The Troubles of the Jews

    The mind operates by means of emphasis, especially the mind in the grip of fear or anger. When it brings order to the welter of experience, the mind sometimes exceeds the requirements of coherence and proceeds to exercises in simplification. Out of our many identities, we select one; out of our many loves, we select one; out of our many threats, we select one. Life is more easily managed this way. And we fit in more easily this way: such choices are determined chiefly by how we wish to be known by others, and by what others demand of us in the way of personal validity in our time. And so we choose single symbols of ourselves, and the rest, which may include some of our strongest capacities, is left to languish, undetected and undeveloped. Complexity is never trending. It is true that the appeal to complexity can become complacent and ponderous and an alibi for mental inaction; but surely nothing of consequence is ever simple. Surely the truth about us is that we are many things, we have many commitments, and we suffer many troubles. We take our pleasures in many places. We fight on many fronts.

    Perhaps nothing is more responsible for our myopias than our politics. Identify friend or foe, to borrow the naval code, is the rule. Those appear to be the only kinds of other people in existence. The Schmittians among us should take heart: we are living in the dystopia that their sordid hero described. Consider the question of our security. Our future depends significantly on how we conceive of the “foe.” If we misdescribe the danger we face, our powers will fail us. But in keeping with our pathologically synchronized political culture, or, to put it another way, in keeping with the growing repudiation of the liberal mentality, we are losing our mental dexterity in the confrontation with what threatens us. “Precarity” is the shibboleth of the day, and there is certainly a basis in reality for the popularity of the term; but “precarities” would be more accurate. The weakening of our sense of multiplicity has become one of our most significant vulnerabilities. Ideology is a method for seeing less than is there. We elect to see less, in exchange for the confidence that what we have seen we have mastered. It is a satisfying contraction.

    Even if we cannot proceed without frameworks with which to interpret experience, frameworks are blinders. That is why we are so often surprised, and ambushed; why crisis always finds us catching up. I remember when I first learned this lesson. I was a young student of modern Jewish history, and in the study of Zionism and the creation of the Jewish state I came upon the famous pronouncement by David Ben Gurion in 1939: “We will fight the White Paper as if there were no Hitler and we will fight Hitler as if there were no White Paper.” The White Paper, an act of supreme callousness that would be right at home in our era of scorn for the stateless, was an instrument of the British government that severely curtailed Jewish emigration from Europe to Palestine, with the aim of eventually banning it altogether. In 1939! I took away a larger point from Ben Gurion’s strategy in extremis. It is that there is never only a single danger. The challenges are always multiple and simultaneous. This is not as obvious as it sounds, because it requires certain mental adjustments that do not comport well with simple pictures, with intellectual italics, with “systemic” analysis, with holistic explanations. In the Jewish community in Palestine, there were many Jews who overcame their opposition to the British occupiers to fight alongside them against the Nazis, and there were even some Jews who overcame their opposition to fascism to fight the British occupiers (the history of Jewish fascism did not begin with Kahane and Ben Gvir); but Ben Gurion was insisting upon a double struggle, because history had afflicted the Jews with more than a single enemy, more than a single cruelty. And sometimes the challenges are not all external: I was schooled in the art of the double struggle, the fight on many fronts, by some of my teachers, who were in the valiant minority of American intellectuals in the 1950s who denounced Joseph Stalin and Joseph McCarthy with equal vehemence. No excuses were accepted and no extenuations were made. And if the double struggle made no sense according to the politics of the day, so much the worse for the politics of the day.

    The contemporary Jewish community is now faced with the prospect of a double struggle, but so far it has demonstrated only a skill for singleness. The Jewish left wants to know only one thing, the Jewish right wants to know only another thing. Right now it should be the duty of American Jews to fight the anti-Semitism outside the Jewish world and the anti-democratic decay inside the Jewish world, and on the basis of the same principles.

    One of the most impressive accomplishments of the fight against anti-Semitism is the literature — scholarly and philosophical — that has been created about it and against it. There is very little new to say about it, except to insist upon its eternal recurrence and to document its recent manifestations. But a succinct characterization of the malignancy is useful, and the finest one I know was recently written by Anthony Julius, the British Jewish intellectual and lawyer who is an authority on the terrible subject.

    Antisemitism consists of false and hostile beliefs about Jews, the Jewish religion, Jewish institutions or Jewish projects; these beliefs often lead to injurious things being said or done to Jews or their projects, or said about them. It has several modes of existence. Principally: it is a family of discourses; it conditions or deforms institutions and institutional practices; it is a choice made by individual men and women. Antisemitism variously threatens Jewish lives, Jewish security, and Jewish morale. It would deny to Jews rights others enjoy; it would withhold from them equality of treatment and regard. Antisemitism does not just injure Jews. It also encourages misconceptions about the causes of social conflicts, and of human suffering and social deprivation, thereby prolonging their existence, to general disadvantage. By denying Jews the opportunity of making contributions to society, it injures all society’s members. It corrupts political discourse; it taints political life; its injustices towards Jews are precedent-establishing. It even injures antisemites, degrading them and making them stupid.

    By now it should not be controversial to say that no party or ideology or community or movement is immune to anti-Semitism. The Jews have been despised by universalists and by particularists, by cosmopolitans and by nationalists, by communists and by fascists, by socialists and by capitalists, by progressives and by reactionaries, by the secular and by the religious, by white people and by people of color, by intellectuals and by populists, by monarchs and by republicans, by philosophers and by farmers, by monsters and by nice people, in a multitude of languages and in a multitude of cultures, and in places where there were no Jews. The absence of the object of a prejudice does not weaken it, and sometimes strengthens it. (Anti-Semitism in German universities between the wars was highest in the universities where there were no Jewish students.) That is because a prejudice is not caused by its object, and the notion that it is caused by its object, a commonplace notion, is itself a repetition of the prejudice.

    It is racist to seek the cause of racism in black people. It is misogynist to seek the cause of misogyny in women. It is homophobic to seek the cause of homophobia in gay people. And it is anti-Semitic to seek the cause of anti-Semitism in Jews. Prejudice is an expression of the prejudiced individual, of his or her inner turmoil, which is the result of his or her education and experience; or of a society with its own inner wounds and needs, most notably its desperate desire for scapegoats for its failures. Nobody ever went looking for a scapegoat without finding one. Bigotry is an internal disfiguration, not an empirical inference or a conclusion warranted by facts from the outside. Its essentially subjective and fantastic character, its invincible indifference to evidence, is what accounts for its tenacity and its durability. Hallucinations cannot be refuted; they can only be delegitimated and disarmed.

    All this, as I say, should be uncontroversial; but it is not. Almost nobody acknowledges the politically non-partisan nature of anti-Semitism, its infernal ubiquity. In the United States, for example, many Jews are certain that anti-Semitism is mainly or solely a phenomenon of the right. The Trump years certainly gave them abundant reasons to think so. (Trump himself pioneered a new type of villain in this tale: the pro-Israel anti-Semite.) The massacre at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh, the torch-lit Nurembergish march in Charlottesville, the dramatic statistical spike in incidents of anti-Semitic violence around the country, the mainstreaming of politicians who believe in Jewish space lasers — the anti-Semitism that has characterized the American right for a century and longer has finally been allowed to come out from under its rock and leap onto our platforms and take its seats in Congress. This remains a national disgrace, and no amount of trade between Israel and the Emirates, which was the Trump administration’s most significant contribution to the well-being of the Jewish state, can mitigate or erase the stain. (If we did have a space laser, who does Marjorie Taylor Greene think would be its first target?)

    These awful developments have left Jewish progressives with the warm feeling that the spread of anti-Semitism has little to do with them, that the fight against anti-Semitism is a progressive fight against the forces of reaction, which it partly is. Riveted by the bigot without, they overlook the bigot within. They are strangely unemphatic about the fight, for political reasons: the sane right, the saving remnant of American conservatism, and of course the Jewish right, has taken it up, and who would want to march with them? After all, some otherwise odious Republicans have been laudably exercised by Jew-hatred in America. Christian evangelicals have also risen to protest. Myself, I am grateful to them for their attention to the perils that beset my people, even if I cannot share their politics and their theological grounds for it. In times of trouble, friends are friends.

    Jewish progressives have spoken only softly, if at all, about the Judeophobia in their own midst. What has anti-Semitism to do with them? They appear to believe that they have clean hands in this matter. Jean Améry, writing in 1969 about earlier manifestation of righteous intolerance on the New Left, called this “virtuous anti-Semitism.” But now it turns out that some of the most glittering Congressional tribunes of the people, some of the stellar leftists in American politics, have required remedial training in respect for Jews. I am not especially moved by Ilhan Omar’s or Rashida Tlaib’s learning curve, because a lack of bigotry should be an elementary expectation in a decent society. They had no good reason to say anti-Semitic things in the first place. Were they ignorant? All racists are ignorant.

    I am not arguing against forgiveness; like you, I have needed it myself. But I have for a long time believed that the test of a person’s probity is his willingness to criticize his own community and to suffer unpopularity in his own congregation. Solidarity can sometimes make people stupid. The response of the progressives to the embarrassing revelations of their comrades’ bigotry was mainly to denounce the critics as racists and Islamophobes. They behaved like a sect. But my favorite example of progressivism’s tolerance of its internecine anti-Semitism is the somewhat hapless case of Trayvon White. He is a progressive politician, a young African American who represents underserved and disadvantaged neighborhoods on the city council in Washington, D.C.. In 2018, on a fine morning in March when the city was startled by snow flurries, the councilman posted this: “Y’all better pay attention to this climate control, man, this climate manipulation … And that’s a model based off the Rothschilds controlling the climate to create natural disasters they can pay for to own the cities, man. Be careful.” The Jewish community was offended, he met with a group of rabbis and lay leaders, he apologized, and he was sentenced to a visit to the Holocaust Museum. The tour of the museum was ninety minutes long. He left early. Everybody seemed satisfied by his promise to develop “a deeper understanding” of anti-Semitism. It was an admirable pledge. But how satisfied would he and his supporters be by the promise of a white supremacist to develop a deeper understanding of racism? Would the left leave it at that? White was reelected two years later with sixty percent of the vote.

    The sotto voce of the American left about anti-Semitism (there are exceptions) is owed also to its bizarre notion that the Jews are a race — more specifically, that they are white, and so the color of their skin invalidates their claim on empathy and enrolls them permanently in the ranks of the essentially privileged. Anybody who knows anything about Jewish history will acknowledge that this is meretricious nonsense. We come in many colors and no color has protected us. One afternoon I sat with Yehuda Amichai in a hummus joint in the central market in Jerusalem, and as we watched the polychromatic spectacle of the Jewish shoppers he turned to me and said: “Anybody who thinks that the Jews are a race should have some hummus here.”

    Which brings us, inevitably, to Israel. The diffidence of the American left about anti-Semitism is owed mostly to its diffidence about Israel. Well, not diffidence, exactly; hostility. Omar’s and Tlaib’s ugly comments about Jews were extenuated by their supporters as sympathy for the Palestinians. This, it was felt, pardoned their antipathy to — what? Israel? But they were not slandering Israel. They were slandering Jews. Tlaib is a Palestinian American. If you were Palestinian, wouldn’t you have mean things to say about Jews? Is this hard to understand? Actually, it is easy to understand: Jews, too, have been wounded and angry, and political expressions of Jewish rage are befouling Israeli politics and society. No, the Judeophobia of Palestinians is not hard to understand; but it is hard to tolerate. Are some bigotries more acceptable than others? The progressive patience with Palestinian anti-Semitism, like the progressive patience with the ruinous state of Palestinian politics generally, is an insult to the moral intelligence of Palestinians. It is rank Corbynism. A left-wing American Jewish writer, whose commitment to a better world carried him all the way to condemning the campaign against anti-Semitism (or “‘anti-Semitism’”) as “a threat to freedom,” helpfully explained that “Palestinians do not grow more tolerant of Jews when brutalized by a Jewish state.” Of course they don’t. But so what? The Islamophobia of the Israeli right is similarly absolved by reference to Palestinian violence. Or so they think. The misdeeds of the other cannot absolve one of the misdeeds of one’s own. It is not hard-hearted to denounce the racism of victims.

    The defense of criticism of Israeli behavior seems to have become a prohibition against criticism of Palestinian behavior. This, as Salam Fayyad once remarked, is no favor to the Palestinians. (And where exactly are the critics of Israel who are being muzzled? Criticism of Israel, right or wrong, is everywhere; it is the bon ton; a good career move. At least on the campuses, it is pro-Israeli speech that is mortally uncool, that struggles to be heard and even permitted.) Anti-Semitism, if this needs to be repeated, is a grave and primary sin. The occupation of the West Bank is not a sufficient reason to retweet the work of an anti-Semitic cartoonist, which Tlaib and Omar did after they were idiotically banned by the Israeli government from visiting Israel. There is never a sufficient reason to proliferate anti-Semitism. Tlaib’s anti-Zionism may be fueled by her family’s experience, but with her talk of American Jews’ double loyalty (are Israel’s supporters in Congress any more ardent in their support for Israel than she is in her support for Palestine?) and in her “from the river to the sea” language she went beyond anti-Zionism. She confirmed the view of those who believe that anti-Zionism is anti-Semitism.

    So is anti-Zionism the same as anti-Semitism? No, but anti-Semitism helps. If, by anti-Zionism, you mean that the Jews have no right to a state of their own, or are not a people with the same privileges and entitlements as other peoples in the era of nationalism and the nation-state; or that the Jewish state merits greater punishment than other states receive for the same, or greater, abuses and crimes; or that every Jew, and every Israeli Jew, is representative of all Jews and the entirety of the Jewish people, then you cannot be spared the most severe judgement: you are an anti-Semite. Go straight to the Holocaust Museum. Even though Israeli policies in the occupied territories are often indefensible, and even though Israel is partially responsible for the apparently indefinite deferral of a solution to the conflict, thereby preparing the ground for a historical catastrophe, the intensity of the hatred of Israel on this blood-soaked and nauseatingly unjust planet is psychotic — which is to say, it has morphed in many places from criticism into prejudice.

    Maligning Jews will do nothing to improve the lot of the Palestinians. While the history of anti-Semitism should not bar anybody from criticizing Israel, even ferociously, if you are going to criticize Israel, mind the line. (While the history of racism should not bar anybody from criticizing the African American community, even ferociously, if you are going to criticize the black community, mind the line.) I recommend this wariness not to suppress argument but to encourage humaneness. The distinction between anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism may seem analytically sound, but this is historically inflamed territory, there have been too many injurious consequences of sloppy thinking, and suspicion is justified. The border between the critique of Israel’s policies and the critique of Israel’s existence has too often been transgressed. And the criticism of Israeli policies is hardly made more persuasive when it is accompanied by hatred — or perhaps it is, in certain quarters and factions. (Though some of us, it should be noted, chastise Israel out of love.)

    In his book Outsiders, the German literary scholar Hans Mayer, a Jewish socialist who fled to France in 1933 and after the war wandered homelessly between the two Germanies, wrote that “whoever attacks Zionism, but by no means wishes to say anything against the Jews, is fooling himself or others. The state of Israel is a Jewish state. Whoever wants to destroy it, avowedly or by means of a policy which cannot but result in its annihilation, is dealing in the anti-Jewish hatred that has been with us since time immemorial.” This, I’m afraid, is the burden that anti-Zionism must bear — its occupational hazard, if you will. The policy of annihilation against which Mayer warns, moreover, need not be violent; there are peaceful ways, demographic and political ways, to erase the Jewish state. The moral onus is on the haters. And, again, if you wish to understand their hatred of Jews, do not study Jews. They are not the anti-Semites. The notion that anything that Israel does is in any way a warrant for anti-Semitism is simply disgusting.  

    Synagogues across America are now giving classes in how to respond to an active shooter. Where on the left is the outrage? Surely this is no less outrageous than the grotesque composition of the Israeli government. Everybody has their favorite victims, of course, but this is nothing to be proud of. The expansion of empathy is the duty of every person and every party, but I know of none who have so far acquitted themselves completely of their duty. This ethical malfeasance is especially embarrassing in universalists. In 1917, in a letter to a friend, Rosa Luxemburg wrote these infamous sentences: “What do you want with this theme of the ‘special suffering of the Jews’? I am just as much concerned with the poor victims on the rubber plantations of Putumayo, the blacks in Africa with whose corpses the Europeans play catch… They resound with me so strongly that I have no special place in my heart for the ghetto. I feel at home in the entire world, wherever there are clouds and birds and human tears.” As it happens, in her political agitation Luxemburg was not as indifferent to anti-Semitism as she boasted here. But what sort of a boast is this?

    There are historical circumstances, I suppose, in which the universal must be most forcefully asserted, and historical circumstances in which the particular must take pride of place — but the goal of all these avowals must be the establishment of an equilibrium among our magnitudes, a truce between our generality and our specificity. We must try to be as moved by the plight of the far as by the plight of the near, by the misfortune of others as by the misfortune of our own. Yet the defense of one’s own is not a mark of smallness. It is not “tribal” to fight for your own existence. It is a sacred obligation and a rudimentary sign of self-respect. Nor does it foreclose “clouds and birds and human tears.” There are universal grounds for the defense of the particular, for the simple reason that there are no victims who are not humans. Indeed, dehumanization is the very condition of victimization. Luxemburg (and her spiritual heirs) never recognized the irony of her position: since one’s own origins are also contained in “the entire world,” the rejection of one’s origins, whatever else it is, is a flaw in one’s universalism. So there are no excuses for any of the orientations. A feral response to anti-Semitism should be a matter of honor, and not only for Jews. Like black lives, Jewish lives matter.

    The Jewish right has been more vocal about the anti-Semitic resurgence, which is admirable, though it teaches that all the anti-Semitism in America is the work of the woke left. Like the Jewish left, the Jewish right is partially right and partially wrong. It appears that nobody has an interest in the whole truth about anti-Semitism, because it is politically and philosophically inconvenient. Yet it should be recalled that the massacre at the Tree of Life was not perpetrated by the ACLU, nor were the attacks at Poway and Colleyville and Kansas City. Jewish Trumpists (the phrase itself is what is known in Judaism as a desecration of God’s name) must reckon with the incontrovertible historical fact that the alt-right, from Steve Bannon in 2016 to the Proud Boys in 2021, along with its white supremacism and its anti-Semitism, was regarded by the forty-fifth president as a political asset, as a part of his base. (His very base base.) At least Omar and Tlaib never killed anybody.

    The problem with the Jewish right’s efforts against anti-Semitism is that they are premised on the assumption that they are the best Jews. This self-congratulation, and its attendant condescension toward Jews who do not think or live as they do, runs through everything they say. (If Orthodox Jewry loved itself any more than it already does, it would violate the commandment against idolatry.) A sterling illustration of this was a piece in The New York Times, excerpted from a best-selling book, by the enterprising Bari Weiss, called “To Fight Anti-Semitism, Be a Proud Jew.” This is high school uplift; I wrote it in high school. It is also somewhat baffling as an analysis of the problem. Are the Hasidic men who are regularly beaten on the streets of New York ashamed of their Jewishness? Or the shuls in New Jersey that hold services under police protection? Weiss, like other Jewish right-wingers, commits the cardinal mistake of explaining anti-Semitism in terms of Jewish behavior. She poses a choice: “Does safety come from contorting ourselves to look more like everybody else? Or does it come from drilling down into the wellspring of what made us special to begin with?” In fact, safety comes from physical bravery and security systems and law enforcement and community discipline and political engagement and the support of government. (And in the Jewish state, an army.) Even Jews who may be wavering in their beliefs and their practices, whose pride may be mixed with ambivalence, even Jewish “nones,” deserve to be safe.

    Weiss contends that there are two arguments about the sources of safety. “The first line of argument insists that safety for Jews comes by accommodating ourselves to the demands of our surrounding society. If we can just show that we are perfect Greeks, patriotic Germans, and so on, then they’d love us.” And patriotic Americans, too? The Jewish right’s equivalence of Americanism and Judaism — to the absurd extent of having persuaded themselves that the American Founders were inspired primarily by Jewish sources — is reminiscent of nothing so much as German Jewry’s equivalence of Deutschtum and Judentum. “To the opposing side,” she continues, “this political and cultural strategy was only a recipe for delayed humiliation and pain. Lasting security for Jews, the counterargument goes, was always saved by leaders and movements, from the Maccabees to the Zionists, that urged us to be our fullest, freest selves — even if doing so made us deeply unpopular and despised.” Never mind that lasting security was precisely not what the Maccabees, or the Hasmoneans, achieved. Weiss has not thought very deeply about assimilation, integration, separation, and appropriation in Jewish history.

    “In these trying times,” the sermon continues, “our best strategy is to build, without shame, a Judaism and a Jewish people and a Jewish state that are not only safe and resilient but also generative, humane, joyful, and life-affirming. A Judaism capable of lighting a fire in every Jewish soul — and in the souls of everyone who throws in his or her lot with ours.” Amen, sister. Such a radiant Jewish civilization should be our objective even in times of perfect security, if there is such a time. But who, in this account, are the Jewish children of light and who are the Jewish children of darkness? The shameful thing about Weiss’ rhapsodic pride is that it holds other Jews responsible for their own imperilment. It repeats the old canard that Jewish self-hatred or Jewish inauthenticity or Jewish assimilation brought anti-Semitism upon us. Thus she taunts those Jews who insist that the “the real problem are those with their kippot.” She thinks they are spineless. This is very nasty. Pride takes many forms, especially in ethnicity-mad America. As far as I know, the young Jewish men who are removing their kippot on various campuses and in various cities are doing so not out of shame but out of fear. Should they be martyred for a yarmulke? (Judaism says not.) They are certainly not like “the Israelite slaves [who] chose to remain in Egypt,” as Weiss obnoxiously describes the millions of American Jews who are less noisy about their heritage than she is.

    Or is the problem really that so many of them do not wear kippot in the first place? But that is an entirely different question, having to do with the rise of secularism, the modern rupture of Judaism into the denominations, and individual freedom. A Jew has a right not to cover his head if a covering does not represent the character of his Jewish identity. The greatest Jewish leaders in modern history, the greatest leaders in Zionist history, were bare-headed heroes. Anyway, anti-Semites do not distinguish between types of Jews, or interest themselves in the dialectics of Jewish identity. For them, we are all the same. They vandalize synagogues and communal institutions of every stripe; they assault Jews with kippot and without kippot, our secular brethren and our religious brethren. We owe solidarity, therefore, to all our brethren. In the Jewish tradition this is called ahavat yisrael, the love of the Jewish people. Many Jews who proclaim it fall short of it; maybe we all do. But do not denounce Jews as a way of defending them. In 1939, in an essay called “When Facing Danger,” one of his profound studies of Jews under pressure, the social psychologist Kurt Lewin wisely observed that “it is not similarity or dissimilarity of individuals that constitutes a group, but interdependence of fate.”

    For Jews, the times are rich in tribulations. Even as we witness the resurgence of anti-Semitism and its sickening role in American politics, we behold also the ascendancy of chauvinism, xenophobia, intolerance, homophobia, Islamophobia, and theocratic hubris in the political success of the new Israeli right. In America, ethno-nationalism was in power for four years, and seeks to return to power; in Israel, it is in power now. I leave for another day the significant matter of ethno-nationalism as a deformation of nationalism, and more specifically of the liberal nationalism that established both the United States and Israel. Here I am more concerned with the descent of the Jewish right into the post-liberal swamp, with its apologetics for the Orbanization of Benjamin Netanyahu and his government, with its miserable indifference to millions of Jews in Israel and the world over. The Jewish right has an ahavat yisrael problem, even if no suggestion could offend it more.

    There is nothing incendiary about my characterization of the Israeli government. All the traits that I have listed are accurate, based on a plain reading of the pronouncements of National Security Minister Itamar Ben Gvir, Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich (who once described himself as “a fascist homophobe”) , and other members of the unholy union of their extremist parties Otzma Yehudit (Jewish Power) and Religious Zionism, and Deputy Minister Avi Maoz, and a variety of ultra-Orthodox and haredi figures (Sephardi and Ashkenazi), and some Likud hacks, and their leader Benjamin Netanyahu, who has undergone a transformation for the worse, if that was possible. He is exactly as opportunistic and ruthlessly self-aggrandizing as he always was, but he is no longer the “liberal conservative” whose years in America imbued him with a reverence for democratic principles and procedures. Netanyahu has become the patron of intolerance and corruption. He is the king of the rot. The strikingly large demonstrations against his government were provoked by more than partisanship. A kind of shock animated them, a horror beyond politics, a panicked feeling that in his pursuit of office Netanyahu was betraying the foundational values of the state; and also a kind of shame that it has come to this, that there are fascists in the halls of Jewish power. Many Israeli centrists and also some conservatives have participated in the mass indignation. Their objective is to prevent a crisis from becoming a turning point.

