Love is a First Responder

    Lately, when I close my eyes at night, my thoughts strangely tunnel back to 2001 and one particular fireman. It was September, I was 22 years old living in New York and the world around me had turned to powder. Not the delightful dander of snow globe souvenirs or storybook Manhattan Christmases, but the dust and the ash, the gray and black debris, of a page in history that was burning even as it was being written. 

    A week or so after the Twin Towers were brought down, Ground Zero was still an open wound. It would be that way for a long time, I mean the smoking rubble. The smoke hovered everywhere above and around us. Even where we lived in Washington Heights, way uptown, we could smell what we assumed was burnt metal and charred flesh. A friend and I felt like we needed to go downtown to where it happened. To see it for ourselves; to stand at the epicenter. 

    When we got there, parts of the devastated site were still closed off, but we reached the center, and it was a deeply chilling monochrome. Storefront windows were cracked and smashed by the blast of flying shrapnel. There was a shredded comic book in one of the windows, smudged Superman and Batman figurines, a picture of Gotham covered (like our Gotham, I mean New York) in cinder, while the store’s owner tried to wipe the heroes clean. 

    Ash was everywhere and the air was thick, but we didn’t cover our faces. We let the cells and souls that lingered, suspended, hit our lungs. Yanik and I breathed it all in, probably stupidly, but we thought that if the first responders were down there, day in and day out, digging for any remains of the massacred, then we could for a few hours, in some kind of dumb camaraderie that made sense to us, also become one with these souls. 

    That same night, after we trudged through the dust, Yanik and I went to a bar called Hogs & Heifers, where, it turned out, some of the firemen and first responders would gather and get understandably stoned out of their minds, so as to drown out what they had seen, as if that were possible. The place was packed. The firemen were still wearing parts of their uniforms, their faces full of smudge, like Superman’s in the damaged window, and their arms too, but their hands were clean. Not their fingernails: their fingernails still held the day’s, the week’s, dark particles — those might be there forever, a new DNA code tucked into the nailbed, telling its story. But the rest of their hands were crisp, as if each of them had sung the alphabet or recited a prayer under tap water and soap, over and over again, until the soot of the catastrophe washed off. 

    Hogs & Heifers, usually kind of chilly and known for having a bunch of bras hanging from the ceiling, was thick with breath and humidity — bodies cramming up against each other, hot, even though it was cold outside. I was drinking gin and tonic, which felt clean for the same reason it was called “tonic,” and, though I wasn’t much of a dancer, Yanik and I started really moving, our bodies just letting go, until a fireman came up to me and asked if he could dance with me. This is the fireman I can’t stop thinking about lately. 

    I said yes. He got really close. The dirt from his uniform got all over me, changing the color of my clothes, and my heart started to beat fast and hard, thinking about what that dust actually was — all over me, all over us. “Baby,” said the fireman, “I wanna take you home with me.” “Let’s just dance,” I said. What I didn’t tell him was that I was a virgin and wasn’t going home with him; this was most definitely not the way I was going to “lose my virginity.” He was looking for something else that night and I was not it. 

    Except that, in the end, maybe I was. “Okay,” he said. “But don’t leave me, okay?” He whispered this last part into my ear and held me tight; he gripped me, as if for his life. “I won’t leave you,” I said, as a surge of emotion ran up to my throat. Embarrassed, I put my head on his shoulder and let a tear fall quietly, where he couldn’t see it. I let him put his hands under my shirt. We both went hard, my nipples and him inside his pants. We felt each other firm beneath our clothes, and that was comforting somehow, proof of a common surviving pulse. 

    Then he took his hand out from under my shirt and touched my lips with his sweaty thumb and I traced his eyebrows. I wanted to kiss him but I didn’t. We just danced in that devastated reality, back and forth, the two ends of a rope pulling and yielding. 

    And then, all of a sudden, the National Anthem started to blare. It came out of nowhere. And everyone stopped dancing, frozen in their tracks. Even those who were rocking out on top of the bar froze. Every single person stood still and put their hands on their hearts and sang. O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming. Tears made new roads in the black marks of those men’s faces. My throat ached as I sang, what I was trying to hold and what I was trying to release fighting inside me and rising to my lips. Never in my entire life had I sung so deeply. Not loudly, just profoundly, about the land of the free and the home of the brave. Which, after all, was mine — the place that had taken in my refugee parents, that had given my grandfather a cloak after he had to flee three, count them, tyrannies: Franco and Hitler and Castro. 

    And then it was over, and the bras swayed above us and another song came on over the speaker. My fireman turned to me and said: “Stay here, hot cookie, don’t go. I gotta take a leak.” 

    I stood swaying to Springsteen as I stared at the back of my fireman’s bald head, until he disappeared into the crowded dance floor. Then another fireman tapped me on the shoulder and said: “Mind if I borrow you while your man takes a whiz?” I laughed and went with it. This second fireman twirled and twirled me until Fireman One came back — my fireman, who looked at me with a sad face when he saw me twirling and said: “It’s okay if you go home with someone else, it won’t hurt my feelings.” 

    “I’m not going home with him,” I said, “I’m not going home with anyone,” which is when Fireman Two bowed out, smiling, stepping backward, making way for Fireman One. “Do you smoke?” asked my fireman, coming closer again. I nodded. He handed me a cigarette. There had been rumors that smoking would be banned in bars in the city, but we didn’t believe it. New York would never outlaw smoking inside bars. How lame would that be? Still, somehow, we ended up outside, or just near the door or the windows. 

    This part gets a little blurry, all those drinks in, as to exactly where we were standing, but what I remember clearly is that the smell switched from sweat to something more like a crackling pig over a low fire. Smoke upon smoke upon smoke. “Fuck,” he said, as if remembering everything. He looked down, inhaling, exhaling. He had been restored to the horror. “Yeah,” I nodded. 

    “Did you know anyone?” The question that always came up. He looked up as he asked, and it was the first time, under the streetlights, that I really saw his eyes, charcoal and glassy. 

    “No.” 

    “Lucky.” 

    “You?” 

    “Too many people.” 

    “I’m sorry . . .” It was a stupid thing to say, I knew it, but I had nothing else. 

    The smoke lingered in front of him, folding into the rest of Manhattan’s gray. 

    “We’re juiced,” he said, looking up at me again. And as he said it, his legs failed him a little, and he wobbled. “Let me go home with you . . .” he whispered into my ear as I held him up. 

    “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I’m sorry . . .” I was sorry. Eventually Yanik and I found each other in the crowd and we went home. 

    Hogs & Heifers is closed now. It was priced out, after twenty-three years of business. Otherwise I would make a pilgrimage there. Instead I find myself on a different kind of pilgrimage, an imaginary pilgrimage made of dream and memory, every night, hand to chest, thinking of the fireman, and about the love — it was nothing else — that coursed through me that day as I sang and as he held me close, and I him, alongside everyone he had dug out for days on end. 

    If I had to pick my fireman out of a lineup today, if I had to swipe him right or left on a dating app, I wouldn’t recognize him. I’m sure of it, even if age had nothing to do with it. But I will never forget what I felt that day. Disaster is a great educator. What I felt in those hours was a love for something greater than either of us, for something that we held and that held us. I am referring to a love of country. It was a country that felt, for the first time for many of its inhabitants, like it could crumble if we were not careful. 

    The indescribable intensity of that leaves me a little homiletical. Now, two decades later, when I sing the anthem, I hold my hand over my heart tighter than ever, as if clinging to the fabric of our flag and the parchment of our Constitution. The anthem ends with a question: “O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, / O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?” We are asked to answer, personally, individually, and in unison. The question serves as a kind of answer. Our anthem is not just a sentimental poem; it is a call to action. The answer sits in the push and pull of our checks and balances, in the ongoing dance (sometimes uglier than we’d like) of our democracy. It sits in us. In our ability to do what the fireman did: respond. To love is not to ask the question, but to respond to the question. Sometimes lessons take a moment to sink in, like these from my fireman. Once they’re in the nailbed, however, sooner or later, the body absorbs them.

    Shakespeare’s Mothers

    Shakespeare’s mothers are often nasty. Lady Capulet ignores, then disowns, poor Juliet. Lady Macbeth would kill her child to gain a throne. Though they grieve (Constance in King John) it is vicious grief (Queen Margaret in Richard III). Sometimes they are terrifying: Volumnia raised Coriolanus to be a tyrant; Tamora encourages her son to commit rape in Titus Andronicus. Often, there are no mothers. O! Cordelia, Katherine, Miranda, Jessica — think how they need their mother’s love! 

    Many are minor. Aemilia in A Comedy of Errors appears at the end, a resolution. The blameless Lady Macduff appears only to be hauntingly killed, a brief symbol of innocence in a darkening world. There is a wicked step-mother (Cymbeline), a jealous step-mother (Pericles), a weak-willed mother (Hamlet). It is almost incidental that Mistress Page (The Merry Wives of Windsor) is a mother; Cleopatra, too. Only Hermione’s strong innocence in A Winter’s Tale makes her rightfully beloved. 

    Hermione has a splendid precursor, the Countess of Rousillion, from All’s Well That Ends Well. This play is unjustly unloved, and the Countess gets less attention than she deserves. She is among Shakespeare’s most fascinating characters, and is his most wonderful mother. 

    All’s Well That Ends Well is an inverted romance in which the woman pursues the man. It is also about inverted families. It is often said that we cannot choose our parents: Shakespeare is interested in the fact that we cannot choose our children. Just as Helena inverts the expectations of a romantic heroine, so the Countess inverts the expectations of a mother, and picks her child. 

    Bertram’s father is dead. He is now a ward of the king. His mother the Countess is left in Rousillion with her own ward, Helena, a doctor’s orphan. Helena reveals to the audience that she loves Bertram and plans to go to Paris to cure the king of his fistula (using her father’s remedies) so he will marry her to Bertram. The Countess discovers this, and, knowing Bertram is a hopeless boy in whom “blood and virtue contend for empire,” promises Helena her help. The cure works! But Bertram refuses marriage because Helena is low born. The king’s pride forces the wedding. That night, Bertram absconds. Helena returns to the Countess, who is doubly distressed that Bertram has disobeyed the king and treated Helena badly. Bertram said he will have “Nothing in France” until he has no wife. So Helena, distressed that Bertram has gone to war, runs away so that he may return. Hearing that Helena has gone on pilgrimage, the Countess is heartbroken. When Helena told her Bertram absconded, the Countess replied: “I do wash his name out of my blood, / And thou art all my child.” 

    On her travels, Helena discovers that she is in the same town as Bertram, where he is wooing a virgin. When he left, Bertram told Helena they would be together if she got the ring from his finger and was pregnant with his child. Helena tells the virgin, Diana, and Diana’s mother, that she will provide them with a dowry if they help her. Diana bids Bertram come to her, give her his ring, and she will sleep with him. At the crucial moment, Helena takes Diana’s place (the “bed trick”). Diana also gives Bertram a ring of Helena’s, which exposes him later on at court as a liar, rogue, and cad. Then Helena returns with his ring and baby. And all’s well that ends well. 

    The plot comes from Boccaccio, via a translation. The Countess is Shakespeare’s. Without her, the story would play differently. Helena is not, as some have said, predatory. She is guided and approved of by the Countess. The play does not condemn her; the Countess shows us she is to be understood, not feared. Helena is one of Shakespeare’s great experiments. She inverts the expectations of her sex without losing her virtuous character nor destroying the basic plot of a romantic comedy, but with some of the most daring challenges to the form in the whole Shakespeare canon. She is matched in this by her adoptive mother. 

    When the countess discovers that Helena loves Bertram she has no class pride, but feels great sympathy. 

    Even so it was with me when I was young: 

    If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn 

    Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong 

    Helena appears and the Countess says “You know, Helen, / I am a mother to you.” Helena quibbles. “Mine honourable mistress.” The Countess replies, not in her usual mellifluous lines, but in broken speech. 

    Nay, a mother: 

    Why not a mother? When I said “a mother,” 

    Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in “mother,” 

    That you start at it? I say, I am your mother 

    Helena’s speech is characterized by caesura. She has a verse of deliberation, uncertainty, thinking. The Countess mirrors this to draw Helena out, rather than confront her. She even slips in the prospect of marriage, 

    Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law: 

    God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother 

    So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again? 

    My fear hath catch’d your fondness 

    As the scene reaches breaking point, Helena is overwhelmed and confesses her love on her knees, saying “My friends were poor, but honest; so’s my love”; begging the Countess, “Let not your hate encounter with my love.” 

    Were this a scene between father and daughter, it would turn vicious. “Out baggage!” screams Lord Capulet. Polonius demands demure obedience of Ophelia. Lear rages at Cordelia, Brabantio at Desdemona. Not the Countess. She tests Helena’s plan to cure the king (“how shall they credit / A poor unlearned virgin”) and, satisfied of her mettle, tells her: 

    Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this, 

    What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. 

    It is a very fine moment. The Countess knows Bertram lacks the sense and virtue Helena exemplifies. She tried to advise him when he left for court, but added to his mentor: “’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord, / Advise him.” Alas, Bertram is lost to the maleness of court and the banter and bawdy of Parolles, a braggart who leads Bertram wrong. 

    The Countess knows Bertram is lost. But she can mother Helena, a girl much in need of a parent. Together they are the opposite of the rash and manly court: calm, discursive, supportive, clever. 

    The Countess is more able to govern her emotions than her impetuous son and his anger-prone king. She unsexes herself like Lady Macbeth, but in a pragmatic, not bloody manner. On hearing of Bertram’s departure for war, she says, 

    Pray you, gentlemen, 

    I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief, 

    That the first face of neither, on the start, 

    Can woman me unto’t 

    We will not catch her shedding woman’s tears, as her sex and genre have primed us to expect. She knows Bertram is too proud of his heritage (she says his behaviour “corrupts a well-derived nature”) and urges him “succeed thy father / In manners, as in shape.” Helena, by contrast, has raised herself up in virtues “her education promises; her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer.” The Countess cannot change them. But she can change who and how she mothers. 

    As Bernard Shaw said, the Countess is “the most beautiful old woman’s part ever written . . . full of wonderfully pleasant good sense, humanity, and originality.” Who else in Shakespeare sees their own hapless children so free from illusion and gives their “maternal tenderness and wisdom” to an orphan who needs her most? The Countess is a pragmatist, but not cold-hearted; a realist, but not venal. 

