, you see everything together all at once. In a similar way, when you read this text, you access my thoughts, what I am trying to communicate, and you access my words and sentences and linguistic style, all together. Color is packaged with things as words are packaged with thoughts, but unpacking is a task one can take up, if one is so inclined. I am, in both cases, all the time: to be literal-minded is to be attuned to the superficial liveliness that buzzes all around you, because you have accepted the standing invitation to detach the surface from what is bundled with it.

    Even when I am listening to it in public, music is private. By the time I hear it, it has already been granted direct access to my core, the place where my secret thoughts and hidden feelings lie; I locate it in my interior. But my visual field and the color patches that populate it are not private — at least not in that way. They are private in the way a private conversation or a private club are private: by invitation only. Music reminds me that I am alive, that I carry life within me, but a colored world presents itself to me as alive, as though it were talking to me. I want both, but if I have to choose, I would rather feel less life in me and more life around me.

    Young Lady in 1886

    after Manet

    Smudge of ivory
    cameo (another lady’s
    face, but anonymous) lists
    from black ribbon.
    To her, she offers
    a petite bundle
    of lilac. The African
    grey contemplates a beyond
    beyond its empty dish,
    no droplet or
    seed to hold its attention.
    This is discipline.
    The blue velvet
    hair bow and red (parted,
    kempt) complement
    each other. At the rack’s
    wooden feet sits
    a half-peeled orange, sug-
    gesting, yes, undress.
    Muse in pink
    sheen, buttoned up
    nearly completely, folds
    fallen all to the floor
    to peekaboo slip of slipper.
    Listen, what music
    rode the room is secret. O
    but that milky pink
    the freckled ones will get,
    mottled with shyness.
    A man’s monocle,
    spontaneous, over her navel
    dip, cannot conceal
    the memory of it
    from him. In that coy
    cave, what was said remains
    between, a privacy.

    Peaches

    Born from pastel clouds and blushed as health,
    each a painted infant, gessoed and reaching. Kin to Monet’s
    faraway “Jar of Peaches,” seeded into the clay spectacular
    to commune and dream and flower, achieving
    at the center the divided brain of human nature:
    split between the orchard’s timetabled logic
    and the sumptuous urge toward art, to make of any surface
    a canvas and on it a peach folk-pretty and big
    as a dinner plate beside a tiny pig and silo.
    Held, it’s sunset, almost utterance,
    grave, airbrushed velveteen.
    A rapture of peaches, hummed into balsa
    and wire, delved from the original ochre pleasure, redden
    round in the potter’s terra cotta: a porch gift, a June reunion
    of fruit and earth, mother flesh and child relentless.

    A Photograph

    How long had it languished, erotic in the stalls
    of oil paintings and furs cryptic as the decrepit hutch
    where rabbits are generations gone?
    How well hid in the warrens of the flea market, then deeper
    as if back into the camera’s aperture,
    suddenly abloom as a daisy in the cemetery dirt
    that nurtured it. Some wan, anonymous beach, no signal
    if Cap Coz or Côte des Basque, it was all her:
    cuffs rolled (she must’ve been wearing his trousers),
    grayish hair a wing, fisherman’s sweater,
    glimpse of cheek, a privacy signed Leo Brisbois
    in grade school loops, deep pencil. He’d hung back, amber
    in its black barrel rolling one frame into
    the future. Waited as it bathed, gave it ivory mat.
    Valium to see it, like that Janis Joplin interview, her shy
    responses, her embarrassment in explaining how she sang
    from “the bottom of the music.” Her little girl teeth,
    how softly remarkable they seem, these sincerities.

    Pretty

    Sculptural swan, left behind
    earring sworn to the garden, as after
    an encounter on a carpet, risen
    then into a different person.
    When a thing alights, its missingness
    elevates prettiness into art.
    All of life in the sunset-fired contours.
    Your life poured into looking.