    In the view of Elliott Abrams, however, all this was “Jewish hysterics.” Writing in Commentary, Abrams begins by sensitively remarking that the “firebrands” Ben Gvir and Smotrich “have taken many highly incendiary positions. Not only are there doubts and concerns to be expected; opposition to them and criticism of them will be entirely an appropriate feature of the new Israeli political moment.” And having gotten his to-be-sure sentences out of the way, he goes to work. He is angry about the criticism, the “extreme rhetoric and extreme positions,” of American Jews in their strictures against the new Israeli government. These dissents originate, he writes ominously, in “deeper reasons than mere parroting of Israeli voices.” They express “long and deeply held positions.” What are those compromising positions? Be patient. Abrams cites the open letter that three hundred and thirty American rabbis signed declaring that representatives of Ben Gvir’s, Smotrich’s and Maoz’s parties would no longer be welcome in their synagogues, because they “deny our rights, our heritage, and the rights of the most vulnerable among us.” Every one of those allegations is verified by the policy proposals and the contemptuous language of Religious Zionism and Otzmah Yehudit (Jewish Power), the parties of the “firebrands”; but what strikes Abrams about this protest is that “not one Orthodox rabbi signed the petition.” We are getting warmer.

    The issue, in a word, is religion. Abrams disparagingly cites a remarkable essay by Hillel Halkin, one of the most formidable Jewish intellectuals of our day, in which he despairingly broke ranks (a neoconservative specialty in days gone by) with his right-wing Jewish comrades on the question of the new Israeli government, and (these are Halkin’s words about himself) “put [the blame] on Judaism, of whose fantasies and delusions Zionism sought to cure us only to become infected with them itself.” Halkin’s sin is secularism, or loyalty to the spirit in which the state was established. I would not myself dismiss Judaism as “fantasies and delusions,” not at all; but the truth or falsehood of Judaism should have no bearing upon the question of its place in an open Zionist order. Israel was founded as a secular state with freedom of religion. But “Halkin’s line,” Abrams writes, “is simply not a winner in Israeli elections,” in utter indifference to any integrity that Halkin’s Zionism might possess. Not a winner? In a war over identity, the primary consideration should not be expedience. In support of his operative’s view of the situation, Abrams cites Yossi Klein Halevi’s observation that Netanyahu’s voters wished “to save Israel as a Jewish state.” “While a majority of Israeli Jews are committed to maintaining Israel as both a Jewish and democratic state,” Klein Halevi explained, “if forced to choose between them, most would almost certainly opt for its Jewish identity.” (Abrams composed his essay before Klein Halevi came out against the Netanyahu government and implored American Jews to do the same.)

    Now, the only existing threat to the Jewish identity of the Jewish state is the one-state solution. But this is not what Netanyahu and his apologists have in mind when they seek to alarm Jews about the Jewishness of the state. They endorse not only a Jewish state, but a specific kind of Jewish state. “This is the struggle, if you will,” Abrams writes in a particularly imperishable sentence, “between those who go to the beach on Shabbat and those who go to synagogues.” A Kulturkampf in flip-flops! Abrams writes like a truant officer. The splendid pluralism of Israeli Jewish life, the coexistence of beachballs and kiddush cups, is not pleasing to him, just as it has never been pleasing to Israel’s ultra-Orthodox and haredi communities. Like them, he believes that we are witnessing a “Judaism/Zionism debate,” as if it must be one or the other, as if there have not been many interpenetrations of Judaism and Zionism in the years of Israel’s existence and before, as if the possibility that Judaism should have no political connection to Zionism is not worth considering. “Israel’s Jewish identity is the issue,” he writes, “and centrist voters, or voters on the left, must convince their fellow citizens they do not view Judaism and halakha as outmoded tribal customs that should be jettisoned as soon as public opinion permits.”

    Halakha! My blood ran cold when I read that word, and my tefillin are never far from me. Why on earth do Israeli centrists have to say nice things about halakha? It is not the law of the land. Let those who wish to observe Jewish law observe it. Let them build their yeshivas and their shuls and flourish within them, even if their neighbors dislike their way of life. The dislike anyway runs both ways. As far as I can see, nobody is preventing pious Jews from living according to their idea of Jewish piety. If they cannot bear to see other Jews living differently, then they were born two hundred years too late. As for Netanyahu, he has admitted that he fasted on Yom Kippur for the first time in his life before the recent election, thereby placing himself in the long line of Machiavellian conservatives for whom religion is of merely political utility.

    Abrams’ argument is that Israel is changing and that we, American Jews, must accept the changes. Needless to say, the Jewish right has demonstrated no such acquiescence to political facts when an Israeli government has pursued policies of which it disapproves, such as attempting to make peace. Hysterics, indeed. “The 1950s or 1960s Israel of Labor socialism may have resembled the Upper West Side,” Abrams continues,

    but the Israel that is developing before our eyes does not. It is truly a Jewish state, increasingly peopled — and in part now governed — by Jews who believe in the God of the Hebrew Bible and for whom the practice of the religion of Judaism is the most important aspect of their lives. Can American Jews accept this Israel, or will it alienate all but the Orthodox — who practice that same religion?

    Where to begin? For a start, there is no way in which the Upper West Side substantially resembled the Israel of the 1950s and 1960s — nobody made the desert bloom on Broadway; and I hasten to add that in those decades, the Orthodox Jews of Brooklyn, with not a single subscriber to Dissent among them, learned to admire the sun-tanned, beach-going, Torah-neglecting, collectivist Jews in Israel. Moreover, there is no reason to fear that, on the dark day when Hezbollah unleashes its arsenal of missiles on Tel Aviv, Israel will find American Jewish support only in the Orthodox community. (Abrams knows this.) But it is rattling to infer that in 1967 and in 1973, and in all of Israel’s campaigns in its defense, what was being defended was a deficient Jewish state, not “truly a Jewish state.” Where in the founding documents of Israel was it decreed that the Jewishness of the Jewish state was to be defined religiously? Zionism, again, is compatible with all kinds of Jewishnesses, religious and secular, because it defines the Jews as a people or a nation. Its capaciousness was one of the secrets of its success (though its spirit of welcome sometimes disappeared when Jews of non-European origin found refuge in the state).

    Abrams defines Israel’s Jewishness in terms of Judaism, which is bad enough. What is worse is that he defines it in terms of only a part, a small part, of Judaism. In his sectarian way, he cares only about Orthodox Jews; and his essay is an extended insult to all the Conservative and Reform Jews in America whose support for Israel, even when they criticize it, is beyond reproach. An insult, that is, to the overwhelming majority of American Jews. According to the Pew survey in 2020, Orthodox Jews comprised nine percent of American Jewish adults, and seventeen percent of Jews between the ages of eighteen and twenty-nine identify as Orthodox. The fecundity of the Orthodox community is enormous, and mazel tov to them all, so let us for the sake of argument double the Pew figures and say that the Orthodox represent twenty percent of the American Jewish community. Is Abrams prepared, like Netanyahu’s government and like the haredim, to write off three quarters or so of his community? This is what I mean by an ahavat yisrael problem. Or does he not even regard them as his community? But they are our brothers and our sisters! They, too, deserve to be recognized as “Jews who believe in the God of the Hebrew Bible and for whom the practice of the religion of Judaism is the most important aspect of their lives,” because the defining feature of modern Judaism, like it or not, is that there is more than one way to believe in that God and to practice that religion. I confess that I have my own qualms about the spiritual and intellectual quality of some of the Conservative and Reform congregations that I have visited, but I do not have the temerity to expel them, on those grounds or on any grounds, from my conception of my people. 

    There is freedom of religion in Israel, but there is not freedom of Jewish religion. American Jews, Abrams remarks, “denounce restrictions on non-Orthodox worship that most Israeli Jews find to be second-tier issues at most.” When did questions of rights come to be decided by polls? Most Israelis find the Palestinian question, too, to be a second-tier issue, but it is not an act of friendship to encourage them in that delusion. Abrams says that “if one thinks of the leaders of major American Jewish organizations, and of the Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist rabbinate, is there any question which coalition they favored in the Israeli election — the one led by Lapid or the one led by Netanyahu?” But there is no mystery here. The coalition led by Lapid treated Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist Jews with dignity and the coalition led by Netanyahu did not. Do the Orthodox, too, not support Israeli parties that look favorably upon them? Or is everything they do for the sake of heaven? Their enforcer is the Chief Rabbinate of Israel, the most poisonous institution in contemporary Jewish life, which years ago was taken over by the least enlightened and least humane elements in the Israeli ultra-Orthodox community. The Chief Rabbinate was not created by God at Sinai. It was created in 1920 by an ordinance of the British Mandatory authorities in Palestine. It is a pontifical office in a religion that has no pope. The basis of its authority is not halakhic but political. It is an engine of exclusion, a pitiless enemy of Jewish unity. Why should Reform, Constructive, and Reconstructionist Jews passively accept its rulings, or the contempt that its political supporters have shown for them? And why should the state endorse halakhic notions of identity and membership? Was the state created by God at Sinai, or by His sages?

    The most disturbing sentence in Abrams’ diatribe is this one: “It is an obvious principle to American Jews that all people should be treated alike, while most Israelis would find it simple madness to apply that principle to Israelis and Palestinians.” If that is so, it is an occasion for sorrow; but I detect no sorrow in Abrams’ words. Make the appropriate translations and you will have the worldview of Donald Trump, in whose administration Abrams served. As for “most Israelis”: both blocs in the recent election emerged with 49.5 percent of the vote. Since the Lapid bloc included also Arab votes, it seems correct to say that a plurality of Jews supported the Netanyahu bloc, but this was hardly a mandate-conferring majority. A fight is on. And it is a fight over first principles. The anti-democratic view to which Abrams would have us accommodate ourselves represents nothing less than a rejection of the Israeli Declaration of Independence, which was a milestone in the reconciliation of the universal and the particular, and one of the glories of modernity. This is Article 13: “[The State of Israel] will ensure complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; it will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture.” Could it be more ringing?

    From a fine recent study of the historical and philosophical origins of the document by Neil Rogachevsky and Dov Sigler, I learn that its first drafter relied heavily on the American Declaration of Independence and the English Bill of Rights, and that it was Ben Gurion himself who, at the last minute, added the word “sex” to that wondrous inventory of rights. The Zionist founders were serious about democracy. (The Zionist state has practiced it imperfectly.) And along comes Abrams to tell us that most Israelis care more about security than about human rights, and that’s that. When governments in other countries adopt an anti-democratic ethos, when other peoples turn against liberalism and its ideal of equality, we — many American Jews — Commentary too, I believe — assail them and wage a war of ideas. Why should Israel be different? The Torah and the Talmud are full of injunctions to reprove and remonstrate with your own kind.

    But now some of the same American Jewish patriots who are hoarse with proud reminders that on the Liberty Bell there appears a verse from Leviticus — “proclaim liberty throughout the land unto all the inhabitants thereof” — these same people, Zionists all, appear to deny the relevance of this verse, this Hebrew verse, to the state of the people whose ancestors introduced its idea to the world. And appeals to security will not settle the matter, because it has been one of the controlling assumptions of the Jewish state since its inception that there should be no contradiction between safety and justice. The Declaration of Independence championed human rights in 1948, at the hour of Israel’s greatest vulnerability. The imminent invasion of seven Arab armies did not impede or impair its liberalism. Nor did its political liberalism abridge its national pride, or its proclamation of natural rights mitigate its proclamation of historical rights. In this way the Declaration of Independence, with its weak religiosity, was ironically consistent with a remarkable legacy of the Jews in exile: they never used their adversity as an alibi for a relaxation of their own ethical standards for themselves. The enmity that surrounded them was never taken up as an excuse for laxness about right and wrong.

    The opposition to Netanyahu’s shameful government is an expression of that old ideal of Jewish self-rigor in times of crisis. Abrams, by contrast, prefers that we make exceptions for ourselves. And finally he resorts to the cheapest argument of all. American Jews, he scolds, “do not live with the threats to safety and even life that face Israelis.” But neither does he! What if he is wrong, and the incitements of Ben Gvir and Smotrich, and the settler vigilantism that they have already provoked, lead to an intifada, and the Iranians instruct Hezbollah to launch? What if he is wrong, and the Netanyahu government enacts a revision of the Law of Return under the guidance of the ultra-Orthodox rabbinical establishment, so that Jews in flight from persecution will not be admitted into the country and Zionism will be thereby vanquished? What if he is wrong, and the judicial reform that Netanyahu seeks (and not exactly for reasons of philosophy) leaves Israel — a state without a constitution or a bicameral legislature or a federal system — with even fewer checks and balances than it already has, and at the mercy of executive power and even of authoritarian rule? None of these bleak scenarios are implausible, and if they come to pass Abrams will not be there to experience the consequences of his erroneous views. Which is not say, of course, that he should silence himself. It is to say only that he should desist from intimidating people with other opinions by suggesting that they are playing fast and loose with Jewish lives. Insofar as any of our opinions will be responsible for outcomes in Israel, we all run this risk. How, really, could he, or anyone in the American Jewish community, be silent? We criticize Russia when we do not live in Russia; we criticize China when we do not live in China; we criticize Venezuela when we do not live in Venezuela; but we criticize Israel, as Abrams too has done, even though we do not live there, because we are mingled with it, because we share a peoplehood with it, because our hearts easily defy our distance from it, because (as Kurt Lewin said) we are interdependent in fate.

    As with the great debate about America, there is nothing wrong with the great debate about Israel that would not be somewhat ameliorated if everybody were to locate their discomfort zones and learn to exist within them. Discomfort zones are the detox centers of identity. They cripple sectarian politics. They shake the walls. They introduce a therapeutic awareness of complexity and an invigorating sense of humility about the overwhelming reality of other people and their perspectives. They are the antithesis of anxiety, because they quicken. If the Jewish left and the Jewish right could only find their discomfort zones, if they could be made to feel uncomfortable about their smugness and their settledness, we might all be more comfortable, and therefore more courageous, in rising together to meet yet another century that will not leave the Jews alone.

     

     

     

    Epistemological Panic, or Thinking for Yourself

    I have been a college teacher for some of the happiest years of my life. When I tell people what I do for a living, what I really do, I say I teach people to think for themselves. It’s still a wonderful way to make a living, but over time I have begun wondering whether I have been fooling myself. I could just be teaching them to think like me, or how to package the conventional wisdoms that they have scraped off the Internet. I find myself wondering, therefore, what it really means to think for yourself, what it means for teachers, for students, and for a society that tells itself it is free.

    Thinking for yourself has never been easy, but the question of whether it is still possible at all is of some moment. The key ideals of liberal democracy — moral independence and intellectual autonomy — depend on it, and my students will not have much experience of either if they end up living in a culture where all of their political and cultural opinions must express tribal allegiance to one of two partisan alternatives; where they live in communities so segregated by education, class, and race that they never encounter a challenge to their tribe’s received ideas, or in a society where the wells of information are so polluted that pretty well everything they read is “fake news.” 

    Thinking for yourself need not require every thought to be yours and yours alone. Originality is not the goal, but the autonomous and authentic choice of your deepest convictions certainly is, and you are unlikely to make authentic choices of belief unless you can learn to wrestle free from the call of the tribe and the peddlers of disinformation and reach that moment of stillness when you actually can ascertain what you think.

    The contradiction that teachers face in their classrooms — are we teaching them how to think or how to think like us? — plays out across our whole society. From grade school through graduate school, in our corporate training centers, in our government departments, our enormous educational apparatus is engaged in training us in the ways of thinking appropriate to academic disciplines, corporate cultures, and administrative systems, but with the ultimate objective, so they proclaim, of independent thought. This contradiction – the simultaneous pursuit of conformity and independence — is also at the core of our anxiety about innovation. Our societies say that they prize “thinking outside the box,” whatever the box may be. Our political authorities tell us that the solution to every problem we face — secular stagnation, climate change, geostrategic chaos — depends on “innovation,” which in turn depends, finally, on somebody somewhere thinking beyond the cliches and the conventions that inundate us daily and keeps us locked in a state of busy mental stagnation. 

    Our culture tells us we either innovate or we die, but economists such as Robert Gordon point out that the capitalist economy of the twenty-first century has nothing on the horizon to rival the stochastic lurch of innovation in the Edison and Ford eras at the beginning of the twentieth century. The energy transition, when it finally comes, may yet unlock a new stochastic lurch, but so far progress is slow. Despite these warning signs of stagnation — even decadence, as some conservatives argue — our culture clings to the signs of innovation that we can identify, even to minor upgrades to the software on our phones, because such hope as we have for our future depends on faith that the onward and upward path of new ideas continues. But this hope soon collides directly with the unprecedentedly large pressures for conformity that are generated by those same institutions of innovation. The Pharaonic size of the corporations that control the digital economy raises not just a problem of monopoly or distributive justice, but also an epistemological quandary: are Google, Microsoft, and Facebook, these all-devouring machines, actually places where people can think for themselves? I refer not only to their customers but also to their employees. Is it likely that their well-compensated and disciplined workers can think against the grain of the corporate logic that they serve every day? If not, we may all be on the long way down to secular decline. An institution of innovation may be a contradiction in terms.

    The same question haunts the universities in which I have spent some of my life teaching. Every one of these institutions is devoted to what it calls “academic freedom,” but how much freedom do these institutions, their disciplines, their promotion and recruitment processes, their incentives, their intellectual fashions, actually make possible for the individuals inside them? Are they hives of orthodoxy or heterodoxy? Does the competitive search to publish, to earn grants, to make an impression on the public, create a genuine climate of intellectual liberty or just enclose everyone, willingly or not, in an organized, pious, censorious, progressive conformity? That is not a trick question.

    The academic fields in which I work — history and international relations — demand new thinking because the world that they study, and for which they train aspiring practitioners of diplomacy and finance and politics, is changing fast, yet it is unclear that any of us have the measure of the moment. To use the metaphor that everybody is using, we are observing a shift in the tectonic plates, a fracturing of what used to be called “the liberal world order.” Not a day passes without someone offering a new grand narrative to replace the stories that we told ourselves to make sense of the end of the Cold War. But each new claimant fades away, defeated by the complexity of the task; and in some cases, it may be the affirmation of the old wisdom that is a sign of intellectual independence. We are living in a dark cloud of crises — climate change, war, global inequality, economic turbulence, social intolerance — and nothing matters more than that we think freshly and clearly. 

    Recently, as the gloom has deepened further, our rounding up of the usual suspects — the incompetence of our leaders, the savage swamp that is the internet, the frantic polarization of politics — has given way to a kind of chronic epistemological unease, as if we have begun to realize that we have trapped ourselves inside frames of thought that point us away from reality and not towards it. The trouble is that too many people find comfort and safety in those frames and resist the instability — another term for open-mindedness — that results from questioning them.

    But sometimes there are exceptions to the retreat into platitudes. Let me give an example. I sit in on regular team calls by a company that advises major business clients on geostrategic risk. Everyone on the call is impressively well-educated and articulate and plugged into impressive information networks. Someone on the call has just returned from a highly regarded conference of experts. Others have just had confidential discussions with a government minister or a well-placed adviser. The calls review the world’s unending torrent of bad news — Ukraine, China-Taiwan, the climate change inferno in the Mediterranean and California, the repeal of Roe v. Wade — and all this calamitous news is parsed by knowledgeable principals and then packaged for the clients and “monetized” for the company.

    The calls are wonderfully informative, as well as scary. What is scary is the fear that this superbly informed group might be unable to see what may be staring us all in the face. On one such call, the CEO of the firm, after listening to an hour’s review of the US-China standoff on Taiwan in the wake of Nancy Pelosi’s visit, asked his team the right question: with all this privileged information, weren’t they just recycling what all the other shapers of elite opinion — The New York Times, Project Syndicate, The Economist, Le Monde, the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, the CIA, the State Department, the West Wing, and competing risk assessment firms — were also thinking? What are we missing? he asked. What are we not seeing?

    These are the right questions, and not just for his firm. Advanced opinion tends to run in herds, exactly like unadvanced opinion. It is increasingly useless. Epistemological panic — the queasy feeling that our time has jumped the tracks — has created a hectic search to create a new master narrative, a new single explanation, a new key to all mythologies. (How else explain the success of Yuval Noah Harari?) This frantic search to give our time a shape and a meaning makes me wonder whether the new technologies that so accelerate the exchange of information are in fact having a spectacularly ironic effect: instead of incubating new ideas, they are coagulating conformity. As a result, might our information elites just be sleepwalking their way towards the abyss, like our ancestors in 1914? But even this analogy to the sleepwalkers of 1914 is a little shopworn, another sign that I am no less trapped in my paradigms than anyone else.

    From the classroom to the engineering lab to the national security conclave to the geostrategic risk business, our future depends on our capacity to think anew. While thinking in a group can help, groupthink is the enemy of integrity and innovation. A truly new thought begins in a single insurgent mind. 

    Do we live in societies where such people are allowed to flourish? Do any of us actually still know what it means to think for ourselves? Or are we all just recycling opinion on our hectoring devices? It would not be right or good, at this late stage in the life of liberal democracies, to conclude that we live, despite our vaunted freedoms, in a state of unfreedom. The situation is more paradoxical than that. The paradox — Tocqueville and Mill warned us of it — is that free institutions do not create free minds. It is always possible that our institutional freedoms might still leave us chained in a state of epistemological unfreedom. So how, beyond re-reading Tocqueville on the tyranny of the majority and Mill on liberty, do we think about the obstacles to free thinking in our own day?

    For a start, we are confused about what thinking is. To think is not to process information. We have impoverished our understanding of thinking by analogizing it to what our machines do. What we do is not processing. It is not computation. It is not data analysis. It is a distinctively, incorrigibly human activity that is a complex combination of conscious and unconscious, rational and intuitive, logical and emotional reflection. It is so complex that neither neurologists nor philosophers have found a way to model it, and the engineers of artificial intelligence are still struggling to replicate some of the simplest forms of pattern recognition that human cognition does so effortlessly. We must beware that in our attempt to make computers think like us we do not end up thinking like them.

    Nor is thinking a matter of expressing yourself or having opinions. It is not about turning on the fountain of our personality. It is an exercise in finding reasons to persuade yourself and others that something is true, or at least plausibly true. Thinking has truth as its goal and its organizing discipline. Bullshitters, as Harry Frankfurt told us, are precisely those who do not think: they simply express what comes into their minds, without concerning themselves with whether what they are saying has any relation to reality. Every university is, or should be, properly worried that their classrooms are training generation after generation of accredited bullshitters.

    Nor is thinking about expressing your identity. It is not an intellectual achievement to parrot the truisms of your tribes. Indeed, thinking is about emancipating yourself from identity, insofar as it throws into question prior and unexamined ideas. Identity is a warm bath, but thinking is a discipline. Many important lines of thought are austerely impersonal, purged of the origins of those who thought them up. Think of mathematics, physics, and logic. These are great systems of thought made possible by thinkers who in the laboratory and the library neutralized or discarded their identities and lived, in their working lives, in the impersonal realm of signs and symbols. It doesn’t matter that perfect objectivity is impossible; imperfect objectivity, the progressive correction of biases, is certainly possible, and all that we need. Even in the social sciences, it is basic to our methods that we try to leave our personal “priors,” experiences, and histories behind, or in some way to bracket them, so as to see what the data tells us. In this work, thinking means leaving ourselves behind.

    In deep ways race, ethnicity, class, and gender do structure our thoughts, but they do not have to imprison them, and we certainly should not celebrate the intellectual limitations that they impose upon us. Thinking is communicative action, and the fact that we can communicate to each other across the limits imposed by our particularities is proof that we are capable not only of thinking for ourselves, but thinking about how other people, very different from us, might see the world. Thinking is therefore reflective about thought: we need to grasp how these factors of biology and sociology condition our understanding, so that we may, for the purpose of analyzing a subject and understanding it truthfully, neutralize those conditions. Lots of other animals engage in conceptual operations, but we are the only animals who have thoughts about our thoughts. Thinking, properly speaking, turns back upon itself. It is the attempt to understand how we end up thinking the way we do, and what we can do to transcend the boundaries set up by our identities. 

    One of the most important modern ideas about thinking is the recognition of the intellectual advantage conferred upon us all by social and cultural diversity. The best way to think through and beyond your own identity is to be in communication with other identities, different from your own, and to realize, as you interact, how their identities shape what they think. In realizing this, you realize something about yourself. Yet thinking is emphatically not about reproducing yourself, over and over, and confirming your starting point, as a male, female, white, black, rich, or poor person. That is not thinking. It is what Freud called repetition compulsion.

    Thinking can take us to a lonely place, where skill, technique, experience, even will power, sometimes are of no avail, where, to make progress at all, we have to step away and wait until a new path suggests itself. We can get better at thinking, to be sure, but there is always going to be someone who thinks better than we do. This is another reason why we are not like machines. They all compute the same way, while each of us is differently endowed. It is when we see others thinking, and so often more clearly, that we discover, once again, just how difficult it is, and also just how much it defines us, to think for ourselves.

    Not all cultures and periods of history have made this goal the basis of their society. Chinese mandarin education, under the emperors, was formidably egalitarian and proved to be a crucial avenue of mobility and elite renewal for a traditional society, but thinking for yourself was not its goal. Its purpose was to train bureaucrats in the routines and the skills required to administer an empire. The Greek city-states of the ancient world, the Roman imperial regimes, the medieval Christian states, and the Islamic empires, though they were all the settings of intellectual breakthroughs, all feared what would happen if women, or slaves, or the poor were allowed to think for themselves. They understood, quite rightly, that adopting such a principle — recognizing the essentially egalitarian and meritocratic nature of genuine thought — would be playing with fire, likely to blow apart systems of rank order and privilege. Perhaps only Western culture, and only since the Protestant Reformation, has embarked on the dangerous experiment of believing that everyone, literally everyone, is entitled to think for themselves, and entitled, furthermore, to that once exclusive privilege of male elites, the right to an examined life.