    The play does not end at court, where the marriage was enforced. It closes in Rousillion, where the ineffective king is the Countess’ guest. She had the opening line (setting the theme of new life from trauma: “In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband”) and she voices some powerful declarations at the end, announcing that the rings expose Bertram as a cad. She loves her son. She pleads for him to the king. But she knows what he has done to Helena (and how little he cares for his own mother’s feelings) and she does what she can to put it right. One of the most moving moments of the play occurs at the end when Helena returns and says “O my dear mother, do I see you living?” 

    Shakespeare added the Countess to show us that the world is not a game of ideals. It is a contingent place, where we must do what we can to get as good an outcome as possible. Bertram believes in his class (Shaw called him a Junker with no quality other than his class quality). Helena and the Countess believe in virtue, skill, intelligence, independence. 

    Why should they be told what to do by these martial men? Why should they cry women’s tears? Why should Helena wait to be chosen as a wife? Why shouldn’t the Countess mother the one who loves and needs — the one who listens? 

     

    What AI Cannot Do, Not Now, Not Ever

    I am about to flip a coin. Can you predict whether it will be heads or tails?

    You might have gotten it right. (It was heads.) But if so, you were lucky. Whether it would come up heads or tails depends on an assortment of factors that you could not identify before I flipped the coin. 

    In principle, of course, reliable predictions could be made. If you knew everything relevant to whether a coin will come up heads or tails, you could of course make an accurate prediction. So let’s not talk about randomness. That is not the problem. The problem is the absence of essential information.

    With respect to the role of randomness, here is an illuminating exchange I had with ChatGPT: 

    ME: If I flip a coin, can you predict whether it will come up heads or tails? 

    CHATGPT: No, I can’t predict the outcome of a coin flip. A fair coin toss is random, and each flip has an equal 50% chance of coming up heads or tails. If you’d like, I can simulate a coin flip for you! 😊 

    ME: Why can’t you predict the outcome of a coin flip? 

    CHATGPT: Predicting the outcome of a coin flip is nearly impossible because it depends on a complex combination of factors, including:

    Initial Conditions: The force, angle, and speed of the flip, along with the height it reaches, are all variables that are difficult to measure and control precisely.

    Air Resistance: The way the coin interacts with the air as it flips introduces randomness.

    Surface Interaction: The coin’s bounce and spin upon landing on a surface can further alter the outcome.

    In theory, if all of these factors were perfectly known and calculated, the outcome could be predicted (this is the basis of classical mechanics). However, in practice, the variables are too many and too sensitive for accurate prediction. For most purposes, a coin flip is treated as random. 

    ME: Isn’t the word “random” misleading here? 

    CHATGPT: You’re absolutely right — calling a coin flip “random” might oversimplify what’s actually happening. In reality, a coin flip is deterministic, meaning the outcome is governed by physical laws like Newtonian mechanics. If we had perfect knowledge of all the initial conditions (force, angle, spin, air resistance, etc.), we could theoretically predict the result every time. 

    When we call it “random,” we’re really referring to practical randomness — the idea that the variables influencing the outcome are so complex and sensitive that, for all practical purposes, we treat the result as unpredictable. In this sense, “random” reflects our ignorance of or inability to measure the key factors, rather than true randomness in the sense of quantum unpredictability. 

    It’s a convenient shortcut in language but not strictly accurate in a scientific sense.

    Justice 

    A central goal of liberalism, and of the liberal political tradition, is to undo damaging forms of subjugation, which is why John Stuart Mill’s The Subjection of Women is a canonical liberal text. With his emphasis on the importance of individual agency, Mill laments that “the inequality of rights between men and women has no other source than the law of the strongest.” In a key passage, he writes: 

    What is the special character of the modern world — the difference that chiefly distinguishes modern institutions, modern social ideas, modern life itself, from those of times long past? It is that human beings are no longer born to their place in life, and chained down by an unbreakable bond to the place they are born to, but are free to use their talents and any good luck that comes their way to have the kind of life that they find most desirable. 

    Mill’s argument here is more subtle than the context might suggest. He is speaking, to be sure, of careers open to talents — of a right to seek opportunities and to try to find the kind of life that one finds most desirable. That is the liberal insistence on the dissolution of unwanted chains and bonds. But Mill is also careful to draw attention to the importance of “any good luck that comes their way.” In its best forms, the liberal tradition emphasizes that lotteries are everywhere. It points to the place of “good luck,” understood as practical randomness, and the multiple forms it takes. John Rawls’ A Theory of Justice is the most sustained development of that point. 

    The term “good luck” isn’t exactly right, but let’s not be fussy. I want to say something about the lived equivalent of lotteries. I am going to approach that question indirectly, or from the side. But please keep it in mind throughout. Full disclosure: this is, in part, a discussion of justice. 

    Sampling on the Dependent Variable 

    A number of years ago, a brilliant law student — let’s call her Jane — came to my office with an intriguing research project. She wanted to study the sources of success. Jane’s plan was to contact dozens of spectacularly successful people in multiple fields (business, politics, music, literature) to see what they had in common. Maybe all of them had difficult childhoods. Maybe none of them had difficult childhoods. Maybe all of them were quick to anger. Maybe none of them was quick to anger. Maybe all of them developed a passion in high school. Maybe none of them developed a passion in high school. Maybe all of them were impatient. Maybe none of them were impatient. Jane was energetic as well as astonishingly smart. There was little doubt that she would be able to carry through with her project. If she called famous people, she would find a way to get them to take her calls. 

    Still, something was wrong with what she had in mind. Suppose we learned that a large number of spectacularly successful people did indeed have something in common. Would we know that what they had in common was responsible for their spectacular success? 

    Not at all. There might be plenty of people (hundreds, thousands, millions) who share that characteristic and who did not end up spectacularly successful. The shared characteristic might not be sufficient for success. Imagine, for example, that spectacularly successful people turn out to be quick to anger. Plenty of people who are quick to anger do not succeed. Maybe they never got a chance. Maybe they got mad at the wrong person at the wrong time. Maybe they were born in poverty. Maybe they didn’t have the right skin color. 

    If we learn that spectacularly successful people tend to be quick to anger, have we learned anything at all? Maybe not. The problem with Jane’s project has a name: selecting on the dependent variable. Countless successful business books follow a path identical to that proposed by Jane. They try to figure out what characteristics are shared by inventors, innovators, leaders, or other successful types. If they find a shared characteristic, they urge that they have discovered a secret or clue of some kind. Maybe so. But maybe not. (Probably not.) 

    Challenges 

    Could AI have predicted in 2006 that Barack Hussein Obama would be elected president of the United States in 2008? Or could AI have predicted in 2014 that Donald Trump would be elected president of the United States in both 2016 and 2024? Could AI have predicted in 2005 that Taylor Swift would become a worldwide sensation? The answer to all of these questions is obvious: No. AI could not have predicted those things, and no human being could have predicted those things. But why? 

    To test your answer, here are five challenges: 

    1. Consider the question whether two people are going to fall in love. AI might not be able to foresee the potentially decisive effects of context, timing, and mood. 
    2. Consider the question whether a song will become a big hit. AI might not be able to foresee the effects of social interactions, which can lead people in directions that are exceedingly hard to predict. 
    3. Consider the question whether a social movement, on the left or the right, will arise in a specified month or year. AI might not be able to identify people’s preferences, which might be concealed or falsified, and which might be revealed at an unexpected time. 
    4. Consider the question whether fossil fuels will be phased out by 2048. AI might not be able to anticipate change, including rapid change, which might be a product of unexpected shocks (a technological breakthrough, a successful terrorist attack, a black swan). 
    5. Consider the question whether a new start-up will do well. AI might not have local knowledge, or knowledge about what is currently happening or likely to happen on the ground 

    Friedrich Hayek was the twentieth century’s most rigorous critic of socialism, or government planning, and his most influential essay, “The Use of Knowledge in Society,” from 1945, is best seen as an argument about the limits of prediction. Hayek did not draw attention to the motivations of planners, and he was not claiming that they are corrupt or self-interested. His concern was what he saw as their inevitable lack of information. 

    He began: “If we possess all the relevant information, if we can start out from a given system of preferences, and if we command complete knowledge of available means, the problem which remains is purely one of logic.” That is a lot of “ifs.” Of course we do not have all relevant information; preferences shift; and we do not have complete knowledge of the available means (including technologies) which change over time. Thus Hayek emphasized that the “peculiar character of the problem of a rational economic order is determined precisely by the fact that the knowledge of the circumstances of which we must make use never exists in concentrated or integrated form but solely as the dispersed bits of incomplete and frequently contradictory knowledge which all the separate individuals possess.” 

    Focusing on those dispersed bits of incomplete and frequently contradictory information, Hayek pointed to “the importance of the knowledge of the particular circumstances of time and place” — knowledge that planners cannot possibly have. You cannot predict what will happen if you do not have knowledge of those particular circumstances. How much are people going to like a new movie about spies? How popular will a new store be? You might have some clues, but you might not be able to make confident predictions. The same is true of AI. 

    Hayek also pointed to a separate problem: change. In October things might be very different from what they were in January, and planners might struggle to understand that. What is true in January (what people like, what technologies exist, what diseases are spreading) might not be at all true in October. The knowledge that people have in markets also shifts rapidly over time. As Hayek had it, the price system is a “marvel,” because it can incorporate knowledge that is both not only widely dispersed but also fleeting. Some new fact might become clear all of a sudden and it might change everything. Or some new taste might emerge quickly and spread in a hurry. Markets can absorb new information and new tastes. Planners cannot. 

    Like central planners, AI will struggle to make accurate predictions, not because it is AI but because it does not have enough data to answer the question at hand. Those cases often, though not always, involve complex systems. 

    Life Trajectories 

    In 2020, a large team of researchers engaged in an unusually ambitious project, whose subject they called “measuring the predictability of life outcomes with a scientific mass collaboration.” They wanted to see if life trajectories could be predicted. To do that, they challenged the world. Their challenge had a simple name: The Fragile Families Challenge. 

    The challenge began with an extraordinary data set, known as the Fragile Families and Child Wellbeing Study, which was specifically created in order to enable social science research. That study, which is ongoing, offers massive amounts of data about thousands of families, all with unmarried parents. Each of the mothers gave birth to a child in a large city in the United States around 2000. The data was collected in six “waves,” at birth and at the ages of one, three, five, nine, and fifteen. Each collection produced a great deal of information, involving child health and development, demographic characteristics, education, income, employment, relationships with extended kin, father-mother relationships, and much more. Some of the data was collected by asking a battery of questions to both the mother and the father. Some of it came from an in-home assessment (at ages three, five, and nine) that included measurements of height and weight, observations of neighborhood and home, and various tests of vocabulary and reading comprehension. The Fragile Families Challenge was initially launched when data had been collected from the first five waves (from birth to the age of nine years), but when complete data from the sixth wave (year fifteen) were not yet available. 

    That was a terrific advantage, because it allowed the researchers to create the Challenge, which was to predict the following outcomes: 

    1. Child grade point average 
    2. Child grit (determined by a self-reported measure that includes perseverance) 
    3. Household eviction 
    4. Household material hardship 
    5. Layoff of the primary caregiver 
    6. Participation in job training by the primary caregiver 

    Those who took the challenge were given access to background material from the first five waves, and also to data on one-half of the families from the sixth wave. The material contained data on a total of 4,262 families, with a whopping 12,942 variables about each family. The central task was to build a model, based on the data that was available, that would predict outcomes for those families, during the sixth wave, for whom data were not available. 

    The researchers sought to recruit a large number of participants in the Fragile Families Challenge. They succeeded. In the end, they received 457 initial applications, which were winnowed down to 160 teams. Many of the teams used state-of-the-art machine-learning methods, explicitly designed to increase accuracy. The central question was simple: Which of the 160 teams would make good predictions? 

    The answer is: none of them! True, the machine-learning algorithms were better than random; they were not horrible. But they were not a lot better than random, and for single-event outcomes — such as whether the primary caregiver had been laid off or had been in job training — they were only slightly better than random. The researchers conclude that “low predictive accuracy cannot easily be attributed to the limitations of any particular researcher or approach; hundreds of researchers attempted the task, and none could predict accurately.” 

    Notwithstanding their diverse methods, the 160 teams produced predictions that were pretty close to one another — and not so good. As the researchers put it, “the submissions were much better at predicting each other than at predicting the truth.” A reasonable lesson is that even with the aid of AI, we really do not understand the relationship between where families are in one year and where they will be a few years hence. Seeming to draw that lesson, the authors of the Fragile Families Challenge suggest that their results “raise questions about the absolute level of predictive performance that is possible for some life outcomes, even with a rich data set.” You can learn a great deal about where someone now is in life, and still you, or AI, might not be able to say very much at all about specific outcomes in the future. 

    As GPT-4o put it in 2024, 

    At the time, the challenge highlighted the difficulty of predicting these outcomes, even with advanced machine learning techniques. One of the key findings was that models, while powerful, struggled with out-of-sample prediction. Many researchers found that human lives are influenced by so many complex and often random factors that standard models didn’t perform as well as anticipated. 

    That sounds a lot like Hayek, writing a long time ago. Asked whether AI could do better today, it responded, “predicting human behavior and life outcomes remains incredibly challenging due to the inherent complexity and unpredictability of life events. AI models, no matter how advanced, would still struggle with randomness, unmeasured variables, and ethical concerns regarding fairness and bias.” 

    Let us put to one side the point about randomness. Let us also (temporarily!) put aside ethical considerations, which do not bear on predictive accuracy. Let us focus on unmeasured variables, or the absence of relevant data, which are Hayek’s concern as well. Consider a girl named Susan, who is ten years old, and learn everything you can about her: her family, her demographics, her neighborhood, her schooling, her sports. Now predict various things about her life at the age of twenty-one. Will she be a doctor? A lawyer? A computer scientist? Do you have much confidence in your prediction? 

    You shouldn’t. The number of variables that can move a life in one direction or another is very high, and it is not possible to foresee them in advance. Someone might break a leg at a crucial moment, meet an amazing music teacher, find a new friend, hear a song on the radio on Sunday morning, or see something online or on the news that changes everything. 

    Love and Romance 

    Can AI algorithms predict whether you will fall in love with a stranger? Can AI help people to find romantic partners? 