    To manage this revolutionary adventure, Western authorities took education away from the church in the eighteenth century and made a massive bet on secular learning, first by private charity, then by the state. As an English government minister said in the 1870’s, introducing an education bill, that “we must educate our masters.” The hope was that education would canalize the combustible thoughts of the newly enfranchised (male) masses into sober conformity. Education ever since has sought to manage the contradiction between what a free society preaches about the right to think for yourself and the lessons it needs to instill to maintain bourgeois stability.

    All of us have lived through that contradiction, first as pupils in primary school. Schools do teach you how to think and they do it (or they used to do it within living memory) by dint of repetition, boring exercises, lines written in a notebook, raps on your knuckles when your penmanship wobbles. Later, in college, you begin learning a discipline, and the experience shapes your thoughts ever after. No originality then, no thoughts you can call your own, before first learning how to think from someone else. Your thoughts do remain in that magnetic field of your primary and secondary education for your entire life. Looking back, once education is over, we can see just how halting and foolish our first steps into knowledge truly were. I still have a battered paperback of The Birth of Tragedy on my shelf, the same edition I first read fifty years ago in college, and I squirm when I re-read my marginal notations. Thinking for yourself is a humbling encounter with your own foolishness.

     One thing you learn, as you grow, is that you don’t have to think everything through to first principles; you don’t have to master everything. We cannot rely on ourselves for our understanding of astrophysics and medieval art and macroeconomics; we must rely on authorities. But we can arrive at strict standards for what counts as authority and choose to trust people who are in a position to know. A lot of what teachers do, when we try to get people to think for themselves, is to mark out, as best we can, the terrain of knowledge where relatively secure answers have been found and can be trusted.

     Learning to trust a discipline and the knowledge it has certified as true is the starting point for any venture into thinking for yourself. Most of what you know you take off the peg, like a suit or a shirt you buy in a store, or the furniture you get from IKEA. College is like an IKEA store. It does not include assembly. In the lecture hall, the concepts are delivered boxed and flat-packed. You take them back to your room, and with the Allen wrenches that the professors have given you, you put together the furniture to fill the rooms of your mind. No surprise, then, if your mind starts looking like everyone else’s. 

    This creates what Harold Bloom famously called the anxiety of influence, the sense of being derivative, the worry that you are not speaking your own truth but being spoken by the various discourses that you have assembled for yourself. There is even the anxiety that there is nothing left for you to say. “Born originals,” the eighteenth-century poet Edward Young wrote, “how comes it to pass that we die Copies?” You want to think for yourself because you want to be somebody. Thinking is how you create, over time, the feeling that you exist as a distinct individual.

    But originality, again, is not the objective of thinking. Bloom was writing about poets, and more generally about artists, for whom originality matters deeply, but the point of thinking is to say something true, not something new. Originality is not the only marker of individuality. Novelty cannot vouch for the truth of a proposition. And the obsession with originality eventually leads us to admire contrarianism — or as it is more accurately known, sheer contrarianism — which is a contentless and purely theatrical position, determined by no higher ambition than to say what is not being said, and thereby to draw attention to oneself. Sometimes a consensus is right and sometimes it is wrong; if you have thought the subject through and arrived at your own reasons to concur with others about it, then you have not surrendered your intellectual integrity; but a contrarian is just a reverse weathervane. The point is not to think originally but to think critically. 

    You free yourself from the anxiety of influence first by learning a discipline and then by casting a skeptical eye on the discourses that it seeks to make canonical. In my undergraduate and graduate education, spanning the 1960s and 1970s, discourses blew regularly through the campus, sweeping all right-thinking people into their clouds of abstraction. First it was Marxism, then structuralism, then post-structuralism, then discourse analysis. I forget the rest of them. They created fashions in thought and fashionable thinkers, lots of them French or German. Cliques arose in which the confident deployment of a certain jargon was the test of entry. Fifty years later many of these discourses seem comic or irrelevant, but at the time they were exciting and predominant, a mighty source of academic power and legitimation, and their successors today are no different, with the same unhappy consequences for freedom of thought.

    In evaluating the currently fashionable strictures on what can and cannot be said on campus, I find myself reaching back to my graduate education and remembering how the ascendant discourses liberated me only to suffocate me later. As a trainee historian, I was enthralled by the young “humanist” Marx of 1843-1844, and the Marxist historians of the British school, Eric Hobsbawm and E. P. Thompson. For a time, these brilliant Communists and ex-Communists were my maîtres à penser, even though I never ceased being a stone-age Cold War liberal. All apprentices need masters. Then there comes a moment, essential to any free and mature intellectual life, when apprentices need to break free.

    Intellectual independence always begins with a small act of rebellion. In the middle of reading a book, or during an experiment, or pondering the numbers spewing out onto your computer screen, you suddenly have a suspicion that something isn’t right, though you are not sure what. This is the decisive moment, when you have a choice to ignore this flickering unease or to begin to wonder why. Once this epistemological disquiet takes possession, the question becomes what you are prepared to put at risk to resolve it. There is always an element of oedipal struggle in any commitment to think for yourself — a moment when you break with a supervisor, an intellectual idol, a close friend. If the revolt succeeds in giving you your freedom, it leaves behind a lifelong watchfulness, a skepticism about authoritative academic (and non-academic) rhetoric and the prestige of maîtres à penser. At the end of this journey, you may end up feeling, like those radical Protestant sectarians of the sixteenth century, that you have earned the right to sola Scriptura, to read and interpret the holy scriptures for yourself, without the mediation of dogmatic authority.

    Here is where the individualism of modern liberal culture, derided equally on the right and the left, is so critical for the creation of free thought. For there must be a moment when a thought fails to convince you even when it appears to convince everyone else, or when you are alone with a thought that doesn’t seem to be occurring to anyone else. The communitarians would have you question this experience of independent reflection and wonder nervously whether heresy or apostasy is on the horizon. For some communitarians, other minds are more real than their own. But this is a fiction: like the specificity of your body, the specificity of your mind is evidence of your individuation.

    Yet it is always a struggle. Someone else is always quicker, cleverer, has read the book that you did not, seems to grasp things that you fumble for. So thinking for yourself quickly becomes a competition to think as quickly and as smartly as the others. Competing with others, you discover, is how you become like them, not how you distinguish yourself from them. Catching up is not an intellectual activity. So you begin to separate from the pack, from the people you eat with and go to the movies with. You choose solitude and study. You set yourself the task of mastering a book, a theory, a disciplinary approach, anything that will give you the sense that you have mastered what is necessary for serious thought about a subject, and so can rely, not completely but sufficiently, upon your own resources. When you have gained mastery, at least to your satisfaction, this gives you the confidence to go on, and you need confidence because everyone around you seems to be ahead of you. You discover that you have your own pace, your mind’s own tempo. As for those canonical books on the shelves, their authors remain in another league: austere, elegant, relentless, eternal; and thinking for yourself means respect for the canon, for the very few eternal works that set the standard for thought itself. But if the canon teaches anything, it is that you must not become enslaved to it, or anything else, only because it is venerable. 

    What you think about hoovers up the entirety of your waking and sleeping life, the eternal and canonical as well as the transitory and foolish. You work on the promiscuous stream of your own consciousness — memories, jokes, phrases, shameful incidents that will not go away, epiphanies that had better not go away, the babble of social media, the unending tide of information that sluices in and out of your machines, the data you collect and that collects you, the books you read and annotate. None of this stream counts as thought itself, and none of the processing of information counts as thinking. Actual thinking comes later, when the moment arrives to put order in the house.

    As I have aged, my own mind, originally furnished by Ikea, has gradually become more like those photographs of Picasso’s studio: palettes, brushes, sketchbooks, dusty photos, abandoned sculptures, paint tubes, knives, African heads, all lying around in an order that only he could understand. So thinking for me became an exercise in trying to remember where I put something in the studio of my mind, where I heard something, read something, since suddenly I seemed to understand what use to put to it. There must be orderly minds whose upstairs rooms are like an office, with filing cabinets, and books and manuals arranged in alphabetical order, affording instantaneous ease of access. Good luck to them. But thinking emerges from chaotic minds as well as orderly ones. What both have in common is tenacity, going on and on, when everyone else has turned out the light and turned in.

    When you have found an idea that is properly your own, you come back to yourself with a feeling of surprised discovery. You have revealed yourself, for the pleasure and satisfaction of it, surely, but also because you think it might make a difference, change somebody else’s mind, “contribute to the literature,” and so on. Many of the motives that draw you to an act of thought are extrinsic — like trying to impress, to get tenure, to make your mark; and extrinsic motives will lead your thought into certain grooves to meet certain expectations. Thinking guided only by extrinsic motives runs the risk of being captured by the institutions, the authorities, and the celebrities you want to impress. 

    Yet there is also a kind of thinking for yourself where you feel compelled to do it, intrinsically, for its own sake. The experience is of being taken possession by a thought. This is certainly the most perplexing, frightening, and pleasurable kind. For it feels like the idea is thinking you, thinking itself into being, inside your head. You go to sleep thinking about it; you dream about it; when you wake, you see some new element you want to explore; everything is murky, struggling to rise into consciousness, to get itself fixed in language, so that you can begin to understand what the idea is trying to say. The unconscious aspect of thinking is uncanny and suggests that part of what makes thinking for yourself so difficult is that it is never an entirely rational or conscious process, even when it prides itself on being so, but instead a thick and murky and subliminal experience, in which reason is never all there is, highly emotional, highly unstable, impossible to predict, difficult to control, and finally very hard to put down on the page. 

    Thinking a new thought can feel like a moment of self-expression, but it is actually a moment of self-distanciation in which, having searched your mind and memories for materials, you suddenly see that you can create something new from the materials that you had taken for granted. Thinking can feel like a surprise, in which you awake to what was in you, until then unsuspected and unrevealed.

    Thinking for yourself is not solipsism, a perfectly isolated and self-confirming activity that occurs only inside your head. It is social: you work within force fields of thoughts and ideas created by others, and good thinkers are often, though not always, generous ones, quick to acknowledge others and their dependence upon them. Since dependence creates anxiety, a worry about being derivative, the only way out of this worry is to gratefully acknowledge your dependence and then make sure to take the thought further than where you found it. From dependence on the thoughts and insights of others, you gain confidence in your own way of thinking. 

    With that confidence comes a responsibility to the field in which you work, a responsibility to your own reputation as a serious person who doesn’t play around with the facts. Thinking for yourself means taking responsibility for your thoughts when they enter public discourse. Fools are people who say the first thing that pops into their heads. (That is the deep problem with the spontaneity of social media; a person’s first thoughts are never his best thoughts.) Even bigger fools claim an originality that they do not deserve. The biggest fools of all think that everything they think is their own invention. Self-congratulation is never the hallmark of a real thinker. Instead, thinking people have a morality of knowledge: they accept the obligation to back up what they say with evidence, facts, footnotes, citations, and acknowledgement of where they got their ideas from; with a rigor of argument and an analytical care about concepts. They lose sleep about error and misinterpretation.

    In our thinking about thinking, we rarely pay enough attention to its ethical frames of responsibility to self, to method and discipline, to truth itself. Nor do we pay enough attention to its psychic requirements, to the kind of character that is needed to be a good thinker. The qualities that make a good thinker are not the same as make a good citizen. Civility and politeness are all very well in society at large. Good manners are a lovely attribute, but in intellectual life the instinct to be nice and to be liked can be fatal. Rigorous thinking must be followed wherever it leads. The unpleasantness of controversy is inevitable. Everybody cannot be right. This is yet another instance where the ethos that liberal democracy encourages — civility, deliberation, compromise — is in radical contradiction with the intransigence proper to scientific and humanistic discovery. In politics, in ordinary life, compromise is good, even necessary. In reasoning and research, by contrast, you must be a fighter, tenacious, persistent, stubborn in your insistence that someone’s argument is wrong and yours is closer to the truth that you are both pursuing. 

    Thinking for yourself also means honesty in defeat. It is hard for competitors in intellectual fields to admit when they are wrong, when the data fails to prove their point, when they cannot find a way to rebut someone’s devastating rebuttal. Thinking for yourself demands a difficult kind of honesty, a willingness to concede defeat when the evidence is against you, and enough resilience to resume the search for the answer that still eludes you. And these conditions for honest and public disputation are not only traits of thought but also traits of character. Liars, even brilliant ones, are useless to thinking.

     Liberal societies need this kind of character and this way of being, but it works against many liberal values: compromise, perfect reasonableness, the search for social accord, the desire to be liked and thought well of. There is something intransigently solitary about thinking for yourself, and a liberal society should want to encourage a temperament that is strong enough to endure solitude, contradiction, unpopularity, standing up for yourself against the tide of opinion. As Tocqueville and Mill, our greatest psychologists of liberal society, saw long ago, a society like ours that lives by and for progress and innovation cannot survive without protecting and fostering this type of intransigently individualistic character. 

    If thinking for yourself is the goal of your life, then it pays to maintain a certain distance from the institutions in which you work and live. Distance implies wariness about received opinion, about fashions, about the recurring tides of certainty and urgency that course through the places where we work and soon have us all facing the same way, thinking the same thing. The larger point is about liberal society: if thinking for yourself is your goal, do not go looking for the comfort of belonging or the certitude of faith. Do not expect a free society to provide these for you. Belonging is not the fondest dream of a serious intellectual. She dreams of other satisfactions first.

    Liberal society works best — it is most productive as well as most free—when its members all feel a certain alienation, a certain dividedness about the objectives and the values of the institutions inside which they work. Alienation is another term for distance and detachment; it need not be melodramatic or wounding. It is simply one of the epistemological conditions for a working mind, and for the pleasures of its work. Objectivity is a variety of alienation. Who would trust the views of a thinker who is not to some degree alienated – that is, detached – from her subject? One of the very first scientific societies in the world, the Royal Society, founded in 1661 by the likes of Isaac Newton and Christopher Wren, took as its motto: Nullius in Verba. Take Nobody’s Word for it. Imagine: the greatest scientists of their time set up an organization to promote scientific thinking, and their working rule was not even to take each other’s word for the truth. That is an ideal of truth that is also an ideal about institutions: to give us a place not to belong and imbibe the pieties of a tribe, but where we take nobody’s word for it.

    In case you were wondering, I doubt that I have myself measured up to these standards. I have lived in an orthogonal relation to the liberal institutions that have made my life possible: in academic life but not of it, in the commentariat but not of it, and so on, but whether this has enabled a genuine independence of mind, I cannot say, and in my own reckoning I come up short. So my strictures here are not an exercise in coyly concealed self-congratulation, so much as an effort to describe an ideal and to recommit myself to it in the classes that I teach.

    The larger question, beyond the type of intransigent individual that we want a liberal society to nurture and to protect, is how to manage the contradiction, at the heart of our institutions, between teaching people how to think and teaching them to think for themselves. This is an old contradiction, of course, but we need to understand how new conditions in the twenty-first century have sharpened it. Briefly, the answer is this: no society before ours has ever been so dependent for its economic progress and cultural self-understanding on knowledge. An entire literature — “post-industrial,” “knowledge is power,” “the information society,” “symbolic analysts” — has established this epochal difference. In such an order, the creators of knowledge possess enormous power; and we can measure it not least by the extraordinary financial returns that patented inventions, best-selling books, movies and TV shows, apps and other knowledge products earn for those who devise them.

    Having monetized the products of thinking in hugely valuable forms of intellectual property, corporations, governments, universities, and some especially successful individuals face the dilemma of how to institutionalize their creativity. The owners of ideas, whether they are individuals or corporations, have powerful new algorithms at their disposal, enabling them to canalize innovative ideas into opportunities for profit, market share, influence, and power. The new technologies have accelerated the concentration of economic and intellectual power in a handful of monstrously large corporations that run the Internet and thereby set the standards for university culture and learning world-wide. The issue hanging over all of this is whether new technologies for discovering and aggregating preferences in ideas helps or hinders the impulse — thinking for yourself — that drives the entirety of our society’s capacity to innovate.

    If you put these two factors together — new technologies to aggregate and identify preferences in ideas and an oligopoly of institutions that certify what profitable and useful knowledge is, together with their licensed authority to teach people how to think — what do we have? A society that teaches us how and what to think, or a society that teaches us to think for ourselves? Those who think that “surveillance capitalism” is the root of the problem, or who prefer to blame social media, or who wish to force-march us back to their old verities — all these people have their answers ready. But the question is more than a sociological or political one. It is, rather, a personal and moral one. It may be more useful to conclude that this is a question — whether thinking for yourself is possible — that cannot have a general answer. It must be asked by everyone who cares about an examined life and an examined society. A society will be only as thoughtful as the people who are its members; or as thoughtless, with all the terrible consequences that always issue from unfree thinking. Those who do think for themselves will have to answer the question for themselves. It is a condition of the proper use of freedom to ask yourself continually whether you are truly as free as you think you are.

    The Trials of the Young: A Semester

    In 2014 I was hired, for two consecutive spring semesters, to teach writing and literature at one of the officially happiest colleges in America. The place was located in a beatific, temperate environment, with mountain views and imposing, elegant architecture; extraordinary foliage and trees burst from the very pavement, flowers were everywhere. There were outdoor swimming pools, conveniently placed grills and fountains, the latter to be drunkenly danced in on graduation or really whenever somebody felt like it. Upbeat music emitted from invisible speakers, wafting constantly across enormous athletic fields; artistic performances and lectures were available almost every day or night. The faculty were erudite, dedicated, and inspiringly strange. Students were receptive, hard-working, and very well-prepared; they were the best undergrads I had ever encountered. They were also, with few exceptions, remarkably easy-going.

    There was something intimidating about the opulence of the place, and also a little eerie; to me, that kind of apparent perfection invariably holds the secret of its inevitable ruin. I knew it was perverse to feel that way in the midst of a wonderful opportunity for which I was grateful — but I did feel that way, almost on arrival. The stark rectilinearity of the architecture, the Triumph of the Will plazas, the huge terraced terracotta buildings — if you aren’t used to that scale of things it is disorienting, especially if you are the only human walking the huge expanse between the huge structures. So, at the end of what turned out to be a lovely semester, when one of my favorite students, a kid from India named Chetan (not his real name; all names in this essay have been changed) caustically informed me that this was “the happiest college in America” and that it got on his nerves, I sincerely replied, “Yeah, I know what you mean. What’s wrong with them?” 

             But whatever was wrong wasn’t wrong with all of them; some people apparently were not so happy at all. By the fall of 2015, the Dean of Students had been essentially forced to resign after a humongous campus-wide protest about her alleged racial insensitivity, which somehow got combined (in the media) with a Facebook photo of two grinning blonde students in Halloween costumes that featured ponchos, sombreros, and glued-on mustaches. A quivering apparatus sprang up to attack the unhappiness: more multicultural clubs, more diverse hiring, a mentoring program, and an administrator to oversee diversity came into being.

    But when I returned for another engagement in 2019 I noticed that students were no longer so easy-going: they were positively touchy. A higher percentage per class needed mental-health disability dispensations and a couple of students had to take time off due to breakdowns. During the semester a student published an essay in the school paper titled “On Being Unhappy at One of the Happiest Colleges in America.” The writer identified his experience of racism as the source of his discontent, but towards the end of his piece he broadened his focus to note that the happiness itself could create mental health stress across the student body. He mentioned the deaths of two white male students that had occurred within the same week that year, one a suicide, the other a drug overdose.

    An anecdote about those deaths that is minor but which seems relevant: in conjunction with mass counseling services and a candlelit remembrance, a community gathering was also held featuring a free food truck, board games, and coloring supplies.

    Fast forward to 2021. The unhappiness was continuing its upward creep, for obvious reasons: the pandemic, the exponentially growing climate crisis, political madness culminating in the attack on the Capitol, the ever louder voice of white nationalism, the murder of George Floyd, the vicious street attacks on Asian people which seemed to loom larger and more horrible in contrast with the extra anti-racist vigilance on campus.

    Anyone who isn’t living in off-grid isolation is aware of the tireless efforts by hyper-conscious campus administrations to create classrooms where everyone feels safe and as few people as possible will be made “uncomfortable,” let alone unhappy. Some institutions require “trigger warnings” to be announced before “problematic” material is read, and some classic texts might not be taught at all — for example, professors of literature might hesitate to include a story by Flannery O’Connor (featuring the n-word) on their syllabus. Title IX protects everyone from rape or harassment, and mandatory training “modules” educate faculty about proper codes of conduct and speech. In response to the stressors listed above, the response at the now less-happy campus was to double down on such efforts: fewer white male authors on the syllabus, please, and more instructional modules on how to engage students over Zoom, more anti-racist teacher trainings, more refinements of language (the n-word should not be uttered aloud for any reason by any not-black person, not even if the person is reading it from a hundred-year-old text), more polls on how more diversity might be achieved.

    Such strenuous gesticulation has been so widely mocked (even by academics who do it) that it is easy to forget why it started. Campus assaults and sometimes horrific drunken rapes were a part of campus life for decades and I don’t doubt that they still occur. (For a recent example, see the Hobart and William Smith frat rape, 2014.) In the almost thirty years in which I have taught as a visitor at various universities, I have witnessed or heard about disgusting and demoralizing racial insults (in 2005, for example, a program on the student TV station at Syracuse University featured images of an actual lynching on a comedy show) as well as the more subtly painful experience of isolation faced by minority groups — experience that professors could unintentionally exacerbate or not notice or not know how to address if they did notice. 

    But still, even people outraged by such cruelties might fairly mock the corrective apparatus, not only because it is ridiculous (which it often is) or dictatorial (which it often is, even if people on the ground are usually reasonable in its application). The deeper trouble is that it is ineffectual and confusing. It is confusing to conflate the reading of a hate word in a book from one hundred years ago with its actual use in the present time; it is confusing to treat the fictional expression of misogyny as if it is the real thing. It is desensitizing to hear a routine “land acknowledgment statement” read before every gathering. Anyone who thinks it’s funny to broadcast the image of a lynching victim or who would take part in a gang rape might grit their teeth and undergo the retraining, but I can’t imagine that their racism or misogyny would be moved by it.

    On a less drastic level, such statements and modules are too easily parroted and thus absorbed into the status quo that they are trying to challenge. In 2019, one of my male students repeatedly used the phrase “toxic masculinity” in an essay on Richard Yates’ Revolutionary Road, and while the words were not completely inappropriate, they struck me as empty. I asked him in a private conversation what he meant by the phrase, and he basically said that he learned it at a talk held during his freshman orientation; it meant entitled men treating women badly. I said I didn’t think that those descriptors applied to the character in the book exactly, that there are more interesting ways to talk about him. At some point in the conversation I asked him how he felt about the neutral trait “masculine” being linked with poison. He shrugged affably and said it was okay with him, he didn’t mind.

    Of course he didn’t mind. He was a handsome young guy with a perfectly good mind and a winning combination of confidence and politeness. I wonder, would anyone tell this guy that he had “toxic masculinity?” Maybe a girl angry because he failed to text her back, or a girl flirting with him—and now, courtesy of the mandatory talk, he can win points by saying it first, plus he can use it in papers and get points that way, too. Easy peasy! 

    But less confident, less sophisticated young men — those with the most vulnerable self-esteem — might find it disconcerting to be told, no matter how sensitively it was put, that the trait that they have grown up considering desirable, their most basic default identity is now toxic. This does not seem to me a minor side effect.

    So. My recent fiction writing class in this complicated environment was quite small, partly because a few of the people that I accepted had read an interview I did with The New Statesman in Britain which made them think that my “stance” regarding “SA” (sexual assault) would make them feel “unsafe” in class. But I was pretty happy with my group of eight, including one very animated and bright guy named Luke who on the first day told me that he couldn’t sit still, he needed to pace. He assured me that his pacing would not indicate disrespect of any kind; it was just part of his personal energy and he had to do it. But when I explained that pacing was okay during a Zoom class but in person he had to sit still, it turned out that he was able to do so.

    He could not refrain from pacing, however, when he came back to my office with me to discuss his first project. During that conversation he paced and paced, taking books off the shelves and commenting on them before focusing on his main question, which was: could he write his first story about someone who rapes, murders, and jerks off on the body of a little girl — in the first person?

    I replied: “No. Not in this climate. It would cause a big fuss and frankly I don’t want to deal with it. People would go nuts, the dean’s office would get involved, it would be a crisis. I mean, maybe later on you could ask the class how they would feel about it? Maybe if they got to know you? But — “

    In case you are wondering why the equivocation instead of a loud clear no, it was because I used to believe — it is almost instinctive for me to believe — that anything is fair game in a writing class, that even the most offensive subjects are open for exploration in the free country of art. But years of teaching experience (most specifically the year 1997, about which more in a moment) have persuaded me otherwise, at least when it comes to undergrads. Still, it was hard to be immediately clear-cut with this extremely enthusiastic, friendly, and intelligent kid. It was actually hard not to get up and start pacing with him.

    “The other issue with writing on that subject,” I continued, “is that it’s really hard to write anything good, especially in the first person. Because no one really understands why people do those kinds of crimes. The people who do them especially don’t understand why they — ”

    “You’re completely wrong,” Luke replied. “They do understand why they do it.”

    I asked why he thought so; he cited an interview that he had read in which a high-IQ serial killer explained the causes of his murderousness (basically, Mom Rage). I said, “Okay, I get that. But I don’t know if those explanations really explain anything and anyway I think you should come up with something else to write.”

    Eventually he did. He wrote about a double suicide featuring hallucinatory and extremely violent images of self-harm, the most violent thing about it being the total unreality of anyone in the story but the narrator. As writing it was good, even powerful in its efforts to render the self-hate it described, in layers of dreamish, hellish pictures that were truly painful to read. But the other students who expressed strong feelings about it disliked it for its solipsism; they disliked in particular that the female character in particular was a voiceless prop. That feature got some critical attention from me as well. But I think mostly the class, including myself to a degree, were unnerved by the sheer, unrelenting, unvaried rage-pain of it. Luke took it all pretty gracefully, even if the sexism part plainly irritated him.

    Minutes after the class ended, I got an email from Luke in which he described hitting himself in the face; he said he thought I would enjoy it. I wrote back, I’m sorry to say a little flippantly, that I hoped this didn’t mean he was upset by the reception of his story. He indignantly replied that it meant no such thing. Then he emailed again, attaching what he said he would really like to submit to the class though he knew it was too edgy for them. It was, basically, a description of a guy preparing to torture a younger guy who idolized him, including a detailed description of what he meant to do plus a vivid description of what some serial killer had done to his mom. I replied that he was right, this would not go over well.

    Then I emailed an administrator to tell her that I was concerned about a student. I met with her in person in an outdoor setting — covid was surging — which was as usual spectacularly beautiful. She asked me if I thought the student was presenting a “safety issue” for the class; I said I was not a hundred percent sure — you can’t be these days! — but he probably wasn’t going to come to class with an assault rifle and start shooting. I believed that he was more likely a danger to himself. She said she would put out feelers to see if he had “set off any alarm bells” for anyone else, or had in any way “gotten on the radar” of the mental health apparatus.

    We talked a little about the student body in general. She said mental health issues were “through the roof,” that a number of students had already been sent home in that calendar year to receive care; in some cases, their parents had to be persuaded to accept them back. She expressed the opinion that even before the pandemic, student mental health had been declining for… I don’t recall the number of years she gave. We talked about why this might be; our ideas were not original. She thought upper-class parents were so over-protecting their children that the kids could not deal with even a managed environment on their own. I thought they were disconnected from their own bodies because so much social life had migrated away into the digital ether. I thought they could not sit still and be with themselves or comfort themselves. We agreed that the world was going to shit.

    My mind was not put to rest by the conversation. Luke had disturbed me and I didn’t know what I felt: anger or compassion or real interest in his mind. And he was not my only concern. Another student had turned in a story about suicide, specifically an attempted suicide, which I foolishly assumed to be completely fictional because the protagonist was female while the writer was male, and because the details of the hospital in which the character recovered were completely unconvincing, as was the dialogue assigned to therapists and staff. Several other people in the class also felt that part of the story was unconvincing and, apparently, they spoke from personal knowledge. Almost half the class had spent time in a mental institution, enough to know what the experience was like. And the author, upon being critiqued, revealed, seemingly out of sheer exasperation, that he too had experienced this. The story was in part autobiographical, he said.

    It was a startling moment. It was also a softening moment. There was a beat of silence during which I felt the room become gentler, more empathic, a feeling so palpable it was akin to touch. It was natural for me to take advantage of the soft moment to say that I appreciated the writer’s will to tackle such a difficult subject; not only difficult personally, but, owing to the depth and the perversity of it, objectively hard to illuminate. Which made Luke protest loudly, insisting once again that I was completely wrong about the difficulty of the subject, and that writers should not hesitate to go there. I responded crabbily that of course writers could go there but they should understand that it was not easy, and they should not be surprised if they failed the first or second or third time.

    We then moved on to the next startling moment, which arose from a discussion about technique. The discussion concerned a moment of dialogue during a scene when the protagonist’s parents arrive at the hospital, right after she has come to consciousness; it was trite and emotionally flat. I allowed that sometimes in terrible situations people do say things that are trite, because they are overwhelmed. I suggested that the writer could add depth by describing the parent’s facial expressions, their voices and movements. “When the mother hugs her daughter, what does the hug feel like?” The student asked me what I meant. I tried to explain: her body could feel hard and tense, it could feel soft and warm. It could feel weak or strong. There are a lot of different gradations of touch, I said; a person’s body can say a lot of things that they don’t say in words. And the student replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never felt anything like that in a hug.”

    The thought popped into my head: “That is why you felt suicidal.” Later, more sensibly, I thought that the student was possibly just being defensive. But I wondered. I meant what I had said to the admin person. I think people are becoming crazy because they have become too estranged from their own bodies to feel them. Or to feel other people.

    I am not alone in thinking that the pandemic made such estrangement worse. But I remember becoming aware of it many years before, during a discussion of internet porn with a nearly all-female class. The discussion was triggered by a story about the inhibiting effects of porn on girls who, because boys have become so habituated to it, feel obligated to imitate the actresses. Eventually I said that performance could never replace genuine bodily response. One beautiful young woman in her late twenties looked at me with troubled eyes and said, “But how do you know if it’s genuine?” I smiled and said, “You can feel it. Its unmistakable.” She just looked at me, her troubled expression deepening.

    After the suicide workshop, I emailed Luke and asked him why he was so sure he could understand a subject like suicide or murder. Really, I asked, you think you understand a serial killer? Can you explain that to me? He didn’t answer. He didn’t come to class. I reached out to the administrator to ask if she knew anything more about him. Before she responded I got an email from Luke telling me that he was going to be taking a leave of absence. He apologized for any inconvenience that he had caused; he said he was probably going to be kicked out. “You must be relieved,” said a friend. But I wasn’t. I was sad.

    I was even more sad — incredulous, actually — when another student wrote about suicide. During the course of the semester, four out of eight students wrote about suicide. Two wrote about attempts they had made themselves, the other two about friends, one of whom actually died. Something to be noted about these stories: there was nothing inert or passive about them. The despair that they expressed was vivid, intense, sometimes outraged in a focused political way, sometimes in a personal and flailing way. I had never experienced anything like it at this school—or any school—before. I asked the only other creative writing teacher in the department what his experiences were like that semester, and he said no suicide but lots of violence: siblings stabbing each other, a guy poisoning his mom, animal abuse.

    Which actually seemed more normal to me — not for that school, but over the course of my almost thirty years of teaching. People can let it all hang out in writing classes and sometimes “it” is very unpleasant. Prior to this particular semester, the record for unpleasantness had been held by an undergrad class I taught in Texas in 1997. By 2022, the experience of that class had become a distant, grotesquely comic anecdote. But during my most recent semester, the memory of it came back a lot. The students in both classes — the one twenty-five years ago and the one last spring — were unusual as a group (in the Texas case you could say actually kooky). Both included a strange maybe/maybe not menacing guy obsessed with violence. Both had the feeling of a controlled surface under which something awful and incoherent was making itself felt, demanding to be known. The “strange guys” in question were very different in character, behavior, and talent (which in this context matters). The more essential differences were about time and culture: these differences say a great deal about what was once not only tolerated but embraced.

    At the university in Texas in 1997, there was no concept of safe spaces regarding feelings, no idea of trigger warnings or racial sensitivity. The school was good, with a highly regarded MFA program, but otherwise not prestigious or physically opulent; there was no special claim to happiness. I was there for three semesters, and in all three of those semesters it was typical for undergraduate students, especially males, to write stories about murder. It was also normal for students, especially females, to write very sexually explicit stories; I had one girl who wrote something that was basically porn. Since she was older than average and frankly not attractive, I was afraid people would make fun of her, but to my relief they read and discussed her efforts politely.

    The thing about these stories was this: they were not disturbing to me or to anyone else, because, regardless of the content, readers sensed in them no malice or aggressive desire to shock. Plainly the writers just thought they were cool stories. In the class I am writing about, however, something different happened. There were the usual boys writing about murder; there was a woman in her fifties writing about rediscovering her sexuality (protagonist joyfully masturbates on lawn while husband looks on admiringly) and a thirty-something woman writing super-degrading sex stories (bisexual boy sodomizes heroine with a carrot while declaring “I can’t believe I’m attracted to such an ugly girl!”).

    And then there was a guy named Don — large, silent, pumped up, bald, in early middle-age — who wrote exhaustively, convincingly, and in the first person, about a sadistic killer of women. To say that one could sense malice in this project would be an understatement. His “novel” was carefully thought out, detailed, and realistic. I use scare quotes because the thing could barely be called a novel, it being rather a series of murder episodes void of character or dramatic tension.

    And the kids loved it. More specifically, the girls loved it. I remember the boys looking down nervously while the girls enthused:

    “I loved the part where he killed the middle-aged jogger! It was so specific, like the part where he stomped on her head and her eyeball started to come out? It was just better than when he killed the stripper because she fought back.”

    “I really loved it, but I thought it would be more sexual for him, and I wanted to know more about that” — meaty bald guy earnestly nodding and taking notes — “like before he kills the stripper, I thought it might be good to describe her dancing some more?”

    I had actually prepared a response to Don’s story that was meant to make the girls feel safe, and de-fang the narrative, and lead to a thoughtful discussion about the difficulty of writing well about violence. I don’t remember the actual words of my planned response; instead I remember the students’ comments, especially the following exchange:

    She: “So how old is this guy?”

    He: “I was twenty-five at the time.”

    Class: high, delighted laughter.

    She: “So, Don have you ever really killed anyone?” 

    He: “No, but I’ve known someone who did.”

    She: “Really?”

    I found the reaction very weird, but I decided to roll with it. This wasn’t sheer passivity: as noted, my ethos at the time, something I had spent energy on in classes, was the idea that art was a place to explore feelings and acts that we would avoid in life. I made a point of periodically reminding kids that some of the greatest art is about terrible people doing terrible things. In 1997 this ethos was, if not mainstream, well-represented: Natural Born Killers had been made only a few years earlier, Marilyn Manson was claiming in a print interview (in Spin, I believe) to have lit women’s breast implants on fire, and Dennis Cooper had become famous for writing novels about men sexually abusing and killing boys. In truth, I disliked all of the “art” listed above, found it shallow, grating, and gross. I felt the same way about Don’s writing. But it would have gone against my grain to tell him that he could not write it.

    And write it he did, getting ever more titillated reactions from the class, which I sensed were also becoming more anxious. I was definitely becoming more anxious, even fearful. I was also angry — furious, actually. I felt he was, if not exactly hijacking the class, distorting its focus. If he wants to be uncensored, I thought, then I get to be uncensored too, free to use his story as an example of failed writing about violence, comparing it instructively to work by Cormac McCarthy and Genet, among others. In a way those comparisons were quite respectful, as they indicated that I took him seriously which, actually, I did. There was something genuine in his writing — horrible, but genuine.

    Still, after the second workshop he came up to me and said, “I don’t understand your criticism.” I told him he could come to my office hours if he wanted to discuss it. He said, “You should’ve seen the first draft. In that version I kill everybody in the class including the teacher.” I said, “That’s very funny Don.” He laughed.

    I think that was when I went to the administration with copies of his story. The woman I spoke with recognized his name immediately. She said he was a strange guy: had been attending classes at the university for about ten years, changing his major with some frequency. Sometimes his grades were excellent, sometimes he just about flunked. He also changed his appearance radically; the last time she had seen him he was very thin, with shoulder-length hair, the opposite of how he looked at that moment. I explained my concerns; I showed her a few pages of his writing and repeated what he had said to me after class. I asked her if I could kick him out; I hadn’t decided that I wanted to do that, but I did want to know if it was an option. To my astonishment she informed me that no, it was not an option, not unless he “did something.” She told me that a similar situation had occurred a few years back, not in the English department but in History. A student had made a threatening remark to a teacher, was expelled from the class and went on to successfully sue the school. I don’t exactly remember who this administrator was in the hierarchy; now I wonder if I might have gotten a different response had I pursued the matter further.

    But I didn’t pursue it further. I gritted my teeth and hoped for the best, and well, at least something interesting happened. During our final thoughtful exploration of Don’s violent narrative, the woman in her fifties, probably the least popular person in class, had finally had enough. “I don’t know if I should say this,” she ventured, “because I don’t want to end up dead in a ditch somewhere”—tolerant laughter from the class—“but I am sick of this shit. This is like porn. This is like”—pounding the table with both fists—“FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING!” The kids rolled their eyes at the uncoolness; Don glared malevolently.

    And I, finally, said the most sensible, possibly the only sensible, thing I said during the entire episode: “Margery raises a valid point. Writing like this creates fear. That is its purpose.” In response, every single girl on one side of the room, girls who had been enthusiastically expressing their admiration for Don, turned to me with wide, childishly frightened eyes and mutely nodded their assent. It was astonishing, because just a moment earlier they had rolled their eyes as if what Margery had said was beneath them. Their feelings of titillation and fear were that connected and that labile. The semester was almost over, but somehow the admission of this more natural response defused the tension in the class at least somewhat; reality had been asserted. I felt chastened that it had taken another student (albeit an older and more mature one) to get us there.

    I left Texas shortly after the semester ended. Over the next twenty-five years or so, teaching at various universities, I had a few weird, even scary students, and a scattering of gruesome stories, including two about suicide. But I never encountered anything like the instability of that class in Texas, with its fascination for violence that almost amounted to longing, but with such terror underneath, it was almost as if the fascination was an attempt to neutralize the terror by becoming its friend. As time went on, I came to think of the experience as a relic of a particular time — louche, careless, and ridiculous. After tragedies such as the Virginia Tech massacre, the climate changed radically; I didn’t think a guy like Don would be tolerated for two minutes on the happiest campus in America.

    Luke, however, was another story. He was not kicked out; after only a few days in a hospital he returned to class with the full strength of the mental health apparatus behind him. I was encouraged by the apparatus to cut him as much slack as possible, which I was willing to do, and he seemed genuinely to appreciate the forbearance. I asked if he thought he could turn in the story that he had scheduled for workshop; it would be tight and no one could switch places with him. He said he would try his best. He also let me know that the piece he was working on described sexual situations and used words like “faggot.” He did not mention that it was a first-person murder narrative, but since the murdered character was a rich white guy who had sexually exploited the college kid who killed him, I didn’t expect anyone to be offended. And they weren’t. They showed real goodwill. It helped that the story was good and the killer likeable (a subjective concept with absurdly high currency in college workshops), with “relatable” self-esteem issues. My main criticism of it was its uniformity of tone and the lack of the physical world rendered descriptively.

    But that wasn’t so bad, given that few of them seemed able to describe anything. It is harder than it seems to accurately and evocatively “see” the world through a character’s eyes. It is even harder if your own eyes are so often fixed on a tiny screen that you barely register what is actually happening in front of you. I have seen people walk into traffic while scrolling on their phones. I have nearly walked off a sidewalk platform that suddenly came to an end because I was scrolling on my phone. I know, everyone knows, that traffic accidents have happened because of people screwing around on their phones.

    But there are more subtle effects. Fifteen years ago, even ten years ago, when I took a long walk, either in the city or in the natural world, it was a kind of mediation that happened without my trying. I became wholly absorbed in what was around me, in textures and shapes, in the human imprint of buildings, sidewalks, backyards, grasses, trees, fungus, worn roads, crushed leaves. It was a profoundly calming and rejuvenating reminder of the greater world and my own animal connection with it. When I go for walk now, it is different: even if I only look at my phone once or twice, the experience, while still soothing, is not as deep. My consciousness is kept from full absorption in the physical world by its neurological attunement to the electronic portal in my pocket — or back in my house, if I didn’t even bring the thing with me. My bodily connection to the environment is thus weakened. And I cannot believe I am the only one being affected in this way.

    I was surprised by the final suicide story. It was written by a seemingly temperate girl who had previously written subtle, quiet stories set in small towns; I wondered if — I hoped that — she had written this thing about a guy blowing his brains out in front of a girlfriend under the influence of her peers. But in a private conference she told me that she chose the subject because four people she had known in her small town had killed themselves or tried, and she was attempting to understand it. I asked her why she thought this had happened in her town. She replied that people now find it impossible to be satisfied with themselves, that no one thinks they are good enough, that girls in particular suffer profoundly over how their bodies look and cannot separate appearances from character. She named the usual suspects: social media, particularly Tik Tok and Instagram. We talked about how crippling this distorted mirroring can be, how ephemeral the sense of self can become when electronic images are more important than the actual human bodies around you. 

    Towards the end of the semester, Luke started missing classes; when he did show up, he looked and acted pretty out of it. He said he was so busy with other things that he completely forgot his final workshop date, and asked if he could turn something in after the semester ended. Annoyed by his attitude, I didn’t respond right away. The next day he sent me a late reply to the email that I had sent over a month earlier asking him why he thought he could understand serial murderers. He agreed that you could not know the precise reasons that individuals kill, but felt that the abstract reasons could be located in a nexus of power, domination, and control. He referred to a forensics expert who believes that murder can best be understood not by the killer’s words, but through forensic analysis of crime scenes, scenes that this expert compares to a kind of art. In fact, this expert, according to Luke, thinks that serial killers’ crimes “must be thought of as art.” Luke seemed enchanted by this idea and expounded on it at length, choosing as his one specific example “young men who rape old women,” women they often know. He went on to opine about what it meant when the hypothetical young men mutilated the hypothetical old women, before or after death, etc.

    There was more to the email which was, actually, polite and earnest in tone, that is when it wasn’t weird and desperate in tone. But the old lady rape/mutilation scenario was like an infuriating noise that obscured anything else. I wrote back (politely and earnestly) that I thought the forensic expert was wrong, that murder is in no way like art, and I dutifully expressed concern for his well-being — and then I reached out to the mental health apparatus. I had no idea what to expect, but I was surprised by what happened.

    The woman with whom I spoke — I believe she was an assistant dean — seemed very thoughtful and kind. She said she had been keeping tabs on Luke — she had lunch with him just a few days ago — and she thought he was doing very well. She asked if I thought there was a “safety issue” for me or anyone else. I told her that I didn’t think so, but that I had found his email disturbing. I described it to her; and I may have read from it, I don’t recall. She said it wasn’t really enough to act on. I understood — what kind of action would one take? — but I asked her if she would like me to send the email to her just so that she would have it. She said no, she preferred that I not send it. I asked why. She said, “Because if I see it, I’ll have to do something.” I asked her what she would have to do. She said she would have to report it and then Luke would be hauled before some committee or other, which in her opinion would just make the situation worse. I could actually see the sense in this. But I hung up wondering, where in hell is the safe space around here? I want a safe space!

    I also wondered why the only options were inaction or hauling the student before a committee. I wondered what would happen if he was instead required to sit down with the assistant dean and myself and answer certain questions. What exactly are you thinking? Why are you writing to your old lady professor about young men raping old ladies with whom they are acquainted? I didn’t suggest this for the same reason that I didn’t respond to that part of the email; I did not want to feed it. But I think a face-to-face sit-down that was not about a personal relationship between him and me but which involved university personnel — someone supportive — would have been different. It could have been exactly what I think students — not just students, but most people now — are missing: physical engagement requiring that you look the person to whom you are speaking in the eye.

    Of course, he could have gamed his way through it. He could have felt trapped and walked out. He could have gone back to his dorm and jerked off thinking about me and the dean raping each other. Such a meeting could have made the whole situation weirder. But given how weird it already was, I wish that I had at least made the suggestion.

    I emailed Luke to tell him that he could give me his final story late, approximately a week late, on the same date that I gave another student who needed a late date due to Covid. He wrote back saying that he didn’t have time to do the story at all, and that he didn’t care if he got a D-, since he was probably going to drop out anyway. I replied that the option was there if he changed his mind and wished him the best going forward. It was a perfunctory response, but it was also sincere: as exasperating and disturbing as he was, Luke was plainly suffering. I was fed up, certainly, but in spite of myself I also had empathy for him because, unlike Don, I felt that he was trying, in his own twisted way, to work with something essential; murder and despair are not bugs but essential human features.

     Fascination with murder and despair is also an essential human feature, and the young have been ever-famous for their raving misery. I spent much of my twenties feeling miserable; I thought of suicide fairly often. Two of my friends attempted it. The culture of that time — the ‘70s and early ‘80s — was a delirium of insistent belief in total happiness and an exuberant fixation on violence and stylized pain. I’m thinking of the ridiculous hipster cult of the serial killer, the ironic popularity of films such as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, songs such as the Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” or the Pretenders’ “Tattooed Love Boys, the latter an ecstatic ode to gang rape. I’m thinking of the laugh riot racism of Archie Bunker, the comic nihilism of punk, and the transformative genius of Richard Pryor, who, in making comedy out of his own childhood abandonment, abuse, drug addiction, imprisonment, and racist consignment to a low-status social category, located the life-force behind the cruelty and anguish of America and repurposed the crap out of it. All of it was rude, and sometimes casually mean and self-hating on purpose; it was silly sometimes not on purpose; but it was finally healing. By allowing the ugliness in and acknowledging it as part of our humanity, that cultural moment created a kind of spaciousness, even balance. It was its own kind of corrective to a false story of virtue and niceness. This privileging of darkness, I’m pretty sure, informed my Texas students’ seemingly bizarre forbearance towards someone who actually frightened them. 

    But these days that breed of forbearance is looking like an indulgence that we cannot afford. These days, niceness is looking pretty damn good; these days, the darkness is just too overwhelming. Young children are being slaughtered in schools, and mass shootings of all description take place weekly for weeks at a stretch, while Congressional leaders treat gun ownership as sacred; black people — actually, white people too — are being murdered by the police; white nationalists are plotting a race war; lies and disinformation are everywhere; nuclear war in Europe suddenly looks possible; the West Coast is perpetually burning and Pakistan is catastrophically flooded, as the impending wave of hell nicknamed “climate change” rises over our heads. Yes, terrible things were happening in the 1980s, and terrible things have always been happening, but…not like this.

    That young people, including my students, are reacting to all of the above with fear, anguish, and rage is appropriate, even rational. (The reaction makes particular sense in a cohort that has been encouraged to believe that happiness is an expected norm.) That they are fixating on problems they can control and maybe solve (the pronouncement of offending words, gender madness, “shitty” men, “problematic” assigned reading material) is understandable. That they want the safety — or the illusion of safety — provided by the corrective apparatus is also understandable. Only a fool would not crave safety in the face of what is happening now. But while the corrective apparatus is providing a measure of control, it cannot really provide safety. Metaphorically, it is making sure that the crusts are cut off all the sandwiches and that no dishes are left in the sink while zombie hordes beat on the walls and stick their hands through the windows.

    I would like to end with a ringing conclusion of some kind, or at least a helpful suggestion. But I’m afraid that I can’t. The only thing I can say for sure is that the young deserve better. It has become standard to complain about how inept and spoiled the young are, but my students were in some ways pretty great. Their stories confronted not only suicide and violence but also dilemmas of artificial intelligence, gender animus, caring for a sick parent and sibling during the pandemic, the tenderness of asexual love, the awfulness of age, the timelessness of war — they were ambitious, humorous, and bright in the face of everything. But even if they weren’t, they would deserve better. Not only them, not only the other young people whom I met at the colleges where I taught, but also the working-class kids and the poor kids who spend hours alone in apartments that their single mothers have forbidden them to leave because their neighborhoods are dangerous, possibly sitting glued to the same Instagram accounts that make their more privileged counterparts feel so inadequate they want to die. All of them deserve better. I wish to God that we knew how to give it to them.

     

    A Passenger on the Philosophers’ Steamer

    I am standing on the quay in the Polish city of Szczecin. The north wind from the Baltic Sea brings a thick gray drizzle that envelops the buildings and the port cranes, creating a sense of stagnant timelessness. A tugboat on the Oder River, almost hidden by the curtain of rain and turned into a fluid silhouette, gives a loud, long blast of its horn and vanishes in the fog. But the horn still sounds, an echo out of the past. 

    One hundred years ago this past fall, on September 30, 1922, a ship docked here. Szczecin was called Stettin then, and it belonged to Germany. The ship had come from Petrograd, the former St. Petersburg and future Leningrad: in terms of names, it came from a city that no longer exists to another city that no longer exists. The Oberbürgermeister Haken carried a group of scholars, public and political figures, and intellectuals expelled by the Bolsheviks; among them were the philosophers Nikolai Berdayev and Semyon Frank, Sergei Trubetskoi and Boris Vysheslavtsev. In mid-November another ship, the Preussen, arrived with a second group of deportees; others were sent out through Black Sea ports or by railroad, totaling around two hundred and fifty people, including family members.

    Expulsion: the strange grace of forced salvation, a gesture of absurd magnanimity on the part of the ogre. Those who remained were executed, such as the philosopher Gustav Shpet. Or they died in the Gulag, like the philosopher Lev Karsavin, a passenger on the Preussen who settled in Lithuania, which was later seized by the Soviets. But then, in the year of the Treaty of Rapallo, the Bolsheviks needed international recognition, needed a bit of a good reputation, and this gave the deportees a chance to survive. 