    Thus far, the results on such counts are not promising. Samantha Joel and colleagues, in a study of “machine learning applied to initial romantic attraction,” find that AI algorithms struggle to predict “the compatibility elements of human mating . . . before two people meet,” even if one has a very large number of “self-report measures about traits and preferences that past researchers have identified as being relevant to mate selection.” Again sounding a lot like Hayek, Joel and her colleagues suggest that romantic attraction may well be less like a chemical reaction with predictable elements than “like an earthquake, such that the dynamic and chaos-like processes that cause its occurrence require considerable additional scientific inquiry before prediction is realistic.” 

    What are “dynamic and chaos-like processes”? It is worth pondering exactly what this means. Most modestly, it might mean that AI needs far more data in order to make accurate predictions — far more, at least, than is provided by self-report measures about traits and preferences (“considerable additional scientific inquiry”). Such measures might tell us far too little about whether one person will be attracted to another. Perhaps we need more information about the relevant people, and perhaps we should focus on something other than such measures. It is possible that AI cannot make good predictions if it learns (for example) that Jane is an extrovert and that she likes football and Chinese food. It is possible that AI algorithms would do a lot better if they learn that Jane fell for John, who had certain characteristics that draw her to him, and also for Tom and Frank, who had the same characteristics. If so, perhaps she is most unlikely to fall for Fred, who has none of those characteristics, but quite likely to fall for Eric, who shares those characteristics with John, Tom, and Frank. 

    On this view, the right way to predict romantic attraction is to say, “If you like X and Y and Z, you will also like A and B, but not C and D!” Or perhaps we should ask whether people who are like Jane, in the relevant respects, are also drawn to Eric. Of course it would be necessary to identify the relevant respects in which people are like Jane, and that might be exceedingly challenging. Maybe AI could be helpful in that endeavor. Maybe not. 

    More radically, we might read the findings by Joel and her colleagues to suggest that romantic attraction is not predictable by AI algorithms for a different and more Hayekian reason: it depends on so many diverse factors, and on so many features of the particular context and the particular moment, that any form of AI will not be able to do very well in specifying the probability that Jane will fall for Eric. The reference to “dynamic and chaos-like processes” might be a shorthand way of capturing current mood, weather, location, time of day, background sounds, and a large assortment of other factors that help produce a sense of romantic connection or its absence. 

    Think a bit, if you would, about what made you feel a romantic spark. Did someone look at you in a certain way, at a certain moment, and then boom? What led to that boom? Do you even know? 

    Jane might smile at a specific time at a street corner, and look Eric in the eye, and Eric’s heart might flutter. Or Jane might not look Eric in the eye at that moment, because she is distracted by something that happened in the morning. Eric might say something witty as sandwiches arrive, because of something he read in the paper that morning, and that might initiate a chain of events that culminates in marriage and children. Or Jane might make a bad joke at a bad time, and Eric might think, “This really will not work.” 

    For romance, so much may depend on factors that cannot be identified in advance. This is the sense in which AI is sometimes like centralized planners: it does not have relevant information about time and place. Even the largest language models will still lack crucial data. (Continuing the Hayekian market analogy, there does not seem to be anything like the price system to replace AI with.) 

    Careful 

    We have to be careful here. AI might be able to say that there is essentially no chance that Jane will like Carl, because there are things about Carl that we know, in advance, to be deal-breakers for Jane. Jane might not be drawn to short men or to tall men. She might not be attracted to much older men or to much younger men. She might not be attracted to men. An algorithm might be able to say that there is some chance that Jane will like Bruce; there is nothing about Bruce that is a deal-breaker for her, and there are some clear positives for her. Perhaps an algorithm can specify a range of probability that Jane will fall for Bruce; perhaps the probability of a romantic connection (suitably defined) is more than ten percent but less than seventy percent. An algorithm might be able to say that Eric is within the category of “it might well happen” for Jane, because Eric is in some sense “her type.” 

    Perhaps an algorithm can specify a range of probability for Jane and Eric; perhaps the probability of a romantic connection (suitably defined) is more than twenty percent but less than eighty percent. The real question is whether and to what extent AI will eventually be able to do much better than that. We might speculate that the importance of particular factors — the concrete circumstances — is so great that there are real limits on AI’s predictive power (even if AI might be able to outperform human beings, whose own predictive power is sharply limited in this context). 

    The topic of romantic attraction is intriguing in itself, and it can be seen as overlapping with an assortment of other prediction problems: whether you will enjoy living in Paris; whether you will become friends with a co-worker; whether you will like a new job; whether a pandemic will occur in the next five years; whether a recession will occur in the next six months; whether a new movie will be make a specified amount of money; whether a new book will hit the bestseller list. We have seen that in stable environments with fixed rules, AI algorithms, armed with a great deal of data, are able to make pretty good predictions. But if the future is unlikely to be like the past, there is a real question whether, where, and when AI algorithms will do well, or even outperform human beings. 

    The Hayekian problem might be the sheer number of relevant factors, not knowable in advance, that might produce one or another outcome; this is why the case of romantic attraction has general lessons. (Friendship is similar.) Another problem might be an external shock or unexpected event, which might turn everything around (a technological innovation, a terrorist attack, a pandemic, or in the context of romance, a recent loss for Jane, which opens her heart). Yet another problem might be how factors interact with each other (lasagna followed by chocolate cake might spell romance). We are speaking here of the essentially unpredictable nature of many events, because of the absence of necessary data. 

    Revolution Is in the Air 

    In an important work called Private Truths, Public Lies, which predated the rise of AI, the economist Timur Kuran urged that revolutions were unpredictable by their very nature. Kuran argued that an underlying problem lies in “preference falsification”: people do not disclose their preferences, which means that we cannot know whether they will, in fact, be receptive to a revolutionary movement. If we do not know what people’s preferences are, we will not know whether they might be willing to participate in a rebellion given the proper circumstances. 

    I asked GPT4o whether AI could predict revolutions, and it said this: 

    Predicting revolutions or large-scale social upheavals is extremely challenging, even for modern AI. While AI has advanced significantly in its ability to analyze complex data, revolutions are driven by a mix of structural factors (e.g., economic inequality, political repression) and unpredictable triggers (e.g., sudden political decisions, individual actions, or random events). The difficulty lies in the dynamic, multi-layered nature of these events. . . . Revolutions often result from unforeseen or seemingly minor events that AI may not anticipate — so-called “black swan” events. For instance, the Arab Spring was sparked by the self-immolation of a Tunisian street vendor, an act that set off widespread protests across the Middle East. . . . AI relies heavily on historical data to make predictions, but reliable data on political discontent, underground movements, or the true state of public sentiment is often scarce, especially in authoritarian regimes. . . . The most AI can do is flag societies at risk and provide real-time alerts to possible flashpoints. 

    It is true that we, and AI, might be able to learn something about when a revolution is improbable in the extreme, and also about when a revolution is at least possible. For one thing, we might be able to make at least some progress in identifying private preferences — for example, by helping people feel safe to say that they dislike the status quo, perhaps by showing sympathy with that view, or perhaps by guaranteeing anonymity. AI might well be able to help on that count. Kuran wrote before the emergence of social media platforms, which give us unprecedented opportunities to observe hitherto unobservable preferences — for example, via prompts, posts, and google searches, which might reveal widespread dissatisfaction with the current government. 

    Perhaps AI can say something about probabilities, based on data of this kind. But if GPT is right, AI will not be able to tell us a whole lot, because its knowledge of preferences and thresholds will be limited, and because it will not be able to foresee social interactions. The general analysis should not be limited to revolutions. Preference falsification, diverse thresholds, and social interactions — one or more of these are in play in many domains. 

    When will marriages break up? When will employees engage in some kind of revolt? When will we see something like #MeToo? When will a populist movement emerge and succeed? AI might be able to tell us something, but not nearly everything. 

    Hits! 

    Consider the question whether books, movies, or musical albums are likely to succeed. Of course we might know that a new album by Taylor Swift is likely to do well, and that a new album by a singer who is both terrible and unknown is likely to fail. A few decades ago I was part of a rock group called Serendipity. You haven’t heard of us, and we were terrible; there was no chance that we could succeed. You don’t need AI to know that. But across a wide range, a great deal depends on social interactions and apparent accidents, and on who says or does what exactly when. In such circumstances, AI might not be able to help much. 

    This point clearly emerges from research from a number of years ago, when Matthew Salganik, Duncan Watts, and Peter Dodds investigated the sources of cultural success and failure in what is known as their Music Lab experiment. Their starting point was that those who sell books, movies, television shows, and songs often have a great deal of trouble predicting what will succeed. Even experts make serious mistakes. Some products are far more successful than anticipated, whereas some are far less so. This seems to suggest, very simply, that those that succeed must be far better than those that do not. But if they are so much better, why are predictions so difficult? Why do the best analysts fail? No one anticipated the success of the Harry Potter series; the Beatles couldn’t get a record deal; the rise of Donald Trump was a shock. 

    To explore the sources of cultural success and failure, Salganik and his co-authors created an artificial music market on a preexisting website. The site offered people an opportunity to hear forty-eight real but unknown songs by real but unknown bands. One song, by a band called Calefaction, was called “Trapped in an Orange Peel.” Another, by Hydraulic Sandwich, was called “Separation Anxiety.” The experimenters randomly sorted half of about fourteen thousand site visitors into an “independent judgment” group, in which they were invited to listen to brief excerpts, to rate songs, and to decide whether to download them. From those seven thousand visitors, Salganik and his coauthors could obtain a clear sense of what people liked best. The other seven thousand visitors were sorted into a “social influence” group, which was exactly the same except in just one respect: the social influence group could see how many times each song had been downloaded by other participants. 

    Those in the social influence group were also randomly assigned to one of eight subgroups, in which they could see only the number of downloads in their own subgroup. In those different subgroups, it was inevitable that different songs would attract different initial numbers of downloads as a result of unknown factors. “Trapped in an Orange Peel” might attract strong support from the first listeners in one subgroup, whereas it might attract no such support in another. “Separation Anxiety” might be unpopular in its first hours in one subgroup but attract a great deal of favorable attention in another. 

    The research questions were simple: would the initial numbers affect where songs would end up in terms of total number of downloads? Would the initial numbers affect the ultimate rankings of the forty-eight songs? Would the eight subgroups differ in those rankings? You might hypothesize that after a period, quality would always prevail — that in this relatively simple setting, where various extraneous factors (such as reviews) were highly unlikely to be at work, the popularity of the songs, as measured by their download rankings, would be roughly the same in the independent group and in all eight of the social influence groups. 

    It is a tempting hypothesis, but it is not at all what happened. “Trapped in an Orange Peel” could be a major hit or a miserable flop, depending on whether a lot of other people initially downloaded it and were seen to have done so. To a significant degree, everything turned on initial popularity. Almost any song could end up popular or not, depending on whether or not the first visitors liked it. Importantly, there is one qualification: the songs that did the very best in the independent judgment group rarely did very badly, and the songs that did the very worst in the independent judgment group rarely did spectacularly well. But otherwise almost anything could happen. 

    The apparent lesson is that success and failure in cultural markets is exceedingly hard to predict, whether we are speaking of AI or human beings. Here is one: it is exceedingly difficult to know, in advance, whether a cultural product will benefit from the equivalent of early downloads. True, knowing that is not unknowable in principle. If you knew everything about everything, you would know that, just as if you knew everything about everything, you would know whether a specific coin will come up heads or tails if I toss it in the air in the next second, or whether Carl and Eleanor are going to fall in love if they have lunch next Tuesday, or whether there is going to a revolution in a specific nation in February of next year. But it is not easy to know everything about everything. 

    Cute 

    What about business? What about products? Where do people want to travel? (Paris, Berlin, London, Copenhagen, Vienna, Prague, Beijing, Dublin, Amsterdam, Boston, New York?) Where do people want to study? What objects do people like or not like? With respect to products, an experiment modeled on the Music Lab found the same pattern. The experiment involved “Meet the Ganimals,” an online platform where people can generate and curate “ganimals,” which are AI-generated hybrid animals. People can also say how much they like particular ganimals and rate them in terms of cuteness, creepiness, realism, and other variables. 

    As in the Music Lab experiment, people were sorted into groups with independent conditions, in which they made evaluations entirely on their own, and groups with social influence conditions, in which they could see what other people thought. Just as in the Music Lab experiment, participants were randomly assigned to one of multiple online “worlds,” each of which evolved independently of the others. Participants saw only ganimals discovered and votes cast by others in their online world, and the ranking of ganimals was based only on votes in that world. 

    You might think that some ganimals really are adorable and that others really are not, and that in the end the adorable ones would be counted as adorable and the not-adorable ones would be counted as not-adorable. But here again, social influences greatly mattered. In the social influence worlds, outcomes turned out to be more unequal and highly unpredictable. Without social influences, different groups converged in their enthusiasm toward precisely the same set of ganimal features. (If you are curious: ganimals have eyes, a head, and dog-like features.) But with social influences, groups rapidly evolved into diverse local cultures that dramatically diverged from that in the independent judgment conditions. One ganimal could be spectacularly popular in one group and essentially unknown in another. The findings were very similar to those in the Music Lab. 

    Shall we draw a large lesson? Many markets have a lot in common with the market for ganimals. People aren’t going to think that a gruesome ganimal is adorable. If you have something with eyes, a head, and dog-like features, you might be golden. But maybe not. Diverse local cultures can arise, and a fabulous product might get attention in one of them, and no attention at all in another. Could AI predict which products will get attention in which cultures? Maybe so. But maybe not, if social interactions, based on an assortment of factors on which data cannot be obtained in advance, turn out to be crucial. The success of Barack Obama in 2008 and Donald Trump in 2016 depended on such factors, and the same is true for the rise of Jane Austen, The Beatles, Star Wars, and Taylor Swift. 

    Knightian Uncertainty 

    In 1921, the great American economist Frank Knight wrote: “Uncertainty must be taken in a sense radically distinct from the familiar notion of Risk, from which it has never been properly separated. . . . The essential fact is that ‘risk’ means in some cases a quantity susceptible of measurement, while at other times it is something distinctly not of this character; and there are far-reaching and crucial differences in the bearings of the phenomena depending on which of the two is really present and operating.” Knight was referring to what is now called “Knightian uncertainty”: circumstances in which probabilities cannot be assigned to future events. The social theorist Jon Elster offers an example: “One could certainly elicit from a political scientist the subjective probability that he attaches to the prediction that Norway in the year 3000 will be a democracy rather than a dictatorship, but would anyone even contemplate acting on the basis of this numerical magnitude?” 