    During the 1980s, in the period of glasnost, this expulsion in two boatloads of an eminent if unwanted intelligentsia was known as the Philosophers’ Steamer, a pejorative name, a symbol of the Soviet battle against free thought, of an enforced brain drain, and the destruction of culture and intellectual power. Today history repeats itself: Russians with undesired minds are once more being forced to leave their country, essentially using the same routes — through the Baltic states or through Turkey. The term Philosophers’ Steamer is current again, used by those leaving as if to stress the continuity of their flight with the earlier one, and by state media, mockingly, as if to say that the Philosophers’ Steamer was a real loss, even though the Bolsheviks were right, while today there is no one to feel sorry about losing.

    Well, there’s a bitter paradox in that irony. Russia’s war against Ukraine — an imperial and colonial war — has mercilessly exposed the fundamental flaw of Russian political culture. Russia has no intellectual tradition aimed at dismantling the imperial, chauvinist matrix of consciousness and its associated institutions. But the state, alas, easily adopts historical justifications for aggression, co-opting figures from seemingly opposing camps.

    One figure whose words are now widely quoted to buttress the claim that Ukraine belongs to the “Russian world,” descended on September 30, 1922, onto the quay of Stettin from the Oberbürgermeister Haken. He was thirty-nine. His name was Ivan Alexandrovich Ilyin.

    Today he is Vladimir Putin’s favorite philosopher.

    He was my grandmother’s uncle.

    After a hundred years of exile, his remains rest in Russia, re-interred at Putin’s request in Moscow’s Donskoy Cemetery. I live in Berlin, where he lived in the 1920s and 1930s. He returned. I left. 

    He, who was once considered a dangerous criminal and a reactionary ideological foe by the Soviet state, is now posthumously recognized and honored. This comes from the people who grew up in the USSR, who were brought up to despise and hate the Whites — the imperialist defenders of Old Russia whom the communists despised. Their amazing omnivorousness — they now include even Ilyin in their pantheon — merely proves that today’s Russian regime opportunistically combines disparate elements of historical trajectories dating back a century ago: the totalitarian Red left and the authoritarian, and potentially fascist, White, related to Franco’s Spanish regime. How did that happen?

    I will try to answer the question using Ilyin as the key — or as the guide into my family history in its conjunction with the history of my country.

      In my Soviet childhood we often went cross-country skiing in winter, sometimes taking the train to the Ilyinskaya station, where in the midst of dachas on Kolkhoznaya Street stood a snow-covered church in the Russian Gothic style, the crosses knocked down from its dark cupolas. If someone had told me that this station had been named in honor of my distant relative, a colonel engineer named Nikolai Ilyin, who had built this railroad and had owned the nearby estate that was now a sanatorium, and that Ivan Ilyin (Nikolai’s nephew) had been married in this church in 1906, I would not have believed it. I would have been unable to assimilate something so enormous into my concept of our family history.

    For in fact there was no history. The past was dangerous territory that one could visit only accompanied by adults; the doses of permitted chronicles were measured out scrupulously and cautiously; I was a child, lacking in experience, and I thought that this was how it had to be.

    I did not question why the family narrative began in 1917, as if “before” was nonexistence, minus-time; my closest ancestors seemed to have been born in the year of the two revolutions. In the photos I was shown, for example, my great-grandfather Nikolai Lebedev appears already in uniform with a Red Army star on his cap. How had he lived before? Where had he served? I did not ask myself. I had mastered the skill of not asking. I learned that a part of the past had to remain opaque and that some people existed only nominally: all that was left of them was a name, perhaps a photo, but we should take no interest in their fate.

    Yet there was a place where the past came too close: the Vvedensky Cemetery in Moscow, locally known as the German cemetery, where my father’s family was buried. The old cemetery was intended for the non-Orthodox, with monuments speaking a dozen tongues, where death and the next life had diverse styles. The monuments were different, resembling sprouts of Gothic church spires, and the language of the symbols was different, too: Roman and Celtic crosses, olive branches, palm branches, and most importantly, angels. In the Orthodox tradition, angels are rarely depicted sculpturally; but here there were dozens — marble, bronze, a nesting site for angels, a sanctuary of otherworldliness.

    I always asked my parents why we Russians, we Lebedevs, had a family plot in the German cemetery. Who was memorialized by these worn limestone headstones? All of my paternal grandmother’s brothers had died missing in action in the war and her sisters had starved to death in the blockade of Leningrad. But there, in the cemetery, nineteenth-century German graves faced those of wounded Soviet officers who had died at the nearby military hospital, creating the illusion that the dead were still fighting the war underground. My parents replied that my great-grandfather was a military surgeon and that the hospital had given him the plot. That was only a partial truth. In the 1980s, my grandmother had written her memoirs by hand: a heavy book in a homemade cover. I read it only in the 1990s, and discovered that the nameless, ostensibly unmarked limestone monuments on our plot were the graves of our ancestors. Our German ancestors. The feeling that I was German — just a tiny bit, a minuscule fraction — was almost unbearable. 

    Then, for the first time in probably seventy years, the monuments were washed, removing the protective crust of dirt, moss, and lichen, and revealing the letters: Julius Schweikert von Stadion. Dr. Julius Schweikert von Stadion, a homeopath, came to Russia from Germany in 1832 as an apostle of alternative medicine. His apostolic mission failed and he ended his days as a naturopath, a physician at a Moscow residence for the widows of state officials. The building survived and we passed it amid the fluttering of red flags when my mother would take me to the May Day demonstrations.

    Dr. Schweikert was married to a Frenchwoman and left behind eight daughters. They became governesses and at least three of them married the sons of the families. The youngest, Sophia, my great-grandmother, became Orthodox and entered the noble Rtishchev family, provincial military men who found glory in the Napoleonic wars. Her older sister, Karolina, became Ekaterina Yulyevna Ilyina, a lady from a respected and wealthy family. Thus the genealogical tree that joined us to Ilyin grew out of the stone root of the old limestone monument. It was no accident that one of Ilyin’s pseudonyms was Julius Schweikert.

    “As sometimes happens with Russian Germans, he had a jealous love for the Russian element. Unrequited love,” the insightful memoirist and poet Yevgenia Gertsyk wrote about Ilyin.

    My grandmother was not a Party member, yet she worked her entire life at Politizdat, the Central Committee’s publishing house of political literature. She, whose relatives had been sent to the camps or killed by the Bolsheviks, had edited the complete works of Lenin. I still don’t know how she did it — a complete detachment from her feelings? Conformism? A readiness for martyrdom?

    She wrote memoirs of her life as an editor, or more accurately, as a censor. It was only when I became a journalist and an editor myself that I could fully appreciate her artistry in dropping a line of thought or using omissions that did not look like omissions. She recounted so many impossibly new things about her former life that it was hard to catch that the most important thing was often not said, or was hidden in the details. She wrote her text not knowing that the Soviet Union would soon collapse and the archives would be partially opened; she wrote it for publication in the USSR, desperately trying to maintain the elusive balance between permitted and unpermitted.

    Actually, I could only read her memoirs properly when electronic databases appeared with histories of people arrested and killed in the war. With their help I was able to decipher the omissions, and learn the fate of characters that she had hidden or had not known. I began working in the archives, reading investigations of the 1920s and 1930s that created a second layer for my grandmother’s memoir, an expanded commentary that turned into an independent text. One of the cases was that of Igor Ilyin, Ivan’s brother.

    Here is what my grandmother had written about Ivan Ilyin and his brothers:

    In the Ilyin family, Karolina’s sons had differing views. Ivan, an idealist philosopher, emigrated before the war of 1914 to Italy, settling somewhere near the Vatican. Alexander and Igor were average, apolitical, and honest working lawyers. Alexei was a Bolshevik. He died before the revolution in a clash with police. Consequently, when people came to Karolina from the GPU state police to question her about her son the émigré, or to make them move into smaller quarters, or to requisition something, she would show them some letter of protection given to her as Alexei’s mother. The visits usually ended in apologies, and Lina peacefully lived out her life in the family of her son Igor, his wife Nina, and his grandson Svyatoslav.

    Almost everything in that passage is either mistaken or misleading. Ivan, as we know, was expelled in 1922 on the Philosophers’ Steamer. Alexei did not die in a skirmish with the police, but after returning from exile in Siberia in 1913. Lina did not live out her life peacefully in Igor’s family.

    The real stories of these three brothers — Alexei, Ivan, and Igor — reflect the essence of the historic crossroads that Russia faced on the eve of the 1917 revolution.

      If not for the Bolshevik revolution in October 1917, Ivan Ilyin would probably have been a theoretical philosopher, a teacher specializing in Hegel. Roman Gul, the future émigré, journalist, and publisher, and a harsh critic of Ilyin, had been his student starting in 1914 in the law school of Moscow State University. “Tall, very thin, handsome in a Mephistophelian way (even though he was blond), I. A. was a brilliant lecturer and a brilliant scholar,” Gul wrote in his memoirs.

    Ilyin’s father had an estate in the village of Bolshiye Polyany in Ryazan Province, a wealthy homestead with a dairy farm. The local peasants who were questioned in 1937 about Igor remembered his brother Ivan as well: he taught in Moscow at the university. After the revolution the estate was confiscated and Ilyin’s mother and aunt were briefly arrested.

    According to Yevgenia Gertsyk, in his youth Ilyin paid tribute to leftist ideas and even attended the congress of the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party in Finland in 1905. (It was there that Lenin and Stalin first met.) Subsequently he withdrew from revolutionary ideas and studied Hegel. He was radicalized by the Civil War and the Red terror. He was arrested three times between 1917 and 1922 on suspicion of anti-Soviet activity. Once abroad, he grew close to the Russian All-Military Union (ROVS), the organization of the defeated White Army, and became its de facto chief ideologue.

    The Whites had lost in part because they could not present a clear alternative to the Soviet project. Ilyin tried to replay the lost war, building an alternative in case there was a historical opportunity for revenge. In fact, in the 1920s and 1930s the confrontation between conditional “reds” and “whites” played out not only in Russia: in his programmatic article “On Russian Fascism” in 1927, Ilyin refers to the experience of Hungary, Germany, and Italy. Spain, of course, was to come later.

    It seems as if Ilyin had been hypnotized by the success of those various European “whites.” The Civil War left him with a visceral contempt for democracy, which had been unable to defend itself in Russia. (The Bolsheviks had easily routed the Provisional Government, Russia’s transitional parliament.) He acquired an exalted, mystical love for rightwing dictatorships as a practical and effective measure against communism. Ilyin regarded the tyrants from Mussolini to Hitler as a natural and necessary phenomenon: a kind of protective reflex of European civilization against communist barbarism.

    In Germany, Ilyin worked at the Russian Scholarly Institute in Berlin. In 1933, he welcomed the Nazi government and for a brief period headed the institute, until he was fired in 1934, because the Nazis were not impressed by his praise. With the composer Rachmaninoff’s help, he emigrated in 1938 to Switzerland, where he died in 1954.

    “I still have clippings of your pro-Hitler articles, where you tell Russians not to look at Hitlerism ‘with the eyes of Jews’ and sing the praises of the movement!” Roman Gul wrote to him in a postwar letter. Ilyin never reexamined or criticized his pro-fascist views publicly. This was in part owed to the political instability of the post-revolutionary Russian community abroad. Emigrés frequently became collaborators. Some secretly worked for the Soviet political police, furnishing information or helping to organize kidnappings and political murders (two chairmen of ROVS, General Kutepov and General Miller, were kidnapped and killed by Kremlin agents in Paris in 1930 and 1937). Others preferred the embraces of the Gestapo, out of ideological or practical considerations; the collaboration of some of the Whites with Nazi Germany during World War II is an especially shameful chapter in the history of the movement.

    With a German grandfather and French grandmother, Ilyin could have chosen a conditional European identity, but in the sixteen years that he lived in Germany he never met with his Schweikert relatives. He conspicuously cultivated his Russianness.

      Ivan Ilyin never mentioned his older brother, Alexei: not in articles, not in correspondence. He buried him in silence. It was probably because Alexei Alexandrovich Ilyin, a successful graduate of the legal and historical-philological departments of Moscow State University, was a Bolshevik. He had not been a newspaper-writing theorist or a brief fellow traveler like Ivan in his youth; he was a man of action, an agitator and a fighter.

    In 1925, when Ivan was living in exile in Berlin, his mother Ekaterina (Karolina) was petitioning for a pension in Moscow, on the grounds that she was the mother of the Soviet hero Alexei. She appended references to her petition from “Old Bolsheviks” who had joined the party before the first Russian revolution, before 1905, and who had known him personally under his party pseudonym Ermil Ivanovich.

    In 1905, on orders from the Moscow Committee of Bolsheviks, Alexei Ilyin organized a militant brigade, around sixty men, on the Moscow-Kazan railroad (this is the line that includes Ilyinskaya station and the Bykovo Estate that had belonged to the family then), which took part in an armed uprising in December. The brigade fought and killed police and gendarmes; Alexei was wounded on the night of December 2. He had to live illegally, hiding out, but with the assistance of lawyers he managed to help the escape of members of his brigade who had been arrested. He was himself arrested in 1907 and exiled to Siberia.

    Released in 1910, Alexei returned to his underground work, providing money and documents to people fleeing police surveillance (they could get passport booklets at his father’s estate in Bolshiye Polyany, in Ryazan), and died, probably of typhus, in 1913, when Ivan Ilyin returned from two years studying in European universities to begin teaching at Moscow State University. In 1925, Fedor Konurovsky, one of the members of the railroad military brigade who obtained fake documents from Ilyin, wrote: “I ask the commission to give Ekaterina Ilyina an appropriate personal pension as the mother of a true ideological revolutionary who bore all the hardships of the first revolution.”

    This is the classic plot of socialist realist writing: brother against brother, one for the old, one for the new. Ivan crossed Alexei out of his life but he could not have forgotten him, which made his crusade against Bolshevism something very personal: one recognizes that level of passion that is reserved for fighting estranged family, not strangers.

    The brigade members apparently felt obliged to their late patron who laid the foundation for their political biographies. Not many survived the 1920s and 1930s. The highest-ranking member, Petr Kameron, a fighter in 1905 and Alexei’s secretary in the 1910s when he returned to legal work, subsequently became chairman of revolutionary tribunals that executed the surrendered leaders of anti-Soviet rebels in Central Asia, a member of the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court of the USSR, and chairman of the legal collegium on criminal cases of the Supreme Court (in 1938!) — a man who by virtue of the positions he held had blood up to his elbows, and visited Ekaterina Ilyina until her death in 1942.

    He visited and probably helped her; he certainly supported the petition for a pension in 1925. But his loyalty was strictly bounded and extended only to Alexei’s mother, not to his brothers.

      There was Ivan, there was Alexei, and there was Igor. 

    I obtained the case file on Igor Ilyin at the archives in Moscow when the covid pandemic began in Russia. The guard at the door put a thermometer gun to my forehead; the number 37 flashed in the frame. History is filled with black humor: Igor Ilyin was shot to death in 1937 in Butuvo, outside Moscow.

    “The equipment is acting up,” said the guard, and let me in.

    Opening the file, I was certain that I would find that Igor was arrested and executed for being Ivan’s brother, accused of kinship with an expelled enemy of the Soviet state. The reality was simpler and more horrifying. The NKVD did not bother making up a connection between the brothers, even though Igor honestly stated at his first interrogation that his brother had been expelled by the secret police in 1922. Igor was killed by “the apartment issue,” which had “ruined Muscovites,” as Bulgakov wrote in The Master and Margarita. A lawyer like his brothers, Igor found a loophole in Soviet legislation and managed to save the Ilyin apartment in Moscow from so-called “compaction,” that is, having the authorities move in strangers and turn it into a communal flat. He arranged for official recognition that there were three family units, not one, in the apartment: he and his wife, his mother-in-law, and his mother Ekaterina Yulyevna. Juridically, that is, they were all strangers and not a family, and therefore they required three norms of living space. The equation was almost perfect, but there was just one little room of five square meters left over, and to keep strangers from moving in Igor and his wife found a distant relative who needed housing.

    The relative found a boyfriend, and the two of them sued the Ilyins, demanding an entire full-fledged room. The court refused, but it also denied Igor’s countersuit to evict the lodgers. In 1937, the lodgers got their revenge, denouncing Igor for alleged anti-Soviet agitation. To prove that Igor hid his “class nature,” a witness stated, “Ilyin was two-faced. He was not short of money, at parties in his house he wore a tailcoat and patent leather slippers, while he went to work in torn shoes.” 

    Igor was arrested on September 20, 1937, and after several interrogations in which the investigator scrupulously detailed how many cows, seeders, and hired workers there were at the Bolshiye Polyany estate in order to establish Ilyin’s landowning background, he was shot on November 19.

    Stalin died in the spring of 1953, Ivan Ilyin died in Zollikon, Switzerland, on December 21, 1954, and in the summer of 1956, after Khruschev’s “thaw” began, Igor’s wife Nina Ilyin applied to the USSR Prosecutor’s Office for Igor’s rehabilitation. The KGB, established two years earlier, issued her a false certificate that Igor had perished from pneumonia on March 10, 1943 in a camp; such certificates were common practice, because despite the thaw, it was strictly forbidden to disclose the true cause of death — execution by firing squad, decreed by military field “troikas” according to a list. The KGB falsified death certificates on a mass scale, assigning arbitrary dates, usually belonging to the war period, so as to hide one death in the mass of others, and inventing “natural causes” of death — pneumonia, typhoid, heart attack.

    In Nina’s correspondence with the USSR Prosecutor’s Office and the KGB, she referred to Alexei’s revolutionary past as evidence of the family’s trustworthiness and, naturally, never mentioned the exiled Ivan. The KGB itself did establish this connection: it dug out the archive files on his arrests by the Cheka during the Civil War and the operational materials regarding the emigré ROVS, whose ideologist Ivan was. But it left this information without consequences.

    In the same correspondence, a striking detail emerges, an ominous metaphor for the entire era. Nina wrote that shortly after Igor’s arrest in 1937, an NKVD officer, one of those who arrested him, moved into his room, embezzling all his belongings. And, as she testified, in 1956 he was still living there: whenever the door to the room opened, she saw their belongings and furniture, appropriated by the murderer. Twenty years of living in the same apartment with the person who led your husband to his death, not being able to move out, and seeing the murderer sitting on the murdered man’s chairs, covering himself with his blanket — is there a stronger image of helplessness, of forced humiliation before evil, which was the school that the whole country went through in those years? It was the school of cohabitation with executioners. And today the heirs of those Chekists who destroyed Igor are praising and promoting his brother Ivan. 

      In the 1990s, when the culture of the Russian emigré world was undergoing a revival and previously banned books were being published in enormous quantities, Ivan Ilyin was overshadowed by the other passengers on the Philosophers’ Steamer, such as Berdayev, Trubetskoy, and Lossky. At the same time, the White Movement underwent a renaissance of its own with the publication of memoirs of military leaders, a fashion for “white” songs, and an idealization of the Whites as heroes to counterbalance the instant devaluation of the pantheon of Soviet heroes. And Ivan Ilyin appeared stage front in Russian history for a second time, with the ascendance of Vladimir Putin. The philosopher was forcibly “resurrected.”

    They say that Putin was chosen to be Yeltsin’s successor through an interesting bit of casting — that several candidates were considered. We can imagine that Ilyin was selected for state-sponsored rehabilitation in a similar way. We must bear in mind that the surveillance of Russian anti-Soviet emigrés, of the ROVS, was a specific field of professional activity inside the KGB. The secret police was a loyal reader of their works and kept track of them — the case file on Igor Ilyin, for example, shows that a manhunt was begun in 1950 to determine Ivan Ilyin`s location. The Chekists in Putin’s circle could choose easily among the subjects of their operational interests. 

    In 2005, on Putin’s orders, the remains of two Russian emigrés were reburied at the Donskoy cemetery in Moscow: Ivan Ilyin, whose grave had been in Switzerland, and General Anton Denikin, the commander-in-chief of the White Army, whose remains were in the United States. The selection of these figures, these silent cadavers, as the foundation of the new state ideology was highly symbolic. Denikin embodied the Whites’ main slogan, “Russia United and Inseparable,” which opposed the Bolshevik policies that accepted secession of former Russian Empire territories, such as Finland or Poland. The White slogan became the official name of Putin’s governing party, United Russia, in December 2003. 

    And Ilyin was selected for the role of ideologist and prophet. Putinism does not have a holy text, a main book: it is enormously eclectic and malleable, wherein lies its strength. But Putin’s regime needed a higher genealogy and a conservative political language with pretensions to being a “philosophy” and a “historical tradition.” Ilyin’s lofty chauvinism did the trick. Yet Ilyin did not set the course of Russian history; on the contrary, Russian history moved in the direction of his ideas. After an extreme swing to the left, the pendulum swung to the right.

    After 1991, whether its residents were aware of it or not, Russia faced the question of what it was, whether the Russian Federation would have real or merely nominal content. The answer came in 1994 with the First Chechen War, and the absolute rejection of the possibility of any declaration of independence by Chechnya from Russian control. The greatest fear of the 1990s was the fear that the country would come apart at the seams and devolve into an anarchy of national republics. Yeltsin exploited those fears to justify the war in Chechnya and the strengthening of the secret services.

    If we summarize Ilyin’s views on the post-Bolshevik future of Russia, and he was one of the few emigré minds who made such forecasts, the following picture emerges: there will be chaos, an imaginary triumph of “freedom” and “democracy,” which will be used by Russia’s enemies to try to dismember it, to play the separatist card. The only salvation will lie in a strong leader, a dictator surrounded by an entourage of supporters capable of “patriotic arbitrariness” and of curbing the centrifugal tendencies at the price of civil liberties. 

    No wonder that for Putin and his Chekist gang Ilyin’s writings looked like prophecy. After all, from the very beginning they created an image of Putin as the savior of Russia from the chaos of “democracy,” using the old Soviet myth of the security services as the knights of the revolution with a shield and a sword on the emblem, a formidable echelon of selfless guardians of the state. It was no coincidence that Nikolai Patrushev, the head of the Federal Security Service, described the security services as the “new nobility,” while Viktor Cherkesov, a former KGB officer who used to harass dissidents and was now chief of the Federal Drug Control Service, wrote a sensational article in 2007 about the “Chekist hook” that snagged Russia as it was falling into the abyss, and presented the security services as a warrior caste inspired by Chekism.

    Putin and his cronies, in other words, have recognized themselves in Ilyin’s texts: in their own eyes, he had given them, the gray men from the secret services, people with a professional habit of anonymity and conspiracy, their desired historical respectability, and enhanced it with a touch of mysticism. Ilyin was their authority that justified their innate hostility to democracy through the narrative of the messianic inevitability of dictatorship. It — that is, Putinism — is not so much a detailed ideology as a mythological frame, a hallowed image that creates a sacralized identity.

      Yet how did people from the Soviet security services, for whom Ilyin in particular and White emigres in general were bitter enemies, accept these views and ideas?

    As a Soviet child I had a book called Reds and Whites. It was a collection of illustrated stories built on a deliberate and extreme dichotomy: the Reds were always heroes, the Whites were always villains and cowards. As a child I believed in this Manichean opposition completely. When I was a teenager, however, the picture was reversed; I can’t remember exactly when the transition happened; it was as if the inversion occurred all by itself. Now the Whites were noble knights and the Reds were lowly brigands. I think I breathed in the new version from the air of the age.

    There is a historical misunderstanding in the overarching opposition between Reds and Whites that was caused by the savage and irreconcilable Civil War. It may be said that the division into Reds and Whites was, in a sense, conventional. The Red Army included as many former tsarist officers as the White Army. This shared collaboration, this common element, proves that the Reds and the Whites — not as a matter of ideology but of historical fact — were not at all as distinct from each other as the myths insist. The old imperial elite found a place on both sides, for the simple reason that both sides were imperialists — only of different varieties.

    Still, there were significant doctrinal differences that bear upon events of the present day. White views on the national question were more conservative than those of the Reds, whereas the Soviets used the discourse of internationalism and opposed, at least rhetorically, the old imperial chauvinism. The Whites, with their idea of “one and indivisible Russia,” with their physiological metaphor for empire as (in the words of Ilyin) a “natural organism,” emphatically denied emancipation for the nationalities that made up the country. This is much closer to Vladimir Putin’s views, and to the practical needs of his regime: it was not for nothing that in a recent speech he reproached Lenin for “creating Ukraine,” that is, allowing it to appear on the map as a political entity, albeit within the Soviet system. 

    It is therefore not surprising that Putin, who for propaganda purposes has declared the “denazification” of Ukraine to be the goal of the war, at the same time quotes Ilyin, an apologist for fascist dictatorships, who occasionally wrote words of praise for Hitler. It is a kind of involuntary confession. It exposes the nature of the Putin regime, built on the cult of the leader and on the racist idea of the national superiority of Russians.

      In the village of Bolshiye Polyany, the ancestral home of the Ilyins, neither the farmstead nor the church remains. The farmstead was looted after a series of requisitions and finally destroyed; the church was closed, used as a warehouse, and demolished in the 1930s. The last priest, Father Nikolai Sokolov, was arrested in 1937 and shot in Butovo a month before Igor Ilyin. 

    Ruins and oblivion are always regrettable. Yet the history of the posthumous resuscitation of Ivan Ilyin’s texts and thoughts suggests that some crypts need to be opened carefully, or not at all. It is necessary to reexamine the lost heritage critically, with ethical and historical awareness — otherwise one can end up reviving something like a virus from the past against which we have lost all immunity.

    No One’s Gonna Love You More Than I Do

    The bars long since closed 

    when the shouting begins down the street

    Open the fucking door 

     

    and all my old selves leap to their feet

    sick with adrenaline

     

    rushing to the point of convergence 

    where things go bad.

     

    With repetitive force the voice assumes 

    a switched-on hydraulic quality 

     

    a monotony allowing other aspects to intrude 

    the spring night at its coolest just before dawn

     

    smell of sea fog and late-blooming lilac

    air like the air of a memoir

     

    and in the morning a neighbour comments

    you’d think there was a war on.

     

    There’s a war on. 

     

    Or is this just another Friday

    in an ongoing Easter of blame and remorse

     

    you in your dark house down the street

    creeping through the hallway with your phone 

     

    which lights up begins to ring 

     

    and your destiny on the threshold knocking.

    Indeed. Pounding.

    Antelope

    They appear out of nowhere as if they know where all the doors are 

    between our dimension and where they are called 

    by their true name, are not the last survivors 

    of their evolutionary niche. Familiarity does not diminish 

    their curiosity, and even the great plain aligned to the grid of monoculture 

    is not monotony, which is painful to them, 

    but a regularity that gives value to change, and WTF is that 

    walking on the road? How annoying 

    to be drawn into another pointless encounter with me, they huff, 

    brandish their hardware and run, 

    entering a sublimity of motion that is like the sublimity of night. 

    A Gothic spirit loves accumulation, magic, a big-block V8 

    in a Dodge Polara, they feel inside themselves the soul of an extra gear 

    that will lift them from the earth, from the prairie’s hall

    of mirrors, the fences whitetail leap 

    that they must scrabble under, tearing their cloaks on the barbs. 

    Only their old-timey machinery can digest the rough forbs. 

    The jackrabbit finds peace in his evening hollow, deer fold themselves 

    in elegant anxiety upon their grass couches, but the pronghorn’s eye 

    has been widened in some back-room occult transaction and he haunts

    the open country, a candle in the five-mile corridor of his tenfold vision, 

    sleeping minutes at a time under the shaking rings of Saturn.

    Just Say the Word

    I signed the papers, and the world created 

    out of all I have destroyed honestly doesn’t look 

    much different. A grainy whitish wind blows in

     

    from Little Poland, and a human form in heavy gear

    screams unanswerable questions into traffic. Questions, 

    while inadequate to truth, are faithful to sorrow, so fair enough.

     

    Inside the padlocked gates of Leal Rental 

    a grey pitbull shining like a nail could be the silver dog Argyreos

    and the sun on whose mat of light he sleeps 

     

    the gold dog Khryseos  

    forged by the god of metalworkers, masons, to guard the threshold 

    of King Alcinous’ legendary hospitality 

     

    and its founding principles of order.

    I have only ever wanted to see things as they are. Until I did, and experience 

    narrowed to a fact impossible to turn around in. 

     

    Now everything I need to fix it myself resides with Leal Rental, 

    in whose yard a conclave of articulated boom lifts 

    achieves the conspiratorial symmetry of 

     

    The Calling of St. Matthew or The Supper at Emmaus,

    raised basket platforms attentive, inclined in the manner that indicates 

    listening, in their posture a hint of nature 

     

    aspiring to weightlessness

    and the eye follows the Baroque Diagonal into a sky of vivid, structural 

    blue, premodern and cloudless. 

     

    The craftsman never blames his tools 

    yet is only as good as they are, which leads 

    to some uncertainty as to where the fault lies. Argyreos of Leal, 

     

    allow me to linger, as I too am between jobs. 

    A condo development, blocks-long, modular, pre-démodé

    has sailed in from an increasingly unaffordable future 

     

    flying the skull and crossbones of Tridel Communities

    but it is pleasant to lose oneself on Dupont Street 

    in the comforting presence of factory colours,

     

    thoughts on their feet high in the thought-baskets

    awaiting direction, though from up here 

    it looks like the whole thing is going to have to come down.

    Bad Landscape

    I can’t make it right. Not the shadow lying on the snow, 

    not the snow, terrain sloping crudely toward 

    the poor outcome of a structure neither representational

    nor abstract, and the sketched-out town beyond 

    ill-proportioned, depthless, and basic. There isn’t any sense 

    of an origin, of what Plato called the lower soul, 

    to animate what’s lacking with the spark of its 

    remainder. Better than this were the products of by-numbers kits 

    hanging on the walls of my grandparents’ home —

    bird dogs, game birds —

    that knew what they were, spoke at least of a steady hand

    and subsequent pride in the completion of a task 

    for its own sake. Above the roar of the new gas furnace 

    installed in the living room, as there was no basement, 

    the volume of the brand new colour television 

    we were warned as children we sat too close to. Blue light 

    of the programs on our faces, some of the outside 

    was already on the inside, the radiation we were told 

    was everywhere — power lines, radios, fluorescent light, telephones — 

    in all of what emitted that low hum of menace 

    we had no other word for. 

    The Bluebird

    Each old thing in its new place must prove its worth yet again. 

    Dust is disturbed, having made itself at home 

     

    among what former tenants have found wanting. 

    A friend brings a gift to brighten my room then leaves 

     

    a cruel word to move in with me.

    Good and bad don’t always line up opposite.

     

    Nearing the end of an earlier journey, I’d stopped at 

    a roadside motel whose name ameliorated 

     

    the experience of staying there 

    not at all. Around it rose the dark forest of the Shield country, 

     

    endless differentiation appearing undifferentiated

    though one had the sense of something slowly,

     

    unrelentingly, being taken apart within.

    Ahead lay great happiness, great sorrow, and it seems to me now

     

    a decision was to be made between them then,

    though the conditions for such a choice did not exist. 

     

    The past is so poorly constructed, so unsuited to the living 

    that must be done, we might wish for the forest to grow up around it —

     

    but knowledge can’t replace the facts 

    of its acquisition. They continue to perform 

     

    in the events they set in motion 

    whether we remember them or not.

     

    I was hungry, it was very late. Across the four lanes 

    northbound, southbound, divided in my memory 

     

    by a waist-high steel girder, a gas station convenience store’s 

    neon still awake. Seldom a break in the traffic, 

     

    footbridge miles away. To get to the other side quickly 

    meant taking your life in your hands.

    On Moral Concern

    You shall surely reprove your fellow.

    Leviticus 19:17

    A long time ago, I spent a couple of years reading Calvinist theology and Puritan treatises and sermons (for a doctoral dissertation and a first book).I don’t remember many lines, but one has stuck in my mind. The Reverend Richard Baxter, author of The Holy Commonwealth, described in 1659 how he maintained moral discipline in his Kidderminster parish “with the help of the godly people of the place who thirsted after the salvation of their neighbors and were in private my assistants.” I have thought a lot about those godly people and their peculiar “thirst.” There aren’t all that many men and women so strongly engaged with their neighbors’ moral well-being, but such people do appear frequently in history. We find them again and again “thirsting” after the salvation, or the rectitude, or the piety, or the political commitment, or the ideological correctness, of their neighbors. These people possess what I want to call “moral concern.” (There may be a better term.) They are driven not only to worry about the moral rightness or wrongness of other people, but also to express their worry — sometimes only in private, but sometimes also in public.

    Moral concern is my subject here. You might call it nosiness, but that word carries negative connotations that are too quick for my purpose. Anyway, moral concern goes far beyond nosiness: it is not just an interest in other people’s beliefs and behaviors or a readiness to talk about them; it is also an eagerness to improve both. Moral concern is different from compassion, which describes a sympathetic engagement with other people’s physical or material well-being — with those who are sick or poor, or victims of flood or fire, or orphans, battered wives, disabled men and women. And moral concern is also different from solidarity, which requires a commitment to help people who are oppressed or, better, who are resisting oppression, fighting for national liberation or racial or gender equality. Solidarity leads political activists to join the fight, to support the goals of the fighters. By contrast, the agents of moral concern are not committed to the goals of other people; they have their own goals. They have a very firm idea about what my moral condition should be, which probably isn’t my own idea. They thirst after my religious or political salvation. And their thirst may well challenge or even override my self-concern and my liberty. 

    I haven’t looked for help in the analysis of moral concern from the philosophical psychologists, who may well have a lot to say about these thirsty people. I am a political theorist, and I will consider the role that morally concerned men and women have played in political history. In line with contemporary practice, I should say up front that I believe that moral concern often leads to moral over-reach, and that it has had perverse effects, especially in left politics, but not only there. At the same time, isn’t there something admirable about people who think not only about themselves but also about others, who worry about you and me?

             This concern for the morality of others begins, I think, with parental solicitude — and also parental anxiety. Both of these are no doubt salutary: we want parents to worry about the morality of their children and to work hard to teach them right and wrong — not only how to behave but how to think about how to behave. But doing and not doing comes first, as in this injunction to parents from a seventeenth-century Puritan text on “family government.” 

    The young child which lieth in the cradle [is] both wayward and full of affections: and though his body be but small, yet he hath a great heart, and is altogether inclined to evil…. If this sparkle be suffered to increase, it will rage over and burn down the whole house. For we are changed and become good not by birth, but by education…. Therefore parents must be wary and circumspect, that they never smile or laugh at any words or deeds of their children done lewdly…naughtily, wantonly…they must correct and sharply reprove their children for saying or doing ill….

    A high level of moral concern would be required to follow this disciplinary program. It is, perhaps, an extreme example — or, better, given the politics of seventeenth-century Puritanism, a revolutionary example. It calls on parents to enforce a radical discipline. And it tells us two important things about how concern for the morality of others works when it becomes a project. The project begins with the conviction that the men and women about whom we are concerned are in a bad state — perhaps not utterly depraved as in Puritan theology, but seriously wrongheaded — religiously, politically, ideologically incorrect. We are “wary” about the others, sure that they need help. And then our concern is expressed in clear-cut ways: we help the others by sharp reproval and firm correction.

    But if we move from children to neighbors, the concern will have to be expressed a little less sharply. Parents have full control over their children; when children “run wild,” family government has failed. Our neighbors, by contrast, are free men and women, so when we exercise our moral concern we are likely to engage in some version of what the Puritans called “brotherly admonition.” Still, admonition is shadowed by the hope for something stronger, something more like firm correction. Early seventeenth-century Puritans might urge their neighbors not to attend frivolous and wanton performances of Shakespeare’s plays, but their ultimate goal was to close the theaters. So moral concern reaches toward politics — from family government to the government of the state, from admonition to coercion. 

    The most obvious example of official moral concern is state censorship: subversive or licentious books and magazines are banned in order to make sure that no one in the country gets subversive, dissident, or wanton ideas. Subversive ideas are not only politically dangerous, they are also commonly taken by the censors to be morally wrong. They undermine or deny divinely established authority or legitimate government or the will of the People (expressed by their Maximal Leader) or the course of History (represented by the ideological vanguard). Or they encourage sexually illicit conduct and undermine family values.

    People in power are naturally concerned with the beliefs and the commitments of their subjects; they seek obedience to moral codes and political regulations, but what is more important, they seek willing obedience. They want to shape the moral habits of the men and women they rule. Censorship is always politically instrumental, but it is often driven also by a genuine abhorrence of the ideas that are censored. The powerful few want the others to recognize the rightness of sexual propriety, political authority, and their own subjection. 

    The missionaries who followed colonial armies, thirsting after the salvation of the natives, provide an example of semi-official moral concern. They could not do their godly work without the background support of the army, and they also serve to advance the colonialist cause — or its pretended moral purpose: to civilize the benighted peoples of Africa, say, or wherever the armies conquered. 

    Yet moral concern can also be expressed in more egalitarian ways and, again, the Puritans had the right words: “holy watching,” a phrase that describes a strong form of mutual surveillance, the work of men and women who feel themselves to be each other’s equals and are wary about each other’s moral condition. They watch one another, looking for signs of false beliefs, licentious affections, or deviant commitments — eager to offer correction. We see this most clearly in revolutionary situations, when moral concern comes into its own, when it is released from the everyday inhibitions of courtesy and respect for privacy. The Puritan revolution of the 1640s and 1650s is certainly not the first example of this release (think of Savonarola’s Florence), but it is first in the modern history of revolution and perhaps the best known—since the Puritans were, after all, puritanical. They aimed to create the holy commonwealth described by Richard Baxter, and “brotherly admonition” and “holy watching” were instrumental to that creation. As were their “experience meetings”: these were special sessions of Puritan congregations held “to resolve doubts,” to listen to accusations and confessions from the members, and to reprimand and punish sinners.

    Experience meetings were convened not only in England but also by Calvinists in Geneva and by the French Huguenots; they are the direct ancestor of the Jacobin épuration or purification. “This tribunal of conscience,” one of the revolutionaries wrote, “is terrible indeed, but it is also just. The most practiced audacity, the most refined hypocrisy, disappeared before the watchful and penetrating eyes of the sound members of the society…” The “sound members” are the French version of Baxter’s “godly people,” and like godliness, soundness indicated a highly developed moral concern. The “sound members” thirsted after the secular salvation of their fellows, looking to turn unsound citizens into “patriots” (rather than Protestant saints). I am not sure whether revolutions produce people like that or people like that produce revolutions. Perhaps the people are always there, waiting for political opportunity.

    Moral concern at such moments reaches very far into the life of the sinful or unpatriotic others. The chief aim of the Jacobin militants was, of course, to uncover and correct royalist sentiments, to overcome habits of submission and deference. But the work of correction extended much further — to something very much like Puritan morality. Here is Crane Brinton’s summary description of what went on in provincial Jacobin clubs, from his classic book The Anatomy of Revolution. The members, the sound members, resolved that 

    Citizen W should keep his dog tied up; citizen X should be made to marry the girl; citizen Y should be admonished against outbursts of temper; rich citizen Z should be made to give his consent to the marriage of his daughter to a poor but honest Jacobin youth in good standing with the club.

    You might say that the revolutionaries had taken over the role assigned by Jean-Jacques Rousseau to gossiping women. “How many public scandals,” he wrote, “are prevented for fear of these severe observers?” But Rousseau was describing an ordinary form of social pressure: the gossiping women, and men, too, enforced the local mores, whatever they were. The Jacobins were a moral vanguard, and their “watchful and penetrating eyes” looked toward a new morality directed against the libertinism of the aristocracy — very much like what came to be called “bourgeois,” but with a sharper edge.

    The American Revolution, less radical, perhaps, than the others, produced a similar mix of political principle and everyday puritanism. Here is one of the revolutionaries worrying about the appropriate language of patriots, warning his readers against the use of titles other than “mister” (the American equivalent of the French “citizen”): we must “adopt the simple language of free government… Let us leave the titles of excellency and honorable to the abandoned servants of a tyrant King.” And here is the Baltimore Committee in 1775 recommending that the people of the county “not attend the approaching fair because of its tendency to encourage horse-racing, gaming, drunkenness, and other dissipation.” You need stalwart men and women to fight a revolution, and stalwart men and women want everyone to be like them.

    The great defender of revolutionary stalwartness is Vladimir Lenin; he far outdoes the Baltimore Committee, and he will serve as my last historical example of moral concern. Consider his complaint against his fellow revolutionaries: he criticized their “slovenliness…carelessness, untidiness, unpunctuality, nervous haste, the inclination to substitute discussion for action, talk for work, the inclination to undertake everything under the sun without finishing anything.” I think of this as a Bolshevik version of Max Weber’s Protestant ethic, focused not on economic but political activity. Lenin wants comrades who will work hard, stay the course, and win in the end. And since the end, a communist society, is critically important for all humanity, this is a moral demand. It is accompanied by a recognizably puritanical morality — a morality not often associated with the Bolsheviks. Indeed, the first years of the Russian revolution were a time of sexual liberation. Unintended liberation, however: here is Lenin preaching against free love: 

    Dissoluteness in sexual life is bourgeois; [it] is a phenomenon of decay. The proletariat is a rising class; it needs clarity, clarity, and again clarity. And so I repeat, no weakening, no waste, no destruction of forces.

    The Bolsheviks took a more obvious interest in the opinions of their fellow revolutionaries; they guarded against ideological deviation. As with the Jacobin purification, that was the first purpose of the Soviet purge. But the comrades — like all the saints, citizens, misters, and patriots — were also concerned with moral well-being in the largest sense. The first soviets, Brinton reports, took steps to ban prostitution and gambling and to shut down night life. Members of the vanguard were supposed to be something like secular ascetics, all their energy focused on revolutionary action. Or, maybe, not all, since much of their energy had to be focused on ensuring the commitment and zeal, the asceticism, of the others. You might call that the “holy watching” of “severe observers.” Again, it challenges the everyday freedom of ordinary men and women. 

             I collected these quotations years go for a particular academic purpose: to demonstrate the similarity of revolutionary endeavor across decades and centuries, from Puritans to Bolsheviks (and Maoists). My reason for invoking them here is different. They came to mind when I was reading the articles and listening to the lectures of contemporary American “abolitionists,” good leftists who want to abolish the police. There are many more people who want to defund the police, which is the reformist version of the argument; but the abolitionists are more like revolutionaries. Indeed, one of their excited supporters wrote of the burning of the Minneapolis Police Department’s Third Precinct building in late 2020 that “fire became the technology of abolition.” Most of the time, though, the idea is more theoretical. Abolitionists are inspired (those of them who read political theory) by the writings of men such as Rousseau and Lenin. In The Social Contract, Rousseau argued for the replacement of professional politicians, professional soldiers, and professional teachers by activist citizens. The citizens of the republic, he wrote, “do everything for themselves.” Today’s abolitionists simply extend the argument to police work; they want the citizens to exercise their moral concern and police themselves — and each other. Perhaps they are following Lenin’s lead, who claimed — in State and Revolution, written in the tense months of August and September, 1917 — that in a communist society there would be “no police force distinct from the people.”

    That last sentence requires interpretation. I don’t think it means that there will be fewer police, but rather that there will be many more: all the people policing all the people. “Control,” Lenin goes on to say, “will really become universal, general, national, and there will be no way of getting away from it.” This is a call for the mass mobilization of moral concern. Now consider these milder sentences written in 2019 in a (very optimistic) book describing America’s democratic socialist future:

    A society governed by socialist values would likely make the conditions for transformative justice [that is, abolition] more possible. If people were regularly engaged in democratic processes at their jobs and in their neighborhoods, and had their basic needs provided for, they would be more able and willing to sustain relationships of mutual accountability.

    Would they? How much moral energy would be necessary to “sustain” the accountability of everyone to everyone else? How much time would it take — time left over from our engagement in “democratic processes” at work and in our neighborhoods? And what about political participation in state politics? We would all be endlessly active. Remember the remark attributed to Oscar Wilde: “Socialism would take too many evenings.” And mornings and afternoons, too. Of course, one of the objects of the moral concern of active citizens would be the reluctance of the others: the laziness, the dissipation, the frivolity of too many men and women. Here is a hard question: do people have what Paul Lafargue, Marx’s son-in-law, famously called “the right to be lazy”?

    Many of the abolitionists don’t imagine that everyone’s moral concern will be at work all the time. They favor committee work, groups of neighbors taking turns at “watching” and “admonishing” the others. I don’t know whether committee members would be elected or chosen by lot; the lottery is more likely given the democratic presumption that everyone is morally concerned. But everyone isn’t equally concerned: the distinction that the Jacobins made between “sound” and “unsound” citizens will still need to be made. Some committees will work at reproof and correction much harder and more efficiently than others, and conscientious citizens will run to the less active committees with urgent information about wayward neighbors and strong suggestions for correction.

    I am not sure how the neighborhood committees would deal with violent crime. Abolitionists suggest that there would be lessons in de-escalation and “harm reduction” for committee members, but the hope must lie with prevention — that the secular versions of “holy watching” will detect violent tendencies early on. And then neighbors will admonish and counsel potential criminals. White collar crime also isn’t much discussed in the literature of abolition. Over time, perhaps, committee members will acquire the computational skills necessary to detect financial finagling and bank fraud — or the abolitionists may believe that over time the work of morally capable men and women will produce a virtuous society where illegal profit will not be much of a temptation. 

    You can see that I am a skeptic here, though I understand what drives the abolitionists. I recognize the reality of police violence — in the United States, of police racism. It is certainly possible that civilian review boards, a kind of neighborhood committee, might improve police accountability and reform police behavior. And for that we would need morally concerned citizens, though not as many as abolition would require. For now, anyway, I prefer to be watched by men and women in uniform rather than by anonymous neighbors, so that I can watch the people watching me. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I do not value the moral concern of (some of) my neighbors.

    “The ardent revolutionaries,” Brinton writes, “overshoot the mark and make life unbearable for their neighbors.” Right, and this point can be made more theoretically: the radical exercise of moral concern comes into conflict with individual liberty (as we have seen again and again), and ordinary men and women rise up to defend their rights. These presumably include the right to ignore the moral condition of their neighbors and the right to refuse the work of “holy watching” — the right to be lazy. The “struggle sessions” of the Chinese cultural revolution — the most recent, and I hope the last, of the “experience meetings” — suggest how important those rights are. A terrified man or woman, a “bourgeois element,” is seated on a stool in the middle of a circle of neighbors and (former) friends who take turns denouncing and “reeducating” him or her. The denunciations are fierce because every person in the circle knows that they could be the next target. Their moral concern is not voluntary, and that is probably true of many participants in “holy watching” and “purification.” Eventually the overreach produces “thermidor” — the month on the French revolutionary calendar when the Jacobin terror ended. It is now the name for all such endings. 

    What one of the American abolitionists calls “community accountability practices” would not, if they ever became common, constitute terrorism. but I believe that they, too, would produce their own “thermidor.” Morally concerned men and women, even in this gentler version, irritate their fellows, who are not, however, unconcerned. We are all capable of moral concern; it is — the egalitarians are right — a universal endowment. But most of us confine the exercise of our concern to a few relatives and friends — and the form that it takes is argument. We try to convince the people we live with and talk with to adopt what we take to be the right moral and political opinions. Sometimes we extend the argument into the wider world; we join demonstrations, carry signs, circulate petitions, write articles; we want to convince our fellow citizens of some new doctrine — but without coercing or terrorizing them. Think of the campaign in the United States for gay marriage: the aim was not only to change the law, though that was obviously important, but also to change the way Americans imagine gay life. Moral concern, in this democratically constrained version, is a critical agency of social change.

    This is my own version of moral concern — and the version of my political friends. We are concerned about the moral commitments of other people, and we try to set them right if we think them wrong. Do we “thirst” after their rightness? Well, we hope for it. But we don’t watch them closely; surveillance isn’t our style. We don’t denounce them at neighborhood meetings; we don’t report their incorrect opinions to a local committee; we respect their independence. So, are we missing something important, a necessary fierceness in the exercise of our concern?

    Today in the United States, we are in the midst of a very fierce outburst of moral concern. You see it everywhere, and it is expressed in political acts that lie somewhere between argument and terror. Large numbers of Americans are committed, rightly, to a historical reckoning with slavery and racism. The immediate subjects of this reckoning are long dead (George Washington, Thomas Jefferson), which is helpful in avoiding terrorism. So we, or, better, some of us, tear down the statues and the reputations of men (it’s mostly men) who were once greatly admired. And we call for a rewriting of our national history — a rewriting especially of the textbooks with which that history is taught in our schools. Much of this is to the good; we argue about these issues because we are concerned about the moral views of our fellow citizens — and of our children. But this concern has now reached to practices that look too much like “holy watching” and firm correction.

    The official version of moral concern, as I suggested early on, is state censorship, and we now have in America an avalanche of laws, proposed laws, and local regulations aimed at controlling the textbooks that can be used and the things that teachers can say in classrooms around the country — and the books allowed in school and public libraries. Rightwing politicians play to parental worries about what children are being taught. The parents have a right to worry; the political play is crudely manipulative. Some of the politicians probably do believe that teaching about racism in American history will exacerbate the tensions of identity politics. They aim to minimize the tensions — and also to maintain the racial status quo and uphold the reputation (and secure the votes) of the white majority. Moral concern mixes with political ambition, as I suppose it also does in revolutionary situations. And, as the freedom of ordinary men and women is endangered in those situations, so the freedom of teachers and students is in danger today.

     

    The unofficial version of moral concern today is closer to my own intellectual home; it is most visible in the American academy. What is called “cancel culture” is the work of students and professors determined to make sure that no opinions that differ from theirs are defended in the classroom or by visiting lecturers. The offending opinions mostly have to do with race and gender, and they are often expressed inadvertently by good liberals or stalwart conservatives who aren’t sufficiently sensitive to, or sufficiently sympathetic to, what is now politically correct. So visiting lectures are called off because the speaker’s opinions might corrupt the listening students; or individual students are harassed by their fellows who judge them already corrupted; and teachers are disciplined by administrators because they have said something that their “sound” students believe is morally or politically dangerous. I don’t think that the aim of the cancelations, the harassment, and the discipline is to reform the immediate subject, the harassed individual, but rather to save the others. The concern is with the moral well-being or, better, the ideological correctness, of the greater number, but perhaps there is also the hope of “re-educating” wrong-headed individuals. On some campuses, the politics has gotten nasty; I hope for thermidor.