    Regulators, ordinary people, and AI are sometimes acting in situations of Knightian uncertainty (where outcomes can be identified but no probabilities can be assigned) rather than risk (where outcomes can be identified and probabilities assigned to various outcomes). Some people appear to think that AI creates an uncertain risk of catastrophe, including the extinction of the human race. Consider in this regard a passage from John Maynard Keynes, also writing in 1921: 

    By “uncertain” knowledge, let me explain, I do not mean merely to distinguish what is known for certain from what is only probable. The game of roulette is not subject, in this sense, to uncertainty; nor is the prospect of a Victory bond being drawn. Or, again, the expectation of life is only slightly uncertain. Even the weather is only moderately uncertain. The sense in which I am using the term is that in which the prospect of a European war is uncertain, or the price of copper and the rate of interest twenty years hence, or the obsolescence of a new invention, or the position of private wealthowners in the social system in 1970. About these matters there is no scientific basis on which to form any calculable probability whatever. We simply do not know. 

    Sounding a lot like Knight, Keynes insisted that some of the time we cannot assign probabilities to imaginable outcomes. “We simply do not know.” 

    Keynes immediately added, however, with evident bemusement, that “the necessity for action and for decision compels us as practical men to do our best to overlook this awkward fact and to behave exactly as we should if we had behind us a good Benthamite calculation of a series of prospective advantages and disadvantages, each multiplied by its appropriate probability, waiting to be summed.” But how on earth, he wondered, do we manage to do that? Keynes listed three techniques — and they are worth considering when we leave behind the legends about AI and soberly assess its capabilities: 

    1. We assume that the present is a much more serviceable guide to the future than a candid examination of past experience would show it to have been hitherto. In other words, we largely ignore the prospect of future changes about the actual character of which we know nothing. 
    2. We assume that the existing state of opinion as expressed in prices and the character of existing output is based on a correct summing-up of future prospects, so that we can accept it as such unless and until something new and relevant comes into the picture.
    3. Knowing that our own individual judgment is worthless, we endeavor to fall back on the judgment of the rest of the world which is perhaps better informed. That is, we endeavor to conform with the behavior of the majority or the average. The psychology of a society of individuals each of whom is endeavoring to copy the others leads to what we may strictly term a conventional judgment. 

    Keynes did not mean to celebrate those techniques. Actually he thought that they were ridiculous. We might know, for example, that technological innovations have not produced horrific harm in the past, and so we might think that AI will not produce such harm in the future. Or, as a good Hayekian, AI might look at the price signal to assess the risks associated with climate change. Or AI might follow the wisdom of crowds to assess the likelihood of a pandemic. But under circumstances of uncertainty, should we trust any of these methods? “All these pretty, polite techniques, made for a well-paneled Board Room and a nicely regulated market, are liable to collapse,” Keynes declared, because “we know very little about the future.” Those last seven words may seem simple or obvious, but they are not at all obvious to the inventors of and investors in the allegedly predictive algorithmic technologies that are now overwhelming our society. 

    Keynes emphasized the difficulty or the impossibility of assigning probabilities to outcomes, but he also signaled more generally the problem of ignorance, in which we are unable to specify either the probability of bad outcomes or their nature — where we do not even know the kinds or magnitudes of the harms that we are facing. One reason for our ignorance might be that we are dealing with a novel, unique, or non-repeatable event. Another reason might be that we are dealing with a problem involving interacting components of a system in which we cannot know how components of the system are likely to interact with each other, which means that predictions are highly unreliable. 

    Back to the Future 

    There are some prediction problems on which AI will not do well, and the reason lies in an absence of adequate data, and in what we might wisely see as the intrinsic unpredictability of (some) human affairs. In some cases, AI will be able to make progress over time. But in important cases, in which we are dealing with complex phenomena, and the real problem is that the relevant data are simply not available in advance, accurate predictions are impossible — not now, and not in the future. Never. 

    Consider now, if you would, a heartbreaking remark that Benjamin Franklin’s sister Jane addressed to her brother, lamenting the “Thousands of Boyles Clarks and Newtons” who “have Probably been lost to the world, and lived and died in Ignorance and meanness, merely for want of being Placed in favourable Situations, and Injoying Proper Advantages.” Who is placed in unfavourable situations? Who faces disadvantages? Both of these take diverse forms. We might speak of an absence of education; Franklin herself was not allowed proper schooling. We might speak of an absence of economic opportunity. Or we might speak more specifically, and less systematically, about the absence of a mentor, a helping hand, a nod of appreciation, a glimpse of something wondrous, an infusion of money, a year off, a friend or family member who refuses to give up. 

    In the domain of innovation in general, social scientists, sounding a lot like the despondent Jane Franklin, refer to “Lost Einsteins” — in the words of one of them, those “who would have had highly impactful inventions had they been exposed to innovation in childhood.” The emphasis here is on demographic characteristics, such as race, gender, and socioeconomic status, and on the contributions of role models and network effects to success. Countless potential innovators, in science, business, and elsewhere, were subjugated in some way, were born in a particular family, did not find the right role models, or did not benefit from networks. As a result, they never innovated. They lost life’s lottery, or a series of smaller lotteries. 

    There are lost Da Vincis, lost Shakespeares, lost Miltons, lost Austens, lost Dickenses, lost Ellisons, lost Rothkos, lost Scorceses, lost Stan Lees, and lost Bob Dylans. There are lost Edisons and lost Doudnas and lost Teslas. (Nicolai, not the car.) There are plenty of them. They have been lost for a thousand and one different reasons. If innovators have been lost, it is not only because of demographic characteristics, but also because of a host of factors, not identifiable in advance, which did not work in their favor. Someone might not have given them a path, a smile at the right time, an infusion of energy, or a contract. 

    That conclusion might seem to point to a tragedy, even to countless tragedies — not only for those who have been lost, but also to those of us who have lost them, perhaps because they were never given an opportunity, perhaps because they were never given attention. In many ways, that is indeed tragic. But it also points to a possibility or perhaps even an inspiration. Lost Einsteins, or lost Shakespeares and Miltons, might be unlost, or found again. In fact they are being found every day. And if we can stay alert to the fact of their existence among us, many fewer will get lost in the first place. And that is a point about justice.

    Two Slogans, Three Presidents, and the Fight for American Foreign Policy

    I

    With war raging in Ukraine indefinitely and instability flourishing in the Middle East and trade wars overwhelming our relations around the globe — and more generally with American leadership in the world deafeningly absent — the world appears to have been so completely transformed by Donald Trump’s foreign policy that precedents may seem irrelevant to our understanding of our current situation. If we lead anything now, it is to make it worse. It may seem useless to look back even a few years, to the neolithic age when the Democratic Party was in charge of American foreign policy. But look back we must. For the obligations and the challenges of managing America’s international relations will outlast any American government, and one day a Democrat will sit in the Oval Office again. When that happens, a return to what we used to think of as normalcy will be progress enough, though the magnitude of Trump’s destruction of our position beyond our borders will take a long time to correct. But real success — the restoration of a rational and moral calculus of interests and values — will require that the right lessons, including the cautionary lessons, be learned from the Clinton, Obama, and Biden administrations.

    The Trump administration’s international orientation will be a partial guide in this new thinking: it will show us what not to do, unless we seek an isolated and insulated America. Even though there are isolationist currents in the Democratic Party, it is not a party with a tradition of America First. We are for enlightened world leadership. (A phrase that needs unpacking, of course.) We are against denying Vladimir Putin’s responsibility for the invasion of Ukraine. We are for providing Ukraine the military support it needs to defend itself. We are against economic warfare with our friends and allies in Europe and Asia. We are for a strong NATO alliance and a strengthened security architecture with Asian allies, especially Japan, South Korea, Australia, and the Philippines. We still believe — I hope — that American power can be used for good in faraway places, and — I hope again — that the United States must act in the face of various kinds of emergencies and atrocities. And of course we emphasize the set of global issues that includes climate change, global health, and food security.

    When the happy day comes and Trump is back home golfing and hustling, the immediate challenge will be to restore America’s role as a leader, a friend, and an ally. The second Trump administration has in a matter of months squandered the soft power that took seventy-five years for America to create. With its economic warfare against friend and foe alike, as well as its disdainful attitude towards longstanding allies, trust and confidence in Washington’s leadership has been shattered and it may never return to its previous heights. His capricious demolition of America’s universally admired programs of foreign assistance amounts to a colossal blow to America’s position in the world, not to mention the immensity of the suffering that is causing. It is so much easier to destroy than to build. But there will be no third Trump administration, and if the pendulum of American politics swings back towards the Democratic Party, it will be imperative to understand the foreign policies of the post-Cold War Democratic administrations with lucidity. 

    Today America cannot lead because America is alone. Unsplendid isolation, we might call it. Isolationism always fulfills its own dream. When the Trump administration looks behind, it will find few followers. And yet it will at the same time insist upon American supremacy! (I am ignoring, of course, the dizzying inconstancy of Trump’s foreign policy, the daily and even hourly inconsistencies, which makes any generalization about it provisional and may prove to be the administration’s worst failing in foreign affairs. For the next three years, the better part of diplomatic wisdom for the nations of the world will be to try and catch a wave.) The international reputation that the founding fathers of the post-World War II generation created for the United States, Democratic and Republican presidents alike, had a powerful result: the United States was a rare combination of feared, admired, and respected. To be sure, it was also hated, but anti-Americanism did not suffice to overthrow the America-led world order, especially after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

    The erosion of the America-led world order was in fact begun by the United States. The Iraq war accomplished that, and in many ways it remains the gift that keeps on giving. (“Vietnam Syndrome” was nothing compared to this. Ronald Reagan was elected a mere five years after our retreat from Saigon.) Our reputation was damaged for at least a generation, as Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld became the ugly Americans of a new era and the incompetence of the occupation of Iraq undermined America’s reputation for getting the job done. Later, the post-Iraq reluctance to act under the Obama administration further weakened the deterrent effect of America’s military might and taught the nations of the world to call America’s bluff. 

    Any honest assessment of America’s role in the world must start with the recognition that America’s power has been grievously diminished in recent decades — notwithstanding the successful air attacks on Iran’s nuclear facilities and, a decade earlier, the unforgettable Special Forces operation that killed Osama Bin Laden. For it is not just our economic, military, and political system that determines power, but also our alliances and friendships around the world: they are what has differentiated America’s role from that of previous hegemons. (We were a hegemon, but we were never an empire; whatever that abused terms means, it does not denote a system of alliances.) By rejecting the daily diplomacy of alliance building and management, what former Secretary of State George Schultz nicely called “diplomacy as gardening,” the two Trump administrations have done grievous and utterly self-inflicted harm to the force multiplier effect of America’s alliances. 

    What is the foreign policy of the Democrats? In recent decades it has been deeply contested. The contest was between two ideas that were perfectly encapsulated in two colloquial slogans by two presidents. “Get caught tryin’,” Bill Clinton instructed. “Don’t do stupid shit,” Barack Obama taught. Joe Biden left no epigram of his own, and his administration continued to be wracked by the debate, though in its responses to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and the war begun by Hamas’ attacks on October 7, 2023, it seemed to be settling the matter with the proper respect for power and principle. 

    II 

    Bill Clinton often expressed regret that he was not president at a more dramatic moment in American history, such as World War II or the Civil War. History in the years of his presidency was not in overdrive, and it was without a trace of the apocalyptic tone. As it turned out, he presided over a remarkable period of peace and prosperity — not exactly a minor achievement. And when, in the Balkans, history demanded more than American prosperity but also American leadership and American action, he led the West (at first slowly and reluctantly) to a moment that The Economist called “the height of European civilization,” owing to the U.S.– NATO decisions to bring a halt to the Serbian atrocities in Bosnia and to prevent a genocide against Kosovo’s Albanian population. In 1999, we combined force and diplomacy and defeated the aggression of Slobodan Milosevic in the heart of Europe. In an act of moral and humanitarian determination backed up by our hard power, we united to thwart an imminent mass slaughter of the Kosovar Albanians. Unlike Rwanda or Bosnia, this was a genocide prevented. 

    Equally important, the way in which Washington led in Kosovo was crucial. Extensive diplomacy led to widespread international support for the war, as the Belgrade government was given every possible chance to accept a peaceful solution. Working with key European allies and Moscow, a UN resolution laid out a postwar plan with the burden for deployment and reconstruction shared by all. In the end, Kosovo became a functioning emerging democracy and is now an independent state — and a tribute to Bill Clinton’s and Madeleine Albright’s commitment to get caught trying. Kosovo was done for the right reasons and it was done the right way. (As an official at the State Department in those years I played a role in this effort.) Like Bosnia, Kosovo demonstrated that it was possible to use force justly, and to use limited force for a limited goal. This does not mean it can be done in all places, only that it can be done in some places — and that is a lot. 

    The late 1980s and the 1990s were a dazzling moment in world history. Apartheid fell in South Africa. Soviet communism collapsed in Russia and in Eastern and Central Europe. At Tiananmen Square, countless Chinese demonstrated their dedication to democratic values. Democracy was indeed ascendant. But history was not over. (Has there ever been a dumber notion than “the end of history?”) Perhaps because he was elected to focus on the economy and because the Democrats had been out of power for twelve years, the Clinton administration had an inauspicious beginning in foreign policy. Indeed, the combined chaos in Somalia, Haiti, and Bosnia managed to overshadow the outbreak of freedom and democratic change across Europe and Asia. But by the end of Clinton’s first term, the ship of state was righted — beginning with the ouster of Haiti’s dictators as a consequence of diplomacy backed by force and an endorsement by the United Nations, and finally, after far too long, the air strikes against the Bosnian Serbs which led to the Dayton Accords in 1995. Ending the war in Bosnia, which President Clinton did with the help of President Chirac, proved an important lesson, showing how U.S.-led diplomacy backed by military power could be America’s method of leadership. For the Clinton administration, unlike its Republican successors, deemed it important to pay “a decent respect to the opinion of mankind.” 