    We are also seeing a peculiarly American version of all this. Cancel culture has been sentimentalized. The result is visible now in our high schools as well as in our universities: we must beware of hurting the feelings of our students. The official censors in some American states have decided, for example, that focusing too much on the oppression of black people might hurt the feelings of white kids, identified as the heirs of the oppressors. That is an actual argument, perhaps politically effective, but not, in my opinion, morally serious. The unofficial censors, by contrast, worry that any teacher of American history who doesn’t manage to express the full awfulness of slavery will hurt the feelings of black kids. The kids are, in effect, urged to consider themselves victims or possible victims, sensitive to real and imagined slights — rather than intellectually alert and angry students. At such moments, one longs for an activist moral concern. The black kids need to stand up and argue. Everyone else, too, as in my last example.

    Some years ago, a group of Jewish students from a nearby university came to see me. They were very upset: the Black Students Association had invited Louis Farrakhan to campus, the leader of the Nation of Islam, a vicious anti-Semite. (He never came: he insisted on armed bodyguards, and the university authorities thankfully said no.) The Jewish kids were offended by the invitation; their feelings were hurt. What should they do? I didn’t have the phrase, but what I told them amounted to a plea for the exercise of moral concern. This was a moment for argument: the students had to explain and expose Farrakhan’s lies; they had to engage with their fellow students, challenge their prejudices, try to change their minds. What was needed was brotherly admonition. There was no danger of over-reach here; the campus Jews had no coercive power. But they should have been concerned not with their own feelings but with the moral condition, the political beliefs, of the others. And in these immediate circumstances, they had no right to be lazy.

     

    The Triumph of Anti-Politics

    Nearly all observers today agree that politics in the United States is in a dire, poisoned state. For this they generally blame “polarization” — and the other political camp. In fact, the reasons are both more complicated and more distressing, and cannot be blamed on any single political grouping.

    In his pre-pandemic best-seller Enlightenment Now, the psychologist Steven Pinker hailed the worldwide spread of democracy, but not in the glowing terms one might have expected from such a zealous celebrant of modernity. Democracy, he allowed, was preferable to tyranny, and offered people “the freedom to complain.” But Pinker cautioned against what he called “a civics-class idealization of democracy in which an informed populace deliberates about the common good and carefully selects leaders who carry out their preference.” And he continued: “By that standard, the number of democracies in the world is zero in the past, zero in the present, and almost certainly zero in the future.”

             The statement was obviously true on one level, as even a glance at the “deliberation” in our media will show; but it is appallingly superficial on others. Of course, ideal democracy has never existed on the planet, and probably never will. If a key element of democracy is a universal adult right to vote, then the United States has approached democratic status only since the 1960’s. But recognizing the fact that reality always falls grievously short of the ideal hardly invalidates the ideal. Pinker, having dismissed the ideal as impossible to realize, and having taken a condescending swipe at “the shallowness and incoherence of people’s political beliefs,” argued instead for a “minimalist conception of democracy” that leaves public policy, as much as possible, in the hands of trained experts. “To make public discourse more rational,” he insisted, “issues should be depoliticized as much as is feasible…” In other words, circumscribe democracy through technocracy.

             The problem with this vision is that the most important problems in public life cannot be depoliticized, because most of them do not have a single correct solution that “rational” analysis alone can determine. Men and women see different solutions, depending on their political principles and moral values, which they hold in good faith. The fact that many of them do not approach the subject in the way an Ivy League professor such as Pinker (or I) would do hardly invalidates those principles and values. Would the creation of a national healthcare system in the United States represent a step towards improving the public good or an intrusion upon individual freedoms? Should we tolerate enormous inequalities of wealth so long as the poorest among us see their incomes rise? How do we balance the right to defend our homes against the dangers posed by the easy availability of deadly weapons? I have strong opinions on all these issues, and will vote for politicians who share my opinions and promise to act on them. But I recognize that others have different opinions, not because they are mistaken or ignorant or evil, but because they bring different principles and values to bear on the problems. I recognize that however strongly I feel about these issues, they do not belong beyond the bounds of political debate, with only one point of view about them permissible. 

             Throughout modern history, the greatest threat to democracy has come precisely from the rejection of these assumptions — indeed, of politics itself — and the consequent denial of political legitimacy to those who fail to share one’s own views on key issues. Historians have devoted intensive study to the long and painful process by which the notion of a “legitimate opposition” gained acceptance in the United States and other democratic societies and the way in which it has frequently threatened to erode. Democratic politics, tending as it so often does towards hyperbole and demagoguery, all too easily generates claims about the wanton stupidity, immorality, or just plain evil of one’s political opponents.

             But it is not casual hyperbole, insincerely employed and quickly forgotten, that most seriously threatens democratic societies. It is when the denial of legitimate difference congeals into a system of thought, into an ideology which admits only one permissible point of view on key issues, and judges all who fail to share this point of view as ipso facto beyond the pale. Such systems of thought, reinforced through constant repetition in media and by political party organizations, have led again and again not only to the erosion of democratic societies, but to their destruction.

             If politics has reached such a dire state in America today, the reason is not simply “polarization,” but the toxic growth of several distinct and distinctly contemporary patterns of thought that all tend to undermine the idea that citizens with different political principles and moral values can collectively deliberate on the public good. They span the political spectrum, and can be labeled, in turn, technocracy, market fundamentalism, Trumpian populism, and wokeness. Each seeks to place key issues in American life beyond the bounds of political debate, subject to only one permissible point of view, and they can, for this reason, be called antipolitical. They represent not so much a contribution to politics as a contribution to its destruction. They all have historical roots but have all evolved into new and powerful forms in recent years. Partly this is because the contemporary media environment groups like-minded people into hermetic “silos” with such dreadful efficiency, making it far more difficult to submit extreme and insistently repeated claims to even the most elementary forms of objective verification. Partly it is because these different patterns of thought have shown a surprising capacity to influence and interact with each other. 

             Over the past few years, this shriveling of politics has principally spurred attention among left intellectuals broadly associated with the Sanders wing of the Democratic Party. It has been a leitmotif in the work of the influential legal scholar and historian Samuel Moyn, who has done much to popularize the concept of “antipolitics,” which he drew from a constellation of thinkers including the French intellectual Pierre Rosanvallon. Early in his career, Moyn used the term to characterize the human rights crusades that took shape in the 1970’s, charging them with circumscribing the field of action of progressive social movements and siphoning off their energy. More recently he has emerged as a strong critic of the authority now held by the American Supreme Court. This year, the legal scholar Jedediah Purdy picked up on the idea of “antipolitics” in a forceful book-length essay entitled Two Cheers for Politics. Purdy claims that “our institutional and intellectual life, our culture and common sense, are made up substantially of warnings against politics and appeals to alternative sources of order: enduring constitutions, sober norms, the wisdom of markets.”

             Valuable as they are, these works suffer from two problems. First, they tend to conflate the antipolitical and the antidemocratic. Purdy, for instance, holds up James Madison and Alexis de Tocqueville as “antipolitical” figures because of their strong and well-known beliefs about the dangers of untrammeled democracy. But if we think of politics as a society’s collective deliberation about the common good, Madison and Tocqueville were in no sense antipolitical. They both believed passionately in what they called political liberty, and ferociously opposed systems in which a central authority decides all public matters. They both advocated what they considered a healthy, lively political life — but with safeguards against the sort of democratic excesses that they believed led to despotism, political collapse, and civil war. This makes them conservative and anti-egalitarian in certain senses, and perhaps “antidemocratic” as well — but hardly antipolitical.

             Secondly, the “antipolitical” intellectuals tend to see the threat coming almost entirely from phenomena that they associate with the political right and center. They are not wrong in what they see happening there, but they err in characterizing the rise of antipolitics as a simple question of right versus left, with the left as the heroic opposition. The left, too, is culpable for a form of antipolitics — associated with the overly broad but unavoidable term wokeness — which has become increasingly influential in American society, and whose anti-liberal excesses figures such as Moyn and Purdy have been reluctant to criticize. The existence of this left antipolitics undercuts the comforting idea that what we are living through in the United States today is essentially another chapter in the long conflict between “the people” and “the elites,” and that a more successful version of Occupy or the Sanders campaign might bring about the people’s triumph.

             In fact, the existence of the left version of antipolitics suggests strongly that something different, and more dire is at work in America today. It suggests that the antipolitical impulses at work in America do not principally derive from a fear of politics, from a terror among elites of a powerful and unruly demos. To the contrary, they derive from a more generalized fear of the weakness and failure of politics, in what very quickly becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

             The different versions of antipolitics circulating in the United States today have this in common: they all share the conviction that the political system has failed in its most important task. For technocrats, this task is to manage the fearsomely complex challenges of postindustrial society. For the market fundamentalists, it is to safeguard the sacrosanct market system from interference by disruptive interest groups. For the Trumpian populists, it is to protect real Americans, genuine Americans, from being ruined by elites and overrun by strangers who share neither their heritage nor their values. And for the “woke,” it is to protect historically oppressed groups from further oppression and to repair the damage done to them.

             All these groups, of course, have their agendas and their material interests. But all have managed to craft enormously resonant messages, which our deranged media and social media systems, as they distill outrage into profit with such dreadful efficiency, amplify all too powerfully. Worse, the endless, strident competition between these groups, their demonization of each other, and the resulting political paralysis only reinforces the fundamental perception, common to all of them and grounded all too firmly in reality, that our political system is indeed failing, in what amounts to a truly mephitic positive feedback loop. In the resulting political universe, even crises on the scale of the financial collapse of 2008 and the pandemic have failed to bring about genuine change, or the popular movement that figures such as Purdy hoped might crystallize. 

             This is, then, the paradox of our politics today: while nearly everyone believes that our political system has failed, there also seems to be a broad consensus that the only possible response is to restrict the space of the political yet further, to place ever-larger swathes of American life beyond the reach of collective deliberation and decision-making, to further reduce the space of toleration and patience without which no responsible politics can flourish. What one group sees as the protection of sacrosanct rights, others perceive as a tyrannical imposition. In the process, all sense of a common political community and a “legitimate opposition” evaporates, and, as Foucault once put it, riffing on Clausewitz, politics becomes the continuation of war by other means.

             The first pattern of antipolitical thought at work in the United States today is the one that Steven Pinker exemplifies, namely technocracy. Today technocracy is often seen, mistakenly, as a cause whose time is past. When the sociologist Daniel Bell (my father) analyzed it in 1973 in The Coming of Post-Industrial Society, the term summoned up images of white-coated experts working for government bureaucracies, think tanks, and large corporations such as IBM. These experts would provide direction to elected officials as they proceeded with large-scale social and economic planning. The Communist bloc, with its massive, petrified bureaucracies and its “new class” of officials and experts, seemed to offer a hypertrophied version of this sort of technocracy, while Western European institutions such as France’s ultra-powerful École Nationale d’Administration and Commissariat Général du Plan offered a more compelling example. Today, the appeal of central planning has ebbed almost entirely away across most of the planet. In the sector of the economy which Bell and others saw as the principal arena for the triumph of the technocrats — information technology — the future did not belong to armies of white-coated company men from IBM and MIT. Instead, it was seized by swaggering upstart capitalists possessed, in many cases, of a distinctly counter-cultural vibe. 

             But as the success of Pinker’s work suggests, technocracy still has powerful resonance for many Americans. One relatively benign version has found a home in the more cautious and wonky precincts of the Democratic party, among officeholders who aim to achieve their goals as much as possible through technical and regulatory changes, thereby avoiding risky political conflict. Barack Obama, for all the soaring rhetoric of his campaigns, gravitated towards these in-the-weeds policies, for instance by preferring the technical fixes of the Dodd-Frank Act to any serious attempt to restructure the financial sector in the wake of the financial crisis of 2007-2008, and by failing to include a public option in Obamacare. His influential advisor Cass Sunstein, an authority on the theory and practice of regulation, has advocated the pursuit of reform through the careful and expertly designed “nudging” of public behavior in a wide variety of arenas. He has called this “libertarian paternalism.” As Moyn has put it, “When it comes to government helping people achieve fulfillment, Sunstein insists that technocrats must rule. With a palpable sense of relief, he has confessed that he finds politics mostly a distraction and not so much about contending collective visions of the good life or about calling out the oppression that claims to expertise can mask.” To be sure, technocrats are not valueless or amoral people, and Sunstein’s regulatory work has been motivated by a concern for the good life, and the safe life, and the fair life. 

             A far more threatening form of technocracy has found advocates among American oligarchs, notably the former business partners Peter Thiel and Elon Musk. Few things do more to breed arrogant over-confidence than the acquisition of a multi-billion-dollar fortune, and these men believe they know far better than any career politician — not to mention the American public — how to solve the country’s problems. To be sure, while they share the older technocrats’ conviction that governance can be approached like an engineering problem, they utterly reject the idea that doing so requires a large bureaucracy. They generally have a strong libertarian streak (Thiel backed Ron Paul’s presidential campaigns and has a weakness for Ayn Rand) and they take the tech startup as their organizational model: lean, fast-moving, and totally in thrall to a dominant, charismatic leader. As Sam Adler-Bell wrote in a recent profile of Thiel’s protégé, Arizona Republican Senate candidate Blake Masters: “the Thielites want to see the government hollowed out… They wish to unseat the liberal technocratic elite only so they can install their own: a more competent, compliant and unfettered one.”

             It is hard to know what actual political program these technocratic oligarchs envision, beyond wrecking the federal government and freeing companies like theirs from regulation and taxes. In their hunger for domination and their scorn for competition, in their sense of themselves as a priesthood that exclusively understands the esoteric needs of the hour, in their economic power and their political unaccountability, they are dangerous. Whatever is wrong with OSHA, it is not an apparatus of conquest and control. Unlike the technocrats of the 1960’s, and the Democratic wonks of our day, the new technocratic vision of the future comes in considerable part from science fiction, meaning that it depends on technologies that do not yet exist and may never do so, such as Elon Musk’s comic-book “hyperloop” that would solve traffic congestion problems by whisking passengers in capsules through depressurized underground tubes at seven hundred miles per hour. Most significantly, these would-be technologist-kings have a visceral contempt for democracy. Curtis Yarvin, an addled blogger admired by both Thiel and Masters, has openly suggested that a Big Tech CEO should become an American Caesar, ruling dictatorially. 

             Free market fundamentalism also has a very long pedigree. Nineteenth-century classical liberals promoted the notion that unfettered markets provided the most efficient way to distribute goods and services for maximum overall social benefit. Markets, they argued, were naturally self-organizing and self-regulating, and could therefore safely be left to operate in their own natural state of equilibrium, without interference from the state. This vision, just as much as the technocratic one, was of a society free from politics — a society where ordinary people had little or no recourse to political action. Pierre Rosanvallon has argued that when taken to an extreme, it can leave ordinary people almost as vulnerable to forces beyond their control as totalitarianism does. The historian Jacob Soll has demonstrated in his important book Free Market: The History of an Idea that the vision also broke with the long tradition of market thought that prevailed from antiquity through the eighteenth century, up to and including the work of Adam Smith. For all his paeans to the operations of the free market, Smith firmly believed that it could only operate within structures and limits devised and maintained by powerful states.

             In more recent decades, free market fundamentalism has radicalized. Acolytes of Milton Friedman press for keeping government entirely out of economic life, and indeed for limiting government as much as possible to military and police functions. They insist that the need for maximum possible economic growth justifies high levels of economic inequality, coupled with powerful restraints upon taxation, regulation, economic planning, nationalization, and labor organization. So-called neoliberals put particular emphasis on freeing the financial sector of the economy from regulation, on allowing “creative destruction” and “disruption,” and on insisting that free trade needs to operate on a global level, with goods and services freely circulating at maximum possible speed and volume across the world.

             Unlike technocracy, free market fundamentalism no longer has high-profile gurus like Thiel, Musk, or Pinker. The days of Friedman and Hayek — or, on a comically lower intellectual level, Ayn Rand and Arthur Laffer — are past. As Soll notes, Friedman himself had maximum visibility and overt political influence in the 1980’s, the era of Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher. Yet the doctrine retains enormous strength through such institutions as the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, and the corporations and hedge funds who ensure through their donations that the congressional Republican party — and much of the Democratic delegation as well — remain committed to the gospel of tax cuts. Just this past August, congressional Republicans without a single exception voted against President Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act, with its 15% minimum tax for large corporations, while once-Democratic Senator Kyrsten Sinema engineered the preservation of the low tax provision most cherished by hedge fund managers (the “carried interest” provision). As noted, advocates of the new, stripped down, oligarchic version of technocracy, who often have libertarian backgrounds, can sound surprisingly like free market fundamentalists. Steven Pinker cheers on globalization and rails against what he calls “collectivization, centralized control, government monopolies and suffocating permit bureaucracies.” He does so despite the fact that allowing markets to operate without political oversight blatantly contradicts the idea of allocating goods and services according to technocratic expertise.

             With Trumpian populists, the shriveling of politics takes a very different form. In their rhetoric, at least, Donald Trump and his many acolytes have no sympathy either for technocrats or free market fundamentalists. They excoriate and ridicule both as foolish, greedy, unpatriotic, and out-of-touch elites. They rage against “globalists” and globalization, lax immigration policies, and free market agreements such as NAFTA that allowed American corporations to move jobs beyond our borders. They scorn government experts as corrupt members of the “administrative state” or the “deep state” or the “swamp.” They call for returning political power to “the people” in terms sometimes quite close to those of the Sanders left and the Occupy movement.

             The catch, of course, is in how they define “the people.” Few of them go as far as the tiresome reactionary Ann Coulter, who in 2016 proposed limiting the vote to people with four U.S.-born grandparents (a measure that would exclude Donald Trump, among others). But Trump himself often speaks of “real” Americans (or, in a recent fundraising letter, “REAL Americans.”) He takes care not to define them in ethnic terms, but his rhetoric leaves little doubt as to whom he takes them to be. Real Americans are proudly patriotic, overtly religious, and live outside large cities (“Democrat cities,” otherwise known as hellholes). They believe in the Second Amendment but not in climate change, they eat meat but not tofu, they own pickup trucks rather than Priuses. They are white. They are convinced that Trump won the 2020 election, and that Joe Biden and the Democrats are consciously plotting to “destroy” the country. Some even believe that Biden and Nancy Pelosi are kidnapping children to drink their blood. Only these Americans, in the Trumpian populist view, really deserve to have a voice in deliberations about the common good.

             This idea would be noxious enough if it remained mainly a rhetorical cudgel. But in recent years, figures across the American right have drawn on it to forge what amounts to a coherent and powerful anti-democratic ideology. They increasingly insist, buoyed by the work of intellectuals from quasi-authoritarian places such as the Claremont Institute, and drawing on James Madison’s famous distinction, that America is a republic and not a democracy. They therefore justify (as somehow “republican”) the gerrymandering of congressional seats, the hugely disproportionate power granted small rural states in the Senate, and the way the Electoral College gives presidential candidates the ability to win elections while losing the popular vote. They also tout the “great replacement theory” according to which elites are consciously trying to replace “real Americans” with immigrants who do not share their values, thereby casting doubt on the legitimacy of naturalized citizenship for millions. They shower praise on Hungary’s Viktor Orbán, and the thuggish tactics he has used to muzzle a free judiciary and a free press. Most dangerously, they press the notion that Republican-controlled state legislatures have the right to override the popular vote. In short, the Trumpian populists believe in politics, but only for themselves, only when it produces the outcome they prefer.

             In practice, over the past several decades, adherents of these three currents of antipolitical American thought have been able to make common cause, united by a shared hatred of liberal elites and government regulation. The Republican party, Newt Gingrich in 1994 through the Tea Party in 2009 to Donald Trump in 2016, proved brilliantly adept at muffling blatant contradictions and gathering oligarchic technocrats, libertarian financiers, and ethnonationalist populists into a coalition that might not command a majority of the citizenry but could nonetheless win national elections. And so, despite the contradictions, it is easy to imagine these three currents as a single malign antipolitical force — “the right” — that a properly energized and powerful left, committed to real democracy, should have the ability to overcome. It is easy to imagine antipolitics as a left-right issue.

             But unfortunately the left has its own version of antipolitics, commonly known as wokeness. It is a system of thought that stems from the best of intentions, namely to protect historically oppressed groups from further oppression and to redress the wrongs done to them. But it, too, ends up placing numerous issues outside the realm of the political, in this case by defining them as moral absolutes and matters of inalienable right.

    To be sure, many left-wing intellectuals whom I would call antipolitical insist loudly on the inescapably “political” nature of their work. But their definition of the political is very different from the one I have offered here. Heavily influenced by Foucault, they see modern societies as fundamentally shaped by hegemonic belief systems grounded in exclusion (of women, people of color, sexual minorities). “Political” work consists of exposing and challenging these belief systems and the exclusionary practices that stem from them. From this point of view, collective deliberation about the public good is only authentic and productive when it takes place among those who have done the work of exposing and challenging. The only legitimate political discourse is dissent. In practice, it is a stance that makes the vast arena of legitimate political activity — both in terms of who can participate, and which issues they can debate — vanishingly small.

             It goes without saying that many key issues facing the United States today do indeed involve moral absolutes and inalienable rights. Critics of wokeness often forget that things which they themselves may now place in the “inalienable right” category — the right of gays to marry, for instance — not so long ago struck most Americans as wild progressive overreach. There are many issues which clearly should not be left up to a popular vote. Imagine, for instance, the results of a referendum on interracial marriage held in the United States in 1920. But as figures such as Madison and Tocqueville so keenly argued, political deliberation need not always be, indeed should not always be, democratic, in the sense of reflecting the conscious and immediate desires of the majority. Particularly on issues of great moral import, such deliberation may more properly involve relatively undemocratic institutions such as the courts. But it should still, in some sense, derive from national institutions and express the will, as mediated notably through the constitution, of the nation as a whole.

    Wokeness, on the other hand, puts the definition of what qualifies as a moral absolute and a matter of inalienable right solely in the hands of the oppressed group itself, and its members’ claims as to what constitutes harm. They are, in this view, epistemologically privileged: their experiences allow them to see further and understand more. If members of the group declare that even the discussion of an issue causes them pain, or places them in danger, others must defer to them, and set that issue beyond the bounds of deliberation entirely. This notion of deference does not just disquiet thinkers on the right. The philosopher Olúfẹ́mi O. Táíwò, an eloquent advocate of reparations to African Americans, wisely writes in his book Elite Capture: “For those who defer, the habit can supercharge moral cowardice. The norms provide social cover for the abdication of responsibility: it displaces onto individual heroes, a hero class, or a mythicized past the work that is ours to do now in the present.”

             For the moment, wokeness of this sort has the greatest influence in universities and in the elite media. Even publishing, as opposed to writing, an article deemed harmful or dangerous — for instance, Senator Tom Cotton’s New York Times op-ed “Send in the Troops” in response to the protests following the killing of George Floyd — can cost editors their jobs. Despite the hysterical charges emanating from the right, wokeness has not taken control of public primary and secondary education (except perhaps in a handful of schools and districts), or large corporations, or the military. But it has had an undeniable effect in the Democratic party. In heavily blue districts and states — and in presidential primaries — candidates run serious risks if they express heterodox opinions on a variety of issues, including issues that large majorities of Americans consider vexed and difficult, such as abortion, or affirmative action, or hormone therapy for prepubescent children diagnosed with gender dysphoria. Invoking the notions of a moral absolute and inalienable rights, as defined by those who have suffered or may suffer harm, activists rule out political deliberation on these issues by the community — a group of people with many life experiences — as a whole. And so politics shrivels.

             All of these corrosive systems of thought have long pedigrees. Antipolitics is nothing new. But in recent years it has become far more powerful, and far more of a threat to American democracy, for several reasons. First and foremost is the current media environment, in which populism and wokeness in particular thrive. Today a handful of huge corporations derive enormous profits from keeping their users in a state of permanent outrage, driving them to click on link after link, to take in hour after hour of cable news and radio talk, and to see and hear endless advertisements carefully tailored to their demographic profile and their previous spending. Read about the Democratic “regime” and its latest dictatorial power grab! (and click here to learn about a miraculous new performance enhancer). Hear about the latest racist outrage from a right-wing professor! (and let us tell you about our new line of electric cars). And so on and so forth. Algorithms are carefully defined and refined to keep audiences exposed to the same sites and programs, depriving them of other sources of information and constantly reinforcing the same one-sided narratives. Twitter especially was designed for outbursts and invective and slogans and conformity; in a political order that depends on thoughtfulness, Twitter is most often the technology of thoughtlessness. Moreover, Trumpian populism and wokeness have long served as each other’s favorite targets. Trumpistas like nothing more than to warn against woke bogeymen such as “Critical Race Theory” and transgender bathrooms. The woke, with more reason, see Trumpian populism as a thin veil draped over the cause of white supremacy.

             Free market fundamentalists and technocrats do not participate in the new media environment in the same way, and as already noted, in both cases the heyday of their overt political influence is long past. But globalization, and the dynamics of what much of the left continues to call, with a rather touchingly naïve hope, “late-stage capitalism,” ensures that market forces themselves remain as powerful as ever, generating money that floods the political system to protect against profit-reducing regulation. And Wall Street plutocrats have found few better investments than political campaigns. A few million directed to the right senators can save billions in tax breaks. Meanwhile, the new breed of technocrats has proven all too skillful in forging alliances with the Trumpian populists and harnessing the populist resentments that breed so furiously online.