    We got caught trying, and it worked. And having seen how force and diplomacy could genuinely resolve crises over Taiwan in 1996 (when two Aircraft Carrier Battle Groups were deployed near the Taiwan Straits, prompting Beijing to halt its intimidation of Taipei) and Iraq in 1998 (when Operation Desert Fox destroyed for a while Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction programs after Saddam Hussein refused access to UN inspectors), the Clinton administration determined to take the lead in resolving international crises. Applying America’s unique power position, as well as the prestige of the White House lawn, the Clinton administration embraced America’s leadership role. Consider the remarkable diplomatic record of America the Peacemaker in that era. With President Clinton’s help, lasting peace was established between Northern Ireland and the United Kingdom. In the Middle East, there was peace between Israel and Jordan, the Oslo Accords, and the Hebron and Wye River Accords, all of which saw the Palestinians given substantial autonomy and land and Israelis living in greater security. The challenge of North Korea’s nuclear proliferation was also dealt with effectively in 1994 in the U.S.–North Korea nuclear accord. Secretary Albright was even dispatched to Pyongyang in the final weeks of the administration to get caught trying to stop North Korea from deploying long-range ballistic missiles. 

    And most famously of all, President Clinton himself got caught trying to secure the dream of a permanent Middle East peace at Camp David in 2000, along with Ehud Barak and Yasser Arafat, and later through the Clinton Parameters in his final days as president in 2001. A peace plan was even put forward by Clinton and Albright to the Syrian dictator Hafez Al Assad at Shepherdstown West Virginia, which envisioned the return of the Golan Heights to Damascus in exchange for recognition and security for the State of Israel. But just like his fellow Baath Party thug Saddam Hussein, Assad would not take yes for an answer and rejected any reasonable outcome. Considering what later happened to Syria, it seems unimaginably foolish that Assad spurned Clinton’s diplomatic offer back in 1999 and 2000. 

    This was American diplomacy at its most noble, pursuing solutions and working with difficult regimes on behalf of our friends and allies. Along with the prudent use of American power in Iraq, the Taiwan Straits, and the Balkans, it was this relentless pursuit of peace that generated substantial admiration and respect for the United States in those days. It was also during the second Clinton administration that NATO was enlarged to include Poland, Hungary, and the Czech Republic. With Albright leading the diplomacy, a way was found to bring security to Central and Eastern Europe from future Russian revanchism and still negotiate the NATO–Russia Founding Act, which saw Moscow acquiesce in diplomatic arrangements to ease the pain of losing former client states to the NATO alliance. (I recognize that the expansion of NATO is still controversial in some quarters, but the Russian aggression against Ukraine should have settled that dispute.) 

    In retrospect, the most significant mistake of Clinton’s activism abroad was the effort to coax China into becoming a responsible member of the community of nations. At Clinton’s behest, China was made a member of the World Trade Organization, and Beijing’s response was to exploit the West’s openness by growing (and stealing) its way to the point of becoming a rival and a potential threat to the West, as its phenomenal economic boom, its across-the-board adaptation of advanced technology, and its massive military build-up now jeopardizes America’s technological edge and strategic paradigm. To be fair, our China policy was bipartisan. Leaders in both parties were under the illusion that China would become more and more transparent and abide by the rules of the trade game if given the chance. Indeed, it was during the first George W. Bush administration that Deputy Secretary of State Robert Zoellick famously called for helping China to become a “responsible stakeholder” in international arrangements. But after Xi Jinping came to power some years later, nearly all concerned came to rue the day we gave China access to advanced technology and world markets. 

    What difference a Clintonian approach would have made in subsequent decades is, of course, unknowable. We do know that the Balkan model of force and diplomacy was consciously spurned during Bush’s two terms. And President Obama, to my knowledge, never once cited Clinton’s successes in Bosnia and Kosovo as a model worth emulating, even though it would have been natural enough for him to tout the previous Democratic president’s successes. Perhaps he opposed them as a young legislator in Chicago. Many years later, by contrast, during the Syrian catastrophe, when Obama was idling in the White House, a friend (the editor of this journal) did ask Clinton what he would have done differently than Obama in Syria, and he replied: “I don’t know, but I would have been caught tryin’.” 

    III 

    The foreign policy of the Obama years was marked above all by a dire case of Iraq War Syndrome. Obama and his team did all they could to hype his early remark at a rally in Chicago in opposition to Bush’s decision to invade Iraq. It was a stupid war, he said. And that, of course, led to the slogan that defined his foreign policy over two terms. On Air Force One, Obama famously told the White House press corps that his guiding principle was, “Don’t do stupid shit.” The cautionary example of Iraq became a kind of obsession-compulsion for Obama and his policymakers, as if it was all you needed to know about American power and the world. 

    On the surface, by restoring American support for European allies after the war and often deferring to them, much of the damage wrought by the Bush administration’s bullying unilateralism was undone. Remember, even before the war in Iraq, Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld had alienated nearly every single American ally by rejecting a series of arms control treaties with Russia, including the ABM Treaty, the building block of them all negotiated by President Richard Nixon in 1972, as well as the Chemical Weapons Convention and the Biological Weapons Convention. To round it off, the administration pulled out of the Kyoto climate accords, and the immeasurably haughty Rumsfeld even expressed disdain for the Geneva Conventions regarding the treatment of prisoners of war. Obama’s administration reversed all that, which was a good thing, and worked on climate change and restoring discussions with Russia about strategic nuclear arms. Combined with the fact of twice electing an African American as president, America’s reputation was substantially restored as admiration for Obama the man soared around the world and allied governments found it easy to work with Obama’s diplomatic team, led in the first term by Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, who proved to be enormously popular on the world stage. When U.S. Special Forces finally located and killed Osama Bin Laden in a dramatic raid inside Pakistan in 2011, many observers judged that respect for American leadership “was back.” 

    Yet brilliant as his anti-war stance was politically, since most Americans had turned against the mission after the disasters of the American-led occupation, the ground truth on Obama and Iraq was much more confusing. Although few in the Washington press corps wanted to focus on it, in a moment of candor Obama revealed to one of his most determined admirers, David Remnick of The New Yorker, that if he had been a senator in 2003 and read all of those flawed intelligence reports detailing Saddam Hussein’s extensive possession of chemical and biological weapons, he might well have voted for the second Gulf war, as Hillary Clinton and Joe Biden and John Kerry did. Despite this acknowledgement, however, his campaign team and his White House aides regularly pilloried those senators. When he ran for president, Obama’s sole credential in foreign policy was his progressive opposition to the war from the start, but it turns out that his claim to greater wisdom than the Democratic establishment was not exactly true. While politically Obama got away with hanging the war in Iraq around Hillary Clinton’s neck in the primaries in 2008, he must not have felt his anti-war position too strongly, since it did not inhibit him from appointing pro-Iraq Democrats to be his Vice-President and both of his Secretaries of State and to direct his foreign policy. 

    The confusion in the Democratic Party on this fundamental question surely contributed to the essential confusion at the heart of Obama’s foreign policy. He pulled out of Iraq and then was forced to return American forces with the rise of the Islamic State in the vacuum left by the American withdrawal. He famously surged U.S. forces in Afghanistan after a lengthy policy review and then undercut that surge by establishing a short and public timeline for the withdrawal of the troops that were to be sent in, signaling to the Taliban they should just wait us out. 

    But the real damage done by the Obama administration was in its failure to follow through with the threat to use force in Syria — the infamous red line that wasn’t a red line. The American president was caught bluffing. This stupendous blunder was opposed by nearly all his foreign policy team save for his Chief of Staff Denis McDonough, who walked him around the White House lawn to cook up his last-minute call for a congressional vote on the intervention that he had promised and upon which the global credibility of the United States depended. This prevarication led to the swift intrusion of Vladimir Putin and Russia into Syria and the region — and the Russian government, perhaps fearing for its personnel who at the time were conducting clandestine chemical experiments at Syrian facilities, obligingly arranged for a disarmament program for Syria’s chemical weapons, which allowed Obama to avoid conducting even the limited air attacks that were under consideration. The man who never wanted to be a war president no doubt slept more easily, but Syria descended further into hell, along with the global reputation of the United States. 

    This was stupid shit par excellence. Yes, Syria’s chemical arsenal was dismantled. (The fact that Bashir al Assad immediately agreed to surrender the entirety of his chemical arsenal — or almost the entirety of it, as his later use of chemical weapons revealed — is evidence of how afraid he was of American military intervention.) But the damage to America’s leadership in the world was done. Their oh-so-clever stratagem proved far more consequential than Obama and his chief of staff must have imagined. America’s friends and allies in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia uniformly argued that they could no longer count on an American president to follow through on his commitment to use military power. Talking to a top French national security official at the time, I was met with a visceral attack on American leadership and furious claims of irreparable damage to Western policy in the Middle East. The Kremlin took Obama’s reversal as a golden opportunity to return to Syria, to deploy its modernized air and ground forces, and show what a real ally does. And with the help of Iran’s Al Quds force, Russia applied the brutal lessons learned in Chechnya to flatten rebel cities across Syria. Assad’s savage hold on power was soon re-established, leading to the horror of an estimated half a million Syrians killed and almost an entire population internally and externally displaced, not to mention the additional negative blandishment of Iran gaining suzerainty over the country and a base on the Mediterranean Sea. Syria was the worst case of American bystanderism in our time. 

    Ironically, it was President Trump a few years later who exposed the stupidity of Obama’s fear that the use of air power in Syria would lead to another Iraq-like disaster. Trump had also disparaged the Iraq war, but he had no problem following through on his threats to use American air power when chemical weapons were used against Syrian civilians. Indeed, he launched moderate-sized air attacks on the Syrian military twice in response to their violations of his red lines. And in a twist of fate that still boggles the mind, owing to the proven credibility of Trump’s threats to use force, Assad — and Putin — were deterred by a Trump tweet from finishing off the rebel alliance in Idlib, a small province in the north where rebels and dissidents and refugees were holed up. And it was those very rebels nearly a decade later who launched the rebellion that overthrew Assad this year, allowing the Biden administration and then the Trump administration to support Syria’s transformation into a relatively free country, now no longer under American sanctions and working on a diplomatic settlement with Israel. This extraordinary development was one of the delayed consequences of the calibrated but determined use of American (and later Israeli) power. 

    In retrospect, however, it was the Obama administration’s approach to Putin’s invasion of Crimea and Eastern Ukraine in 2014 that looks to have been even more consequential than the Syrian red line debacle. For the Obama administration essentially abdicated any leadership role in the response to Putin’s invasion, despite the fact that the United States had offered a security assurance to Ukraine in the Budapest Memorandum in 1994 in return for Kyiv giving up its Soviet nuclear weapons after the fall of the Soviet Union. Yes, there was a half-hearted sanctions package imposed on Russia, and some Obama officials did condemn Putin’s brazen invasion. But two decisions stand out ten years later. First, Obama declared publicly that he believed that Russia had “escalation dominance” in Europe. Even if true, the signaling of such an assumption to Russia is unforgivably hard to fathom. It gave Putin a green light. (Nor was it necessarily true.) And all the while the Democrats were still deriding Mitt Romney’s comment in the presidential debate two years earlier that “Russia is, without question, our number one geopolitical foe.” Such a view, they said, was “so nineteenth-century.” 

    Secondly, Washington absented itself from the diplomacy that ended the initial Russian assault. It was the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, and the German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, who negotiated directly with Putin, leading to the endless arguments and violations of the resulting Minsk Agreement. I am absolutely certain that in her time Madeleine Albright would have resigned if her president had instructed her to absent herself from a diplomatic settlement of a Russian military assault in the heart of Europe. Inaction was the American response to Putin’s invasion of 2014, which is why Putin probably never expected the West to act so decisively eight years later when he launched a full-fledged invasion. 

    When it came to humanitarian aid, the Obama administration’s caution and fear of signaling any American involvement became both tragic and farcical. After ruling out military assistance to Ukraine, including purely defensive weapons, a ban was imposed on non-lethal assistance, such as uniforms and vehicles. The one measure of assistance eventually authorized by Obama was humanitarian assistance — and here his inaction became an absurdity. While a hapless Pentagon official began filling a U.S. transport plane with MREs and other emergency supplies to fly to Ukraine, last-minute orders came directly from the White House national security leadership to stand down. They feared how Moscow would interpret the arrival of a military plane loaded with food aid. They did not want to “provoke the Russians.” And so a German shipping company was contracted to deliver the food at far greater cost. 

    Then there was Libya. When an uprising against its dictator exploded, and the Obama administration reluctantly participated in air strikes against the Qaddafi regime, a top Obama aide promulgated an imperishable concept. President Obama and his administration were not ceding leadership to Paris and London, he said; not at all. The United States was “leading from behind.” Given the half-hearted American effort — I remember British officials were livid that the United States was refusing to replenish European aircraft with American weapons after the French and the British ran out of bombs and missiles — it was no surprise when the Libyan intervention became a muddle. Qaddafi was killed, but the chaos and instability persists to this day. Our participation in the Libyan operation is now remembered as a case of excessive American intervention, but in truth it was a case of insufficient American intervention. Having procured a perfect Security Council resolution to justify Western action and lead an international response, the Obama administration declined the opportunity and entered the fray with the overwhelming objective of getting out of it. And so we left Libya to its anarchy. 

    As a result of the debacle in Libya, the red line reversal in Syria, and the determined inaction after Putin invaded Crimea, not to mention Obama’s lukewarm response to the democratic rebellion in Iran in 2009 and his confused response to the democratic rebellion in Egypt in 2011, respect and fear of Washington precipitously declined. Of course, after four years of the first Trump administration, much of the world welcomed the arrival of a new Democratic administration led by Obama’s Vice President, Joe Biden. 

    IV 

    A British prime minister famously declared that it is “events, dear boy, events” that determine a country’s statecraft. Improvisation is at the heart of foreign-policymaking; otherwise your values and your interests stand no chance of being realized. Events during Biden’s term in office did just that. The record is mixed. While he made important strategic decisions, for good and for ill, regarding Afghanistan and American policy toward China, Biden’s four years in foreign policy will be remembered mainly for Washington’s response to the invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 and to Hamas’ attack on Israel of October 7, 2023, and the subsequent war in Gaza. Having worked directly for Biden from 1988 to 1993 and collaborated with him extensively afterwards, I can testify that he was uncannily well-suited to understand the threat from Putin’s Russia and to rally European and international support for Ukraine after the Russian invasion. It is hard to think of another plausible Democratic candidate for president in our time who would have done what Biden did to rally the world in defense of Ukraine’s sovereignty and independence — the world and his own wobbly post-Obama party. 

    The Biden team quickly realized that the Trump administration was right in seeking to slow down the threat from China rather than advocating China’s rise with WTO-type Obama-and- Clinton-style happy talk. While agreeing with the Trump administration’s threat assessment, however, the Biden administration’s approach was thankfully different. Instead of insulting and bullying crucial allies, Biden and his Secretary of State, Antony Blinken, would build a grand alliance to counter China across the board. The Trump administration thought commercially, but the Biden administration thought strategically. From building up the military capabilities of allies through AUKUS (Australia and the United Kingdom), and by means of new arrangements with India, Japan, South Korea, and the Philippines, from critical minerals to high technology, “de-risking” was the term of the hour; and unique efforts were also made to unite European and Asian allies to prevent economic and military coercion by the Chinese Communist Party. An all-of-government effort was established. Biden was determined to prevent China from dominating the Indo-Pacific or displacing America’s world leadership. 

    And by the end of the administration something remarkable was taking place. Europeans had moved from seeking an investment treaty to integrate the European and Chinese economies to working with Washington to penalize Beijing’s decision to go all in on behalf of Russia in what it called a “no limits” partnership. At the same time, Asian allies were increasingly integrated into NATO and supporting Ukraine’s defense against Russian aggression. Biden’s and Blinken’s diplomacy, combined with extensive intelligence briefings on the Chinese military build-up and its extensive support for Russia’s war economy, helped link Asian and European allies in unprecedented ways, so that allies from the Atlantic and the Pacific were coordinating with Washington to contain the threat arising from the Russia–China partnership. 

    For a Democratic president, this was neither obvious nor easy. Not only would European allies be wary if Washington failed to stabilize its relationship with China, but many in the Democratic Party have come around only slowly to the idea that China is somehow a threat to the West. (Some prominent Democrats have yet to assent to that proposition.) That is why Biden and Blinken started by demonstrating responsible management of the crucial diplomatic dance with Beijing. And for similar reasons — managing but not wanting to overstate or to stimulate the threat posed by China and Russia — Biden began by seeking a summit with Putin to try and stabilize the Russian relationship as he built political and diplomatic support to confront the new Chinese challenge. Of course, that effort came to naught when the bilious Putin continued to spout his grievances regarding everything from NATO expansion to the invasion of Iraq and alleged American interference in Russian political affairs. Soon Putin’s massive conventional build-up around Ukraine rendered any hope for a modus vivendi hopeless. 

    Meanwhile there was a second Biden decision of enormous consequence: to move forward with Trump’s Afghanistan policy by withdrawing American troops from that country. A failure to quit Afghanistan would have required the re-opening of negotiations with the Taliban, with all the attendant uncertainty. Since I didn’t join the administration until December 2022, I was not privy to the internal discussions and cannot provide an answer to the obvious question of why President Biden did not pursue the approach that Vice President Biden had advocated back in 2009, namely to reduce the American footprint in Afghanistan to a minimal role of countering terrorism but leaving the larger mission of defending the Afghan government from the Taliban insurgency to the Afghans themselves. Presumably, President Biden did not believe that the residual terrorist threat in Afghanistan justified continuing what Trump and many Democratic leaders insisted on calling a “forever war” rather than a long-term deployment like the ones we continue to maintain in strategically significant areas of the world. (This, notwithstanding the difference between monitoring the armistice line in Korea or maintaining bases in Europe and defending against a determined adversary like the Taliban.) 

    The failures of planning and the abysmal coordination in our withdrawal from Afghanistan troubled all Americans, but they were especially hard for a Democrat to watch. As American troops withdrew from Bagram Air Base, the elected government of Ashraf Ghani collapsed and a jubilant Taliban resumed their oppression of many millions of Afghans. And despite heroic efforts to evacuate hundreds of thousands of Afghans, particularly those who had courageously assisted us in our efforts, it is hard to deny that the way we withdrew evoked memories of the disastrous Iraqi occupation ten years earlier and even of Vietnam in 1975, and seriously weakened the reputation of the U.S. military and its political leadership. Until the Kremlin archives are opened, we will never know to what extent, if at all, the botched withdrawal from Afghanistan had any impact on Putin’s calculation to invade Ukraine. My guess is very little, because Putin was under the false impression that his attack would succeed in a matter of days and he could present the world with a fait accompli

    Yet Biden and his team surely proved their mettle from the moment Putin’s intention to invade became incontrovertible. First, an extraordinary effort was made to downgrade highly classified intelligence information and make it available to the public to warn Ukraine and America’s allies of the imminent invasion. This exceedingly unusual intelligence downgrade was immensely important. Following the debacle of Saddam Hussein’s alleged arsenal of weapons of mass destruction, the standing of the American intelligence community took a hit. Not only did doubt about the accuracy of intelligence make it harder to win support in a crisis, but the power of intelligence diplomacy to persuade friends and allies of future threats was weakened as well. In a tragic way, Putin’s invasion was a kind of vindication for the U.S. intelligence community. After all, key European allies and many others were convinced that Washington was once again wrong. Working at the OECD in Paris at the time, I can attest to the fact that German and French officials up and down the line refused to believe that Moscow would do something so dangerous and so stupid. By warning them, America restored some lost luster and helped Paris and Berlin as they responded with real solidarity to change their strategy and break their budgetary restraints and their traditional caution in response to the aggression. 

    More significant than the intelligence diplomacy was Washington’s overall world leadership after the invasion began and it became clear that Ukraine would not be quickly overrun, as many in the West feared. Given the troubled history of American foreign policy in the years prior to the Ukraine war, and especially given the dogmas and the debates inside the Democratic Party, few would have believed that the Biden administration would be able to galvanize such a solid coalition of nearly every country in Europe and many more in Asia to impose economic sanctions, freeze hundreds of billions of dollars of Russian assets, and provide hundreds of billions of dollars more in concrete military assistance, including modern tanks, aircraft, artillery, and multiple variants of missiles and drones. It is true that, from the standpoint of Ukraine’s needs, the pace of delivery of American and NATO weapons was slow and halting, but the far more important point here is that President Biden rejected the view of his predecessor that Moscow had some kind of “escalation dominance” that required Western countries to stand down or risk defeat in a conventional or even some kind of nuclear confrontation. Yes, Biden moved carefully and cautiously when it came to arming and training the Ukrainian military, but there was an undeniable logic to his strategy: given Putin’s repeated attempts to drive a wedge among European countries and between Europe and the United States by repeatedly threatening nuclear escalation, Biden insisted that the NATO allies cross the Rubicon together. NATO unity was Putin’s nightmare, and the Biden administration wanted NATO to provide more and better weapons as a united alliance. 

    The internal dynamics in the administration developed a certain pattern. The State Department would advocate and the Pentagon would equivocate. Consider two examples. The M1 tank episode was classic. The debate over this weapon system, over whether and when it should be given to the Ukrainians, involved the Pentagon correctly pointing out how difficult it would be to use the weapon, how complicated its logistical requirements were, and how few were available. Meanwhile, since America was not providing its best tank, Germany was refusing to provide its most modern tank, the Leopard. While early transfers of these weapons might not have changed the military balance, they surely would have helped. With the Pentagon stalling, Blinken eventually persuaded the president that the issue was not the tank itself, but whether the threshold of transferring a state-of-the-art tank would be crossed, in which case Germany and other Europeans could furnish the tanks, which were more readily available and did not contain the logistical tail of the M1. In the end, Biden decided to move forward with a small American deployment right away, which was the signal for the German and European transfers to proceed. Then there was continued debate over providing the Army Tactical Missile System, or ATACMs, a medium-range surface-to-surface missile. Here again Blinken had to argue it out with Pentagon officials over the details of the weapon’s utility. Since most Russian airfields had moved beyond the range of ATACMS, and since it was the Russian aircraft that were such a threat, Pentagon officials protested that the ATACMS would have minimal effect in blunting the Russian advantage — until new information emerged that the Russian Air Force envisioned the refueling and refitting of those same aircraft on their way to Ukraine at airfields within the range of ATACMS. 

    Biden’s policy of active and generous and unintimidated support of Kyiv accomplished nothing less than the overcoming of the taboos on American action that were established by the Iraq War. This time the syndrome took the hit. This was a momentous achievement, at least if the United States is not to shrink into a small-minded and selfish country. You might even say that, temporarily at least, Putin’s war brought many Democrats, led by Biden, back to their senses, or more specifically, back to their sense of history, which of course encompasses more than Baghdad and Falluja. And the great irony is that what made Biden’s forceful leadership possible was precisely his age. Among leaders in the Democratic Party, only he had been around long enough to remember and to understand that when Europe and the United States stand in solidarity, ultimately Moscow cannot sustain its aggressive stance. That was the lesson of the Berlin crisis in 1948 and the Cuban missile crisis of 1962, and the reason why the Cold War ended with the collapse of Soviet communism. Biden was not only post-Iraq, he was also post-World War II. His paradigm for American foreign policy was broader and deeper — and more knowledgeable — than certain doctrines of the Democratic Party in our time. He contested those doctrines and banished them to the margins, at least for now. 

    In addition to the Ukraine war, the war against Hamas has had a dramatic effect on perceptions of American power and international leadership, and not in the way most would expect. This is not the place for an extended discussion of what the Biden administration did and did not do in support of Israel from October 7, 2023, until January 20, 2025. I understand that this is the most bitter debate of our day, and the most morally excruciating one. I want only to note that the steadfast American support for Israel against Hamas, Hezbollah, and Iran, demonstrated with the provision of air defense systems such as the THAAD (as well as $16 billion in wartime assistance), was noted by leaders in the Middle East and beyond. Those leaders also saw a glimpse of the future when Washington organized European countries and key Arab countries to work with CENTCOM in a comprehensive defense of Israel’s air space. This was the work of an ally and a leader. (The Biden administration hoped that its fierce support of Israel in the aftermath of the Hamas atrocities would give it leverage to moderate Israel’s conduct of the subsequent war in Gaza, but in this it failed.) Having accompanied Secretary Blinken to a number of intense discussions with European and Arab leaders, I saw respect and admiration for America — not least for its prowess and its strength of will — expressed even by hard-boiled figures like Mohammed Bin Salman of Saudi Arabia. In the latter’s case, he told us emphatically that Biden’s steadfastness regarding Ukraine and Israel had persuaded him that Saudi Arabia’s long-term future lies with Washington and not with Beijing. 

    So the larger strategy worked. By doing the hard work of diplomacy, by not disparaging friends and allies who may not agree, by standing by our friends in time of crisis, and by meeting the global responsibilities imposed on us by our own power, the Biden administration, despite some missteps, restored American foreign policy to its proper level, to its moral traditions and its strategic strengths. 

    V

    If Barack Obama’s diffident withdrawalism made the nations of the world skeptical of American will and anxious about American reliability as an ally, Donald Trump’s erratic commerce-driven America First-ism has driven them to despair. Will a “snapback” in foreign policy be possible after a second Trump term? Certainly not if a Republican succeeds him. For this reason, Democrats must be lucid about what happened during the last three Democratic administrations, so as to prepare themselves intellectually and politically to maintain America’s role as an indispensable leader in Europe and Asia. Sure, with “burden-sharing” and higher defense spending among our allies. But the real issue is not who pays what, but who leads where. 

    While many commentators are right to lament the trainwreck of alliance relationships wrought by Trump, the larger problem is that many Americans have lost trust in their government since the debacle of Iraq. Skepticism about American power, about the possibility that it can be used for good and not for ill, is now received wisdom among the letter generations (X, Y and Z), many of whom probably nod their heads sullenly in agreement with Trump’s isolationist tropes. Isolationism, after all, has never been confined to the American right. Why should America defend South Korea? Who cares if China invades Taiwan? Isn’t it a Chinese island? Is Israel still a strategic asset deserving of our support? Is it worth risking World War III to protect those rich Europeans with their cradle-to-grave social services, and why don’t they devote as much national effort to military matters as we do? Isn’t the deployment of American soldiers in foreign lands nothing but imperialism? These questions will increase in force in the coming years, not least owing to the new elan of the progressives within the Democratic Party. It is way too late to count on the perdurability of the foreign-policy worldview that sustained us — and many other nations — before 2003 and the Obama retrenchment. Many Americans probably also agree with Trump’s sensible-sounding “spheres of interest,” whereby Beijing dominates Asia, the Kremlin dominates Eastern Europe and other parts of Eurasia, and the United States brings back the Monroe doctrine to dominate Latin America, with maybe Canada and Greenland thrown in. 

    What is most important is for the United States and its allies in Europe and Asia and North America to develop a common threat assessment. Difficult times lie ahead; great power rivalries and worse. The combination of Russia’s modern day war economy and China’s massive build-up of ships, missiles, strategic nuclear weapons, and space and air capabilities poses a threat such as we have never seen before. If we further take into account a ruthless North Korean dictator with nuclear weapons and whatever remains of Iran’s military and terrorist capabilities, we cannot avoid the conclusion — which many Americans would like to avoid — that the so-called Axis of Authoritarians must be countered and — to use the still-valuable Cold War term — contained. 

    We might begin with a concept of “dual containment.” Instead of shying away from the word “containment” in the case of China because of its extensive involvement in the world economy, the next administration should follow on the Biden approach with the added candor of using the C-word. Citing “dual containment” in the context of Russia and China will also provide clarity and a sense of purpose to American foreign policy in a chaotic and pitiless world. As long as the next president responsibly manages the relationship with Beijing’s leader, then European and Asian allies will not shy away from strengthening the security arrangements necessary to prevent and deter an aggressive CCP-led China from seeking to dominate Asia and the crucial sea lanes in the South and East China seas, not to mention pursuing its “we are a big power” intimidation of our friends and allies around the world. And by banding together when it comes to crucial minerals, rare earths, semiconductors, and other emergent technologies, China’s use of economic and technological blackmail can be contained as well. 