             In fact, the different streams of thought feed off each other in often unexpected ways. As already noted, free market fundamentalists, Trumpian populists, and the new technocrats share a hostility towards most of the federal government as it currently exists, and eagerly collaborate in attacking it. The woke and the Trumpian populists, meanwhile, both direct much of their ire towards an allegedly oppressive elite establishment, even if the first sees it as embodying white supremacy, and the second, a cosmopolitan liberal contempt for ordinary people. And while the Trumpian populists fixate on border security and traditional sexual values, libertarian market fundamentalists and the woke are both more likely to celebrate sexual difference and to support increased migration. More generally, as Jedediah Purdy comments, many progressives agree with market fundamentalists that personal freedom and autonomy, albeit defined by the two groups in hugely different ways, are “too essential to be left to democracy.”

             Above all, though, all these streams of thought thrive on the conviction that politics itself has failed in the United States, leading to the conclusion that key elements of the public good can only be preserved and advanced by extra-political means. And, of course, the ever more bitter political strife that they generate in pursuing these extra-political means turns the conviction into a self-fulfilling prophecy, as endless outrage and controversy chokes the political system and drives it ever further into paralysis. By teaching the failure of politics they bring about the failure of politics. The Biden administration has managed, against great odds, to pass significant legislation despite this nefarious dynamic, and for the moment has partially overcome the paralysis. But if 2025 brings us a Republican president and Congress, they will undoubtedly take as their first order of business the reversal of these achievements.

             At the end of this dark road, if we continue down it, stand the new technocrats. It is they who most clearly and explicitly reject politics itself as corrupt and inefficient, and it is they who, in the long run, will benefit if the American public becomes entirely despairing about political life. It is all too easy for me, as a historian, to see how the public could, in its despair and disgust, ultimately embrace a charismatic technocratic figure promising to stand above the corrupt political fray, to manage social problems in a unifying and rational, if dictatorial, manner. The promise worked for Napoleon Bonaparte, whose version of enlightened despotism was the technocracy of his day. It worked for many others who followed in his wake. This outcome may still seem unlikely, but if the political conflict in this country turns violent (or rather more violent: it is already violent) then people will not simply despair about politics; they will start to fear it. At that point, the appeal of a Caesar could become overwhelming.

             Can we save politics, real politics, a common deliberation about the common good, from this fate? Is it possible to imagine a new sort of movement arising that could bring together enough citizens to produce real achievements, and restore a faith in political life? I see no possibility of such a movement arising today out of the American right. The rot there, the rejection of politics in the name of “real Americans” and even of dictatorship, is far too strong, reinforced as it is by a conservative media machine of unprecedented power. Nor is there any evidence of a significant internecine clash within the Republican Party about its future. There is more of a possibility of a pro-politics politics arising on the left, and it is worth remembering the genuine appeal that the Sanders campaign had for at least some Trump voters. But for the American left to generate such a movement successfully it has to reject its own version of antipolitics and the Puritanical moral absolutism that accompanies it. Only by turning away from this moral absolutism and focusing on causes that genuine majorities of the country can unite behind, does such a movement stand even a slim chance of success. Otherwise, genuine political life in America will continue to shrivel, until nothing at all is left of it. A society without a belief in politics is a kind of hell.

     

    The Happiness-Industrial Complex

    Alongside the industrial and the digital revolutions, the modern era has witnessed a happiness revolution. The scientific study, laboratory refinement, and industrial production of happiness are all big business. If we count among its products the dopamine rush with which we are awarded for our small efforts online, the happiness industry is now the largest in the world. But just as mass-produced plastic items lack any lingering aura of the artisanship packed into the traditional crafts these items supplant, so too the isolated, distilled, and monetized product that has been studied and developed and sold back to us as happiness shows little continuity with traditional articulations of what happiness is.

    I should perhaps confess at this early moment that I am not, myself, happy. With the right dosage and combination of SSRIs and anxiolytics, and a whole battery of specialists to keep me propped up, I find I can get by in this world well enough for now, and am even able to come across to those who know me as a high-functioning go-getter and an all-around genial fellow. But the cost of this is enormous, and the resulting condition remains both artificial and tenuous — like a golf course in a desert.

    I bring up my own happiness deficit at the outset only because I hope it can help to reveal something almost paradoxical about the topic at hand. Ordinarily we imagine that not knowing something directly is a good reason not to write about it, especially in this age of “standpoint epistemology” and general disapproval of any effort to move out of one’s “lane.” You probably do not want to hear from me about what it is like to be a woman, or a victim of the historical legacy of settler colonialism (though if you do I’ll probably be willing incautiously to hold forth). And yet my own constitutional unhappiness seems to me no reason at all to decline to write about happiness.

    On the contrary, I suspect that someone who claims to be happy is the last person we would wish to hear about happiness from. Achieving the condition in question, or claiming to achieve it, appears ipso facto to be a mark of inexpertise. This may be in large part because those who claim to speak about happiness from direct experience often appear, especially to those of us who are constitutionally unhappy, to be lying. If they weren’t lying, we often think, but were simply living their happy lives, it is unlikely that the topic of happiness would interest them enough to set themselves up in the world as its experts and representatives. A truly happy person, we the unhappy suspect, would not be able to think of happiness as a commodity, with a price-tag and a limited supply. A truly happy person would emanate happiness somewhat in the way that the God of Neo-Platonism emanates being, as a natural magnanimous flow, so that anyone entering into that person’s presence would automatically come to have some share in it, at no cost, while the emanator would not thereby be deprived of any of his own supply.

    Whatever is being sold by the happiness experts, we imagine, cannot really be happiness, but can only bear a relationship to it even more distantly removed than the one a synthetic mass-produced blanket at Target has to an early American album quilt. Or the relationship here is perhaps like a nutritional supplement you might take that dubiously claims to encapsulate in a single small pill the numerous beneficial molecules known to constitute the principal dishes of a Mediterranean diet. It might be true that you can put garlic-like and fish-like compounds in a pill, but if you swallow it on top of an American diet otherwise based on corn syrup and refined flour, it is unlikely that you are going to enjoy the same health history as a nonagenarian Greek islander.

      As the happiness industry, relying on cherry-picked scientific studies, has grown more effective at isolating marketable “happiness molecules” and synthesizing them for mass production, it has largely lost any historical memory of the long and difficult efforts that philosophers have made to determine, coherently, what happiness is. Significantly, while philosophers continue to write about happiness, by far the greater part of the recent academic work on this topic is coming from the fields of business and behavioral psychology.

    Likely no recent work distills a purer essence of this approach to happiness than the social scientist Arthur C. Brooks’s book, Gross National Happiness: Why Happiness Matters for America — and How We Can Get More of It. Brooks writes in a folksy American style reminiscent of Will Rogers and motivational sales speakers such as Zig Ziglar — he is a master of happy talk. His book is as much an extended speech-act as it is an analysis, helping to maintain in being the enduring myth of his country’s Sonderweg. There is something so deeply American in all this lucrative uplift. Brooks sees America’s uniqueness as flowing in part from the explicit value placed on “the pursuit of happiness” in one of its founding documents.

    Yet the Declaration of Independence is only making room for the individual happiness of its citizens, not bringing into being a country that is itself happy. To say that America is itself happy, or to argue as Brooks does that America might hope to be even happier, is really just to point to the statistical data concerning what several individual Americans report about their own happiness. Brooks provides a twenty-page appendix of admittedly interesting tables showing such information as “Trends in Happiness, Average Income, and Income Inequality, 1972-2004,” and “Happiness and Perceived Personal Freedom, 2000.” But such schematic summaries, the stock-in-trade of Brooks’ academic discipline and its relentless popularization in “how” and “why” books, bury over all the ambiguity and uncertainty that the individuals queried might have felt in answering questions about their own happiness. And if they did not feel uncertain, this can only be a result of overconfidence — the presumption that they had grasped a concept that in fact eluded them.

    For millennia, philosophers have been aware that happiness is a concept difficult to define, as much as it is a condition difficult to achieve. Brooks offers some initial acknowledgment of the difficulty of defining the term, and in keeping with the conventions of recent research he makes a tripartite distinction between “fleeting feelings of happiness,” “happiness on balance,” and happiness as “moral quality of life.” He notes that in antiquity it was the latter of these, which may be assimilated to Aristotle’s notion of eudaimonia, that was generally preferred.

    But there are other ideas about happiness in the history of philosophy that Brooks does not even consider. Many, though not all, ancient philosophers warned against conflating happiness with a current sensation of contentment or pleasure, preferring to understand it as a long-term condition of the soul, or as a dimension of moral character. But many also argued that happiness is an objective state that attaches to a given individual whether that individual has any first-person experience of it or not. For Brooks, by contrast, “the bottom line is that we may not know much, but we do know when we’re happy.” Brooks must remain committed to the transparency of our own happiness, in order for the data on which he relies to retain their value. But what if things are not so simple?

    In the history of philosophy and religion, strong arguments have been put forth in favor of the view that happiness is something over and above what is contained in the notion of pleasure. Happiness is, rather, conceptually distinct from pleasure, and perhaps even incompatible with it. The reason for this is not just that pleasure is sinful, though that has certainly played a role in historical efforts to separate it conceptually from happiness. It is also that philosophical inquiry into happiness, as a concept, lies at some remove from the traditional study of “the passions,” which partially but not entirely map onto what we today call “emotions.” Happiness was not a passion, like anger or melancholy or lust, for it was not the result of some balance of humors in the body, but rather the result of a given external state of affairs.

    This becomes clear from a simple consideration of the origins of the English word in question, which places it in the same semantic cloud as words like “happenstance” and “haphazard,” both going back to the archaic “hap,” a synonym of “luck” or “fortune.” For Shakespeare, a sentence that begins with the adverb “happily” does not go on to describe a pleasurable situation, but rather tells you what happened, by chance, to transpire. In German the most common word for “happiness,” Glück, is also the most common word for “luck.” In French the word for someone who is “blessed” is bienheureux, which obviously connects with both the advective heureux, “happy,” as well as the noun bonheur, “happiness.” Someone who is happy, on the archaic reading that these words recall to mind, is simply someone who got lucky, on whom God has smiled, and the happy person might well be so without even having realized it.

    “Call no man happy till he dies” is a saying that captures well this old meaning: it is not that being dead is a pleasurable condition, but only that the determination of whether one’s life has been a fortunate one cannot be made until there is no more life to be lived. The only person who can be called happy, on this understanding, is one who has no subjective experience of any emotion at all, at least not in the earth-bound, embodied form in which we the living catch some small glimpses of it. By contrast, it would make no sense at all to say, “Call no man angry till he dies,” or “Call no man lustful till he dies.” Anger and lust are a matter of how you feel, happiness is a matter of how you are, or how your legacy is.

    Brooks assimilates Aristotelian eudaimonia to the view that happiness is connected to moral character, but this means very little until we are in a position to appreciate how he understands moral character. Aristotle’s ethics is naturalistic through and through. For him our happiness is dependent on our virtue — it is “an activity of the soul expressing virtue” — while our virtue, or aretḗ, is simply the particular excellence appropriate to a human being, just as the excellence of a knife is wrapped up in its cutting and the excellence of fire in its burning. This means that, in an important respect for Aristotle, an acorn that manages to become an oak, thereby realizing the particular excellence that was contained within it in potentia, is also happy, or at least is in a state that is not totally distinct from what we recognize as happiness in human beings.

    If happiness is understood in this way, as a set of circumstances quite independent of any subjective experience of them, the project of isolating its “molecules” and selling it to the public appears downright absurd. You can sell a person a lottery ticket, but you cannot sell them the luck that would make it the winning one. That involves a whole cosmic arrangement that precedes us and frames our existence; it is not something you can accumulate through the accumulation of tokens of the things — lottery tickets, love interests, stock-market investments — in relation to which a person may be said to be lucky or unlucky.

    You can sell a person a book about happiness, you can sell them a course of instruction, but if being happy or not makes no actual difference for your inner state, if happiness is something that can most appropriately be predicated of you only when you are dead and no longer have any inner states at all, then, obviously, the happiness merchant is most akin not to the physician, but to the carnival barker who has a vial of tonic to sell you, to cure what ails you through the activation of occult forces of which you, buyer, can only feign understanding.

    Perhaps the most compelling alternative to the Aristotelian identification of human happiness with a state of affairs suitable for realizing excellence is the one propounded by the Stoics, which in stark contrast maintains that human happiness, in order to count as such, must depend on no external circumstances at all, but in fact only on an inward indifference, or equanimity (ataraxia) in relation to all externals. Epictetus wrote that, while a person can delight in wealth and status and human relations, he should always be prepared to drop these at once, as when the captain calls a sailor back to the ship and he throws down the beautiful seashells he had just been admiring on shore. Properly understood, no turn of events is truly bad, not even the deaths of our children or some imminent mortal threat to our own lives. As long as we have access to the veins of our wrists, we are still free to commit suicide, and so even here there is, as is said all too often today, “no problem.”

    We might well suppose that anyone who could simply shrug their shoulders when they lose their entire family has hardened their heart so severely as surely to be suppressing a good deal of trauma, and that this is bound to catch up with them sooner or later. The Stoic requirement for self-control is one that is so difficult to attain, so manifestly superhuman, that it seems to have been handed down by a philosopher with no real sensitivity, and perhaps with some amount of contempt, for human psychology as it is actually lived. Still, there is surely some wisdom in the admonition to recall that no one ever promised you things would turn out alright, and so when they do not turn out alright, this is not so much cosmic injustice as simply the nature of reality.

    Nor is it any viable alternative to go the way of the monastics and to avoid developing the earthly attachments that expose us to risk of tragic loss. For the ecstatic union with God that might be achieved at the end of a life of strict askesis is far from what we ordinarily think of as happiness, even if the solitary, rudimentary life that is spent in preparation for this does seem to contain much of what we are able to recognize as common unhappiness. Thus, in Flaubert’s The Temptation of Saint Anthony, the protagonist wanders around in the desert a crazed dotard, like Lear but king of nothing. Even when he succeeds in rejecting the temptations of the seductresses and the swindlers, he seems just as lost, just as empty, as he would have been had he given in to them.

    You can remove yourself from earthly affairs in order not to be heartbroken by them, but that is its own sort of suffering, and once you allow yourself to get mixed up in earthly affairs you are ever at risk of losing the people, things, or circumstances that give your life purpose or satisfaction. You are caught, in sum, between being ever at risk of losing everything and having nothing to lose.

      We have made it this far without talking about money, other than to note that it is what the self-styled happiness experts are after. Yet the academic field of what might be called “happiness studies” overlaps considerably not only with behavioral psychology but also with economics, for both of these domains model the human good in the same etiolated terms of abstract reward. Though he denies that happiness is to be equated with pleasure, Brooks often resorts to examples drawn from studies or thought experiments concerning the sharing or hoarding of things like ice-cream cones, essentially no different from the set-up of research on cooperation in macaques. And though he denies that happiness flows from financial wealth, he nonetheless conceives it as somewhat akin to gold, in the sense that each country manages its own reserve.

    In the happiness experts’ efforts to isolate the fundamental molecules of happiness and to measure happiness by quantitative means, they have wittingly or not rendered happiness into something money-like, where having more units of it makes you better off and having fewer does the opposite. For them, happiness is an asset class. It is difficult to say how far back this economization of happiness reaches, and a full genealogy is beyond our present scope. But it seems at least fair to say that its roots are not American, but rather lie in the liberal philosophy of early nineteenth-century England, and in particular in Jeremy Bentham’s utilitarian calculus, his “felicific calculus,” which sought in effect to quantify the human good in a system of discreet measurement.

    Bentham was both rigorous and original, but in its more demotic forms, particularly as they are translated across the Atlantic, the units of the new science of happiness will come to be presented as the units of the true economy, while monetary wealth in the narrow sense will often be presented as the foundation of a false happiness. Thus while happiness studies as a field is deeply invested in surmounting and contrasting itself with the science of economics, nonetheless it is often to economics that this field looks as its imperfect ancestor. Happiness studies seeks to position itself as economics with a human face. (More precisely, with a smiley face.) One cannot but be impressed by the elaborate cultural expressions that we have evolved to conceal what it is we are really after, even if this concealment is only bullshit, in Harry Frankfurt’s sense, and everyone knows that everyone knows that it is wealth and power, and not love and human fellow-feeling, that sends businesspeople out on their corporate retreats and into their infantile “trust-building” exercises. Why else would business schools hire happiness experts? Happiness studies sometimes read like what used to be called “industrial relations,” like more psychology that is of use to managers for whom productivity requires happy workers, as if being happy at work has anything to do with what we mean by happiness. In some sense all of this is as at least as old as urban settlement and grain storage. Thus in the Rig Veda we find the following eminently “relatable” reflection dating from around 1500 BCE (in Wendy Doniger’s translation):

    I am a poet; my dad’s a physician

    and mom a miller with grinding stones.

    With diverse thoughts we all strive for wealth,

    going after it like cattle.

    One detects however, that in its premodern forms this law of human endeavor that the poet has identified has yet to be turned successfully, towards bad-faith ends; for nowhere in this striving does the poet identify any plausible expectation of happiness as its likely outcome.

    The corrective that the happiness experts wish to provide, regarding the relationship between wealth and well-being, is welcome enough, when they really mean it, but they have been making it for some time now, and the fact that the basic lesson never fully sinks in suggests that it is not simply a lack of information that causes us, year after year, to continue in our mad pursuit of Moloch. The Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert, in his bestselling book, Stumbling on Happiness, offers a clear example of this effort to correct. He notes that must people believe “they would be better off if they ended up with more money rather than less.” In fact this belief “has far fewer scientific facts to support it than you might expect.” Gilbert cites studies showing that Americans who earn $50,000 per year are indeed happier than those who earn $10,000, while multimillionaires, by contrast, are not measurably happier than those who make around $100,000 per annum (in 2006 dollars, that is).

    So why don’t we face up to the declining marginal utility of our efforts once we hit the upper middle class, and just relax? Gilbert supposes that it is our own individual irrationality that prevents us from shaping our priorities in accordance with what is best for our future selves, and instead compels us to chase after lucre long after the benefit of having it has diminished. That there is such tapering-off at the higher end of the economic ladder cannot be disputed. One unnamed Silicon Valley CEO told the New Yorker recently that high-end boats are a desirable purchase not primarily because they facilitate sea voyages, but because they “absorb the most excess capital.” How sad to see such a wonderful thing as a boat through the reductive prism of investment!

    I probably would not protest if society were so arranged as to prevent any individual from possessing more than, say, ten million dollars (at their value in 2022), but honestly my feeling towards the tech billionaire is not one of Jacobin resentment, but only of pity, mixed with a strange sort of self-recognition. I am as an ant to him, and yet my psyche is shaped, or misshapen, in the same way as his. I might be peculiar in some respects, but I live under the same economic system as the rest of you and I am fairly confident it does more or less the same work on all of us.

    Some of my most painful memories from childhood are of the evenings we spent driving around Sacramento — my mother, my sister, and I — looking for the rare Kentucky Fried Chicken that would accept checks, which we knew were going to bounce, but which at least would keep us fed that night, unlike the cash that we did not have. My mother had been a psychology graduate from UC Berkeley who saw the events of 1968 up close, and shared in their idealism while also inheriting her country’s materialism. After my sister and I were born, she finished law school and quickly opened a family-law practice specializing in the legal defense of poor, rural women survivors of domestic violence. On several occasions she ended up accepting chickens, goats, and other forms of barter in lieu of pay, and after her own divorce from my father we often had more farm animals than money (and no surviving knowledge of how to butcher them).

    Notwithstanding this apparent world-renunciation, my mother also liked money and status, and was on more than one occasion able to convince the local Maserati dealership that she was a serious prospective buyer. This was enough for them to lend us a vehicle for a week-long test-drive, which afforded us kids many occasions to be picked up from swim-practice in the Italian luxury car to the imagined envy of our teammates — our little stub of a family, broke and bespoke at once. My father, meanwhile, after the divorce, had a brief flare-up as a Republican lobbyist with a retired model as his second wife, but then divorced again and slowly, atavistically returned to a state of perpetual penniless travel that was almost indistinguishable from the borderline-hoboism of some of our Dustbowl progenitors. He spent his last years in a bottom-end motel near Guadalajara.

    My own relationship to money and class, and indeed to happiness, was conditioned by their histories. Until the age of forty I strove in vain to maintain a casual and bohemian relation towards money, while also seeking to keep up ordinary bourgeois connections to the world — getting married, buying furniture, and so on. The result is that I was perpetually in debt, perpetually hounded by collection agencies, and so desperately unhappy that I cannot describe the condition I was in as anything other than a disease. Having lived through this continues to deform my existence; it stays with me like the limp of a childhood polio victim. It is only in the past decade that I have become obsessive, retentive, fastidious about money. I am not at all happy about this, but on balance things are better. I probably would have been dead by now if I had not at long last surrendered to money’s unbending reign.

    One of the enduring symptoms of this disease is that I conduct myself somewhat like the Silicon Valley C.E.O., if at a vastly smaller scale. I seek money even though I know it does not equal happiness, because I also know that debt equals death. It is only when we climb out of debt that we become aware of the need to constantly, jealously, phobically maintain and expand the buffer that keeps us from sliding back into it. And so I work like a fiend, not because I falsely believe this will enable me to enjoy showing off my success through costly status signifiers, but because I am afraid that my spouse and I could end up elderly and broke and too enfeebled to replenish our savings, and also because I would like, for once in my life, to be able to be generous towards my loved ones. But I am my father’s son, and I confess at any given moment I am about forty-nine percent of the way towards dropping it all and becoming a mendicant ascetic, free of all “externals.” But this would inevitably mean losing my human ties as well, to my spouse, to my nieces and nephews.

    When I think about all the blame and criticism that my family has to offer up in memory of my father’s moral character, I am struck by the fact that it all comes down to money: he could not afford, in his late-period vagabondage, to pay for the things that are considered, whether we say so out loud or not, prerequisites of moral goodness in adult men. The thought of being condemned to the same fate terrifies me, and so, although I am his son, I hold back from that radical move of world-renunciation, and I continue, day in and day out, to seek to acquire money. That is really all there is to it.

    Psychologists such as Gilbert present our desire to accumulate money as a mark of our own irrationality. We do it because we have false beliefs about what makes us happy. There is little acknowledgment among those who work in Gilbert’s vein that we are externally constrained to do this whether or not we know that it is not making us any happier. Here again I am coming very close to sounding like a revolutionary who would like to see this system smashed, and indeed I suppose I would, if I had any confidence at all in the ability of its would-be smashers to replace it with something more conducive to true human thriving. In the absence of such faith, my indictment of the system amounts only to a quasi-existentialist charting of my own “thrownness”: this is the world I was thrown into. As Tony Soprano liked to say, what are you gonna do?

    Of course, a true existentialist would also insist that what you do is up to you. You are responsible for your own happiness. And here as well, I would say, yes, I agree. Although I am on SSRIs, I hate reductionist, medicalizing talk of “brain chemistry,” as if depression were in all ways comparable, say, to diabetes. My unhappiness might be part of my thrownness, but my happiness is up to me.

      We may be arriving here at another paradox, in light of the suggestion that happiness is a choice, and yet, evidently, one that I have refused to make. Some of us would appear, namely, to be happy to be unhappy, and this is something that simply does not, cannot compute, within the available language of the happiness experts, even though, once again, not surprisingly, it is well-trodden ground in the history of philosophy.

    Let us now appeal to authority. Spinoza says that, for the wise man, “death is the least of things.” Long before him, Epictetus fleshed this idea out by invoking a logical argument that may either be utterly compelling or utterly spurious, depending on your mood: death cannot be a misfortune, he says, because death is by definition something a person never lives through; to be dead is not to be. But even if no one can be dead, mortality is what frames our lives and makes us what we are; mortals do not, cannot, worry about the same things as immortals. In light of this “horizon of mortality,” Socrates said that philosophy itself is best conceived as nothing other than the project of “preparing to die.”

    I have hinted that I would likely have been dead by now if I had not made certain fundamental changes — not just learning how to manage money, but also quitting drinking and getting on antidepressants. That I made the effort to do this suggests that I would like to avoid death, and one might easily imagine that there could be no good reason to go to such trouble if I were not still holding out hope for happiness. But there is another way to look at it. If Socrates is right, then we might say that it is good that I did not die back then, when life was a fog and I was a desperate animal, simply because I was not yet prepared to die, which is really just another way of saying I was not yet wise.

    Few indeed, and fortunate, are those who have adequate time for preparation. Is this fortune what we may call “happiness”? Perhaps — note that busy morpheme “hap” popping up again! — but it is certainly not the kind that might be derived from kissing, or boating, or the kind we may fail to derive from plunging “excess capital” into boats. It is the kind other people might enjoy without me, like the party in The Mikado that Pooh-Bah and Pish-Tush promise to Ko-Ko after his own beheading.

    In the meantime, I should add that things really aren’t so bad. I am not happy, but I am in the very good and enjoyable company of distinguished others who have likewise lived their lives under the dominion of black bile. This humor furnishes us a lens on the world through which a certain stratum of truth about it is revealed. This is not the whole truth, and there are other registers of experience that may not be dismissed as false. But one of the advantages of the melancholic life is our total immunity to the efforts of the happiness experts to sell us a share of their stuff. We know that happiness is not the sort of thing that can be bought or sold, and we know, I now feel emboldened to say, that we, the unhappy, are its true experts.