    It is past time for a revival of the mid-twentieth-century approach when the founding fathers of containment designed an enlightened global role for the United States — no, it didn’t always work perfectly! — and then developed a rational and empirically based threat assessment and then constructed a rational and empirically based plan of action. The next president can candidly lay out what China seeks, and the phenomenal military build-up of Russian and Chinese military and high technology weapons, to justify a new and firm policy of dual containment. And instead of demanding that the United States bear most of the burden, a renaissance of alliances can be launched instead. We do not have to do it all, but unless we want an Orwellian world order dominated by the Chinese Communist Party — aided and abetted by Putin’s Russia with a boost from the brutal militarized dictatorship of Kim’s North Korea — we need to lead. MAGAists cannot be expected to understand this, or to grasp that the formation of such essential friendships and partnerships will not be achieved by bullying and trade wars. And so the task of renovating and fortifying our position in the world will fall to the Democrats. But what are the Democrats thinking? 

    “When, later, our adventure has bogged down”

    When, later, our adventure has bogged down, 

    or umbrella’s to an end, and mountains & lakes 

    if any are the friends — 

    and that reminds me of a story — and so does ‘if’ — 

    Einstein — who personal’ never caught my fancy — 

    he took my umbrella once, — 

    or I took his — years gone — but as a soul, 

    brain, that stuff, yes — only his prose 

    I never knew was so good: 

    is getting over his loss of religious faith 

    at..twelve maybe? and he must replace it 

    and says, all the decades later, 

    ‘Men of the same bent & end, past and now, 

    along with what they happened really to discover, 

    were the un-lose-able friends’: 

    the German’s better, I did that stupid English 

    myself. Oh: ‘if’. I meant the air & water 

    peeled off, in a fouled test.

    A Bad Dream

    Yes. That is so. I found she hated then 

    (or even didn’t) her father who left when 

    she was a toddle of three. 

    She hated her mother (I couldn’t like her either) 

    and felt only a fully justified contempt for her one brother. 

    Which into waded: me. 

    Ran on her a morning en route to the Red Owl — 

    a supermarket not a totem pole — 

    not looking good; 

    when she unclad to me that suicide 

    was all she had at heart, & trembled, I tried 

    to, and did, clothe her with us. 

    The marriage came long after; — 

    there’s more here, pal, than ever we let out, but thus: 

    bugged by her ice for papa, I had her trace 

    the man down: — just dead, as no doubt he should; 

    then I made her her cancerous mother’s friend who died happy. I see our son sometimes. 

    I couldn’t help out with Brother. 

    “Waiting. Just waiting, in wet heat. A little more whiskey please”

    Waiting. Just waiting, in wet heat. A little more whiskey please. 

    Turn the fan up. The amenities. 

    No food yet, thank you. 

    I’ll feel better later. It’s too hot to read. 

    I think: do I have everything I need, 

    stomach & mouth? 

    A little more whiskey, please. In this terrible state 

    I hope I’m paying for my sins at any rate. 

    There must be some point to it. 

    It’s very hard to think with the fan so high 

    but I seem to remember times when Henry was happy 

    without particularly deserving it. 

    They say the temperature will drop with dark 

    and after all my lecture rooms are air-conditioned. 

    It’s that the actual brain won’t work 

    before or afterward, so that everything has to be done there. 

    I must be paying for some very special sin 

    this summer. A little more shiskey.

    “Grim Pilgrims gather: ‘Thanks.’ I give thanks too”

    Grim Pilgrims gather: ‘Thanks.’ I give thanks too, 

    as the last leaves fly, that he did not live on 

    but yellow & skin-thin 

    & grinning ceased. True that his harvest due 

    only was beginning, that no sun 

    distracted his widow in 

    her calm dismay; but count up then his gain, — 

    Paris unfallen, Hiroshima tall, 

    millions of Jews walking, 

    Gandhi spinning, treacheries that sprain 

    our hopes unspun, promises unmade all 

    that proved just talking. 

    The ballet of your dying hope no more 

    tortures me with its fool. What childish plan 

    ’s this, keen on living? 

    Embryonal adeno-carcinoma, grade 4. 

    ’Twas in the testes, there since you began. 

    Fume, hiss. Happy Thanksgiving.

    Brief Encounters

    I have not lived among famous people. My comrades were lovely men and women rarely celebrated or even mentioned in the mass or mainstream media. But I did meet briefly with people like those described below. If they were called back from the dead, they probably wouldn’t remember the meeting, but it is still vivid to me. Think of these encounters as a circumstantial but still useful introduction to my politics, a quick glimpse in preparation for the more extended memories that come after.

    (Judy, who appears several times in these sketches, is my wife and comrade of many years. Marty Peretz and Jeremy Larner are friends from Brandeis University days. Dissent is a political magazine of the democratic left that I wrote for over seven decades, from the 1950s to the 2020s; it is featured in several of the following sketches.) 

    Wayne Morse

    He was the Republican, and later Democratic, senator from Oregon in the period immediately after World War Two. In 1947, he proved himself the most liberal Republican since Abraham Lincoln by filibustering for ten hours against the Taft–Hartley labor — actually anti-labor — law, trying to prevent the Senate from over-riding President Truman’s veto. (He failed.) I can claim no credit for Morse’s liberal heroism, but I had urged him to do exactly what he did. 

    I was twelve, politically obsessed and very pro-union. Sometime in the months when Taft–Hartley was being debated in the Senate, my mother took me on a trip from Johnstown, Pennsylvania, where we lived, to Washington, D.C., to visit with a high-school friend of hers, who worked in the city in some political capacity. She knew Morse and invited us to talk to the Senator on behalf of the labor movement. So we did, and I told the Senator — and he listened! — that the people of Johnstown, a strong union town in those days, wanted him to oppose the law. Or something like that. I went home very proud of myself, and until today I tell union friends that I lobbied against Taft–Hartley (which has never been repealed).

    C. Wright Mills

    He was a left-wing sociologist, the author of The Power Elite, a favorite academic of the New Left of the 1960s, who wrote for Dissent (until, after embracing Castro, he didn’t). He was a visiting professor at Brandeis University in 1952–1953, which was my first year there. He was given an office in a building on campus that also served as a student dormitory (it was early days at Brandeis and space was scarce). My room was right next to Mills’ office. On March 5, 1953, Mills burst into my room (I don’t think he knocked), very excited, and told me that Stalin was dead. He stayed to make sure I understood that this was important. 

    Isaac Deutscher 

    He was a self-proclaimed “non-Jewish Jew,” a renowned biographer of Trotsky, and a defender of, or apologist for, Soviet communism. I met him once, in a state of belligerence. My wife and I were living in London in 1964. I had by then written a number of articles for Dissent, one of them critical of British intellectuals who defended the Soviet repression of the Hungarian revolt in 1956. I didn’t mention Deutscher and I don’t remember what he wrote about Hungary; probably nothing good. He had appeared once in Dissent, with a too generous reading of Soviet politics, which elicited a harsh response from the editors. Dissent, which was founded and edited by my teacher and friend and comrade Irving Howe, was a magazine of the anti-communist left, which was, then and now, my own politics. 

    One day in the spring of 1964 we received a dinner invitation from Ralph Miliband, an English leftist, the author of Parliamentary Socialism, a sharp critique, and the father of David and Edward, future parliamentary socialists and rivals for the leadership of the Labor Party. We arrived at the designated time, and Ralph welcomed us — and then Deutscher, also a guest, lying in wait, as it were, stood up and, without any greeting, angrily told me that I should stop writing for Dissent. It was wrong to write for that magazine: “There is no such thing as an anti-communist left!” Ralph jumped in with some mollifying remark, and the rest of the evening was ruled by English politeness. I don’t remember what we talked about over dinner. I never saw Deutscher again. 

    Benazir Bhutto 

    She was twice prime minister of Pakistan, probably one of its better prime ministers, assassinated in 2007. Many years before that, in the early or middle 1970s, she was a student in a course I taught at Harvard on war and morality. She wasn’t in my discussion section; I didn’t know her. One day I was lecturing on humanitarian intervention, using as an example and defending the Indian intervention to stop the brutal repression of dissidents in East Pakistan in 1971 — an intervention that led to secession and the creation of Bangladesh. Suddenly a young woman — it was Benazir — jumped up to tell me that I was wrong; passionately, she defended the Pakistani government’s effort, as she described it, to hold the country together. I responded as best I could, without passion. 

    I never encountered her again; I don’t remember what grade she got in the course. But the story doesn’t end there. A classmate from those days met her in Europe during a year when she had been in political exile — she was for decades a figure of controversy in Pakistani politics — and they recalled her dramatic intervention in my class. Benazir told her, so the friend reported to me, that she now thought that the Pakistani repression was wrong. Hearsay, I know, but I repeat the report anyway. 

    Noam Chomsky 

    I debated him in a Harvard lecture hall sometime in the early 1970s. It was, I think, our only meeting, though we had some angry exchanges in the press before and after that. The subject of the debate was the politics of the Middle East — really Israel/Palestine. It was early days in the occupation of the West Bank, of which we were both critical. But Chomsky believed that the occupation revealed something essential about the state of Israel or about the Zionist project, while I thought that the ongoing occupation was politically caused and required political opposition. I was against essentialism — and a defender of Zionism. 

    Chomsky clearly won the debate — that is, most people in the audience were on his side, probably from the beginning, certainly at the end. It wasn’t that he was an especially good speaker, but rather that he had at his fingertips an extraordinary amount of information — or, better, endless references to sources unknown to me. Talking very fast, he quoted newspapers and magazines in six languages. I was sure that he was making up the quotes, but I had no effective response. He debated with footnotes; I had only my own opinions. It was better to argue with him in print, when I could look things up. 

    Tom Hayden 

    He was one of the early leaders of Students for a Democratic Society, not only intellectually but also on the ground — he didn’t just talk about community organizing, he went out and organized. I invited him to write an article for Dissent, and he sent in a strong piece that didn’t need much editing. That made us friends, sort of, and when he moved to Newark in the early 1960s to work on the Newark Community Organizing Project, he would visit me in Princeton (I was a brand new assistant professor) for a little R&R. And then he invited me to visit NCOP and attend one of its community meetings. 

    What was most important in SDS organizing was to empower “community people” and bring them into positions of leadership. Tom wanted to show off NCOP’s success: the meeting was run by someone from the city — not a left activist, not an academic. Tom sat in the back with me. But I couldn’t help noticing that many of the people at the meeting were getting a crick in their necks, looking back at him for direction. Better, I thought, to be up front and accountable. 

    A few years later, in late summer, 1968, I met Tom for the last time. He was on his way to Chicago, and he stopped in Cambridge (I was now at Harvard) to meet with Marty Peretz and me. He told us what he wanted to do in Chicago — provoke the police, disrupt the Democratic Party convention — and asked for our support. We said no. 

    Fred Shuttlesworth 

    He was one of the heroes of the early civil rights movement — a good man in a hard place. Birmingham was never easy in the 1960s. I knew him briefly, at the very beginning, and the story of our meeting reveals something of Shuttlesworth’s character, tough and sweet at the same time. Jeremy Larner and I came to Birmingham in April of 1960 to write about what was happening there — I for Dissent, Jeremy for someplace else (I’ve forgotten where). We had the phone number of an old leftist in Birmingham, L. D. Reddick, who had written for Dissent. He brought us to Reverend Shuttlesworth’s church. We wanted to interview Shuttlesworth; he didn’t want to be interviewed by two white kids he didn’t know. Were we supporters of the movement? Then we should speak at his church that evening — there were weekly meetings in those days that were drawing between five hundred and one thousand Birmingham blacks, young and old. We should tell his people that they had friends in the north. 

    It was a challenge, and it wasn’t possible to say no; we didn’t want to say no — we weren’t journalists, after all, we were political activists. But neither of us had ever spoken to a crowd like that and, obviously, we had none of the oratorical skills of black Baptist preachers such as Shuttlesworth. We spoke that night to a very full church. I have no memory of what either of us said, except that I assured the congregation of Harvard University’s solidarity with their struggle. We weren’t the only white people in the church; a couple of plainclothes cops sat in the front row, watching us. They didn’t look friendly. 

    As soon as we finished speaking, Shuttlesworth told us that we had to leave immediately. And then he took us to the bus station himself and put us on a bus to Atlanta. We should work for the movement in the north, he told us (which we did). His concern for our safety, I thought, was a kind of reward for speaking in his church. Only a few years later, there were many more visitors from the north, activists like the two of us, and some of them, braver than we were, stayed. 

    Yeshayahu Leibowitz 

    He was an Israeli scientist who was not known for his science but for his fierce theological/philosophical/political arguments. Immediately after the 1967 war, he warned Israel against holding the captured territories, and he repeated that warning again and again. Though he was a deeply religious man and an observant Jew, he was a secular Zionist who opposed any idea that the state of Israel had redemptive value or that the Jewish people had a religious claim to the Land of Israel. The founding of the state was emphatically not the beginning of the messianic age. Leibowitz spoke several times to the annual philosophy conferences held at the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, which I attended regularly from the late 1980s. 

    I visited him once in his small Jerusalem apartment. I don’t remember the occasion or who came with me. I think that I went with Judy — the two of us and maybe a couple of the Hartman people, by invitation. We spoke about politics, not about religion, and I remember, though maybe I made it up, that we listened to him say what he said often and was famous for saying: “The meaning of Zionism is simply this: we didn’t want to be ruled by the goyim anymore.” I’ve said it too, quoting him again and again. 

    George McGovern 

    My engagement with him was indirect as well as brief. We never met, but one day early in his presidential campaign in 1972, I got a letter from him inviting me, together with Marty Peretz, to organize a policy advisory group on the Middle East — focused especially on the Israel–Palestine conflict. We agreed to do this, and we rounded up a few well-known academics who wrote about the region and the conflict (and whose political views we expected to agree with). I don’t believe the group ever met. We talked over the phone; there was perhaps one conference call; and then Marty and I wrote a draft and circulated it. The others sent in suggestions and criticisms, and we wrote another draft, which was accepted by our colleagues — and sent on to McGovern. He never responded; I doubt that he read it; it did not figure in any way in his various statements about Israel and Palestine. 

    Tip O’Neill 

    He was a Democratic congressman from a Massachusetts district that included Cambridge. (He eventually became Speaker of the House of Representatives.) During the anti-war campaigns of the 1960s, when I was co-chair of the Cambridge Neighborhood Committee on Vietnam, a couple of us from CNCV were invited to meet Tip (everyone called him that) in his Boston office. 

    I had recently published a piece in Dissent on Greek politics — the American connection, the right-wing generals’ coup, and so on. We walked into Tip’s office, and he began the conversation by asking me a question about the Greek generals. This obviously had nothing to do with the reason for our visit. I doubt that Tip had ever spoken in Congress about American interventions in Greek politics. He wanted me to know that he knew what I was up to. Tip is famous for insisting that “all politics is local.” He provided me with a lovely example of the local due diligence of his Boston aides. 

    Zbigniew Brzezinski 

    It may have been the most important remark ever made about Middle East politics. I didn’t hear it made, only reported, but I will quote it anyway. Brzezinski was a teacher of mine at Harvard; I took a course with him on East European politics, taught from the perspective of the (relatively new) theory of totalitarianism. I was not close to him as a graduate student, but I met him once years later when he was an advisor to President Jimmy Carter and I had just returned from a visit to Israel. 

    The “Jordanian option” was in the air in those days — the idea of returning the West Bank to the kingdom of Jordan on the East bank, which had occupied it from 1948 until the 1967 war. Brzezinski told me of a conversation he had with King Hussein of Jordan about this possibility. He asked the king what he (the king) thought would happen if there was an election on the West Bank. The king replied, “If I run the election, I will win the election.” I have to say, looking back, that it wouldn’t have been a bad idea. 

    Edward Said 

    He was the leading Arab-American intellectual of the twentieth century, a fine literary critic, a passionate defender of the Palestinian people, and a fierce critic of Israel. We met in print a couple of times but only once in person. It must have been in the late 1980s, at one of those supposedly academic but really political conferences on the Middle East. We found ourselves seated next to each other at dinner (someone must have planned that), and we talked. At that moment I think that we could readily have agreed on the “two-state solution.” But the more we talked, the more we disagreed, and both of us struggled to keep things civil. I came away from that dinner convinced that Jews and Arabs in Israel–Palestine could resolve their dispute more easily than Jews and Arabs in the diaspora. A conviction not yet proven . . . 

    Jacobo Timerman 

    He was an Argentine journalist and dissident. Arrested and tortured during the regime of the generals, he wrote a remarkable memoir that I reviewed in the New York Review of Books in 1981. He had been released from prison and exiled to Israel where, as a liberal Zionist, he was again a dissident. (Can a Jew be exiled to Israel?) He wrote a book criticizing Israel’s war in Lebanon in 1982. In that book, he reports an encounter that, I have to say, is not vivid in my memory. Two months before the war, he writes, he had lunch with me at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, where he proposed that the two of us commit suicide in some public fashion in opposition to the coming war — and in hopes of preventing it. I have no memory of this. Did he make it up, or did I repress the incident? Self-dramatizing political suicide isn’t my style. 

    Antonio Guterres 

    Now the Secretary General of the United Nations, he was the socialist prime minister of Portugal in the mid-1990s. One of his aides read Dissent, and when I was invited to an academic conference in Lisbon he arranged a meeting with his boss. Judy and I sat in Guterres’s office and talked about European politics. I wanted to know what it was like to govern a country; American socialists, after all, have no such experience. “I don’t really govern Portugal,” Guterres said. “I relate to it.” Exactly what he meant, I am not sure; it was probably a comment on how much power the prime minister of a small country possessed — a country in the European Union, ruled in significant ways from Brussels. Also, perhaps, a bit of socialist modesty. 

    John Rawls 

    He was the leading American political philosopher of the twentieth century. I saw him regularly at early meetings of SELF (the Society for Ethical and Legal Philosophy), a philosophical discussion group that met in the 1970s and 1980s in Cambridge and New York. But I had only one interesting engagement with him. In late 1994 or early 1995, thinking of the fiftieth anniversary of Hiroshima, I invited Rawls to write a piece for Dissent about the first use of the atomic bomb. In 1945, Rawls was in the American army on an island in the Pacific, so he was one of the American soldiers who might have been involved in an invasion of the Japanese islands had the war not ended quickly after the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I was looking for a personal reflection, part memoir, part argument. Rawls agreed to write something but, after phone calls back and forth, I realized that I was not going to get anything personal. Rawls was an austere man, friendly close up but at any distance very much a philosopher. What he sent me, and what I gladly published (and what has been widely read), was a small-scale treatise on and against the use of the bomb. It was exactly the right position for Dissent, but what I wanted to know was how this man felt, sitting on a Pacific island, when he first heard the news. 

    Norberto Bobbio 

    He was the most important political philosopher in postwar Italy — and also one of the surviving members of the anti-fascist movement known as Giustizia e Liberta, or Justice and Liberty, in which he had been active as a young man in the 1940s. He was a candidate of the Action Party in the parliamentary elections in 1946; this was the party inspired by Carlo Rosselli’s book Liberal Socialism. The party included veterans of the anti-fascist resistance such as Vitorio Foa and Leone Ginzburg, who became heroes of mine after I met and talked with Bobbio in the 1990s. 

    Judy and I met him and his wife in Turin at the apartment of two of his students who had spent time in Princeton. He was an old man and seemed to us even older than he was. We talked for hours and agreed about everything. And so I discovered that the politics I thought of as my own, inherited from the ex-Trotskyite New York Jewish intellectuals who founded Dissent, had another life and a different history. A more dangerous history: Rosselli, who founded Justice and Liberty, was murdered in France in 1937 by Mussolini’s assassins, and Bobbio was arrested and imprisoned by the Fascist police. His politics was what it had always been: socialist, egalitarian, liberal, hostile to every kind of authoritarianism. I went to school with my Italian political ancestors that evening in Turin. 

    Henry Kissinger 

    I don’t think that I ever had a conversation with him when we were both on the faculty of the Harvard government department. He was one of those Harvard professors whose eyes were always on Washington; he wasn’t much engaged locally. In 1970 he was in Washington, a presidential adviser, and after the bombing of Cambodia a group of faculty members, his former colleagues, decided to visit and tell him that the bombing policy was wrong. They invited me to join them — to keep them honest, Tom Schelling said to me over lunch. Kissinger responded angrily to the group: except for me, these were all people who had supported the Vietnam War and were now shifting, or so Kissinger thought, with the political winds. 

    In a recorded, transcribed, and archived phone call just before the meeting — I found out about it after his death not long ago — Kissinger called me an “extreme leftist,” which he knew I wasn’t. But on another occasion in (maybe) 1972, he told me that I was the only honest person in the room. So we weren’t friends, exactly, but colleagues who disagreed. 

    But then I reviewed a book about Cambodia that was severely critical of Kissinger; I wrote it in The New Republic, a magazine that Kissinger read, and I endorsed the book’s argument. That was the end of any collegial relationship. After that Kissinger regarded me as an enemy — not an important enemy, he had plenty of those; I was just someone he didn’t speak to. Half a century later, when Kissinger was ninety-nine and I was well into my eighties, we met at a party in New York. He reminded me of my review and turned away. I admired his memory, which must have been far more crowded than mine was. I thought that I still had the politics right. 

    Isaiah Berlin 

    He talked faster and was smarter than anyone I ever knew. Around 1985, I was invited to write an introduction to a new edition of The Hedgehog and the Fox, his study of Tolstoy and the philosophy of history and probably his most well-known book. He liked what I wrote or, perhaps, pretended to like it out of kindness. It wasn’t easy to get his pluralism-but-not-relativism exactly right. After that we met briefly a number of times in Israel and the United States — and twice memorably in England, once happily, once sadly. He came to a lecture that I gave at Oxford, defending my own version of pluralism-but-not-relativism, and after the lecture he sat at dinner with Judy and me. I hope he liked the lecture; we talked of many other things. Asparagus was on the menu that night, a vegetable that neither of us ever ate in the Bronx or in Johnstown, PA. We picked up our knives and forks, and Isaiah said no, the right way to eat asparagus was with your fingers. We have done so ever since, on his authority. 

    A decade or more later, I was in England and Isaiah invited me to have lunch with him at a London club (I don’t remember which one). I had a mission: I wanted to get him to write a commentary for The Jewish Political Tradition, a set of volumes that I and several Israeli colleagues were editing. Each volume consisted of key Jewish texts about politics accompanied by critical or appreciative commentaries written by contemporary scholars. Isaiah was sympathetic to the project but told me that he wasn’t writing anymore — only talking now, not for print. I was too late. He died soon after that. 

    Golda Meir 

    She was said to be a simple woman, determined, grim, without subtlety. Simple she wasn’t, except in one sense: she lived simply. Like other members of the first Zionist generation, she had political ambitions but no material ambitions. Along with Marty Peretz, I visited her once in her Tel Aviv apartment — the meeting arranged with the help of Marie Syrkin, our teacher at Brandeis, who was a friend of Golda’s (and later her biographer). I. think the year was 1971; she was Prime Minister. She served us a light lunch in her tiny kitchen. The apartment reminded me of my parent’s apartment in the Bronx in the 1930s when they had little money and indeed lived simply — only Golda’s was smaller. We talked politics; I don’t remember what she said or what we said. I just looked around and thought that this was the right sort of place from which Israel should be governed. 

    Joschka Fischer 

    He was a German leftist, a member in his youth of a group committed to violent revolution — a group that supported the FLN in Algeria and the Palestine Liberation Organization. In 1976 the Entebbe hijacking of a planeload of Israelis by a radical Palestinian faction and the German terrorists known as the Red Army Faction led him to break with all that and to move, slowly, into parliamentary politics. He started as an activist in the Green Party and then became one of its leaders. He became the foreign minister of Germany in the 1990s in a Red–Green government. Shortly after his retirement in 2006, he visited Princeton to give some lectures at the university and found me at the Institute of Advanced Studies and, at his request, joined me for lunch — our only meeting. We talked about many things; I wanted to know what it was like to be the leftwing foreign minister who sent German soldiers to Afghanistan. What he wanted me to know was that he was the guy who made sure that Israel got the German submarines that it needed. 

    Why me? Perhaps he thought of me as a representative of the Jewish intelligentsia (which can’t be represented) and wanted recognition. I recognized him as a friend.

    C. K. Williams 

    I love the long prose-like lines of his poetry, and I share his politics. So when I met him in the dining hall of the Institute for Advanced Studies — in his last years he lived near Princeton — I gathered my courage and asked him if he would read a few poems at a Dissent fundraiser. He agreed to read three and said that I could choose one of them. I chose the last poem in what was then his most recent book. It is called “Invisible Mending” and tells of “three women old as angels” mending garments with a care that might serve also for bodies and human ties. A miniature tikkun — right, I thought, for a meeting of democratic socialists in these latter days. 

    AFTER TRANSLATING CAPITAL: Marx’s Adventures in Mimesis

    The preface to the first volume of Capital ends with a motto about intellectual autonomy, or rather, about intellectual autonomy and the attitude toward reception that serves it best. Altering a line from Dante’s Divine Comedy, Karl Marx pledges to live by the words: “Go on your own way, and let the people talk.” He certainly managed to act in accord with the first clause, nowhere more so than in Capital itself. In this genre-transcending work, Marx aspires to the strictest conceptual rigor and documents his claims comprehensively, yet he also cracks wise, operates in a declamatory key, and gives free reign to his imaginative powers, telling readers, for example, what commodities would say if they could speak. As for letting the people talk, that proved to be a greater challenge.

    Capital was published in 1867; and the afterword that Marx produced for the second edition of his book in 1872 makes it clear that he studied as many responses to the first edition as he could find, not just the “systematic” ones, and that he was easily annoyed by slights and grateful for validations, even when it came from sources he disliked, such as the Saturday Review. Style, broadly speaking, figures prominently here. Marx brings up his “mode of presentation” more than a few times, famously asserting that it had to differ from the “mode of investigation” and faulting commentators for failing to see how he built off the latter when he developed the former. In a footnote, the last of thousands, some of which fill up multiple pages, he strikes back at “the mealy-mouthed scatterbrains of vulgar German political economy” who “have criticized the way my book is written and also the way its analysis is presented.” “Vulgar” in this context means tendentious and superficial, and Marx avows that he himself judges the “literary defects” of his magnum opus much more harshly than these lightweight naysayers, or in fact than anyone. He doesn’t say, however, which flaws he has in mind. Instead he adduces two favorable accounts of his style. One lauds it for injecting “charm” into “even the driest problems of political economy.” The other appreciates its “unusual liveliness.” 

    Thus began a discussion that has played a small yet vibrant role in Marx studies ever since, a discussion in which the literary features of Capital have been prized, sometimes explicitly defended, and generally treated as non-incidental, non-ornamental aspects of the text. This line of commentary stretches from statements by Marx and his collaborator Friedrich Engels to Sianne Ngai’s and William Clare Roberts’s recent contributions, running through writings by Wilhelm Liebknecht, Edmund Wilson, Marshall Berman, Ludovica Silva, Robert Paul Wolff, and Jacques Derrida. It has addressed a variety of topics, including some of the mimetic techniques that Marx employs in Capital, such as his parodying of classical political economy and his freewheeling style of literary citation. What has been overlooked, to the best of my knowledge, is perhaps the most innovative of those techniques — Marx’s use of free indirect discourse. For while certain occurrences of free indirect discourse in Capital anticipate later developments in literary modernism, they are not especially conspicuous, in contrast to Marx’s much-quoted vampire and werewolf tropes and his reworkings of Faust (“a sensuous-supersensuous thing,” and so on). Tellingly, the original English translation, done by Samuel Moore and Edward Aveling (who was for fourteen years the companion and collaborator of Marx’s daughter Eleanor) in 1887, more or less dropped these stylistic distinctions, and the same goes for Ben Fowkes’s version in 1976, which generations of Anglophone readers have depended on for access to Marx’s text. 

    What is Marx achieving when, rather than having a hypothetical capitalist speak directly, he engages in a kind of third-person imitation, reporting thoughts and utterances in a way that allows him to slide in and out of the hypothetical capitalist’s standpoint? How do we make sense of this investment of creative energy? We can of course bring different approaches to these questions. The one I want to pursue belongs to another conversation that has gone on at the margins of Marx studies but attracted participants of decidedly nonmarginal importance, for example, Hannah Arendt, Isaac Deutscher, and Isaiah Berlin. I am referring to the conversation about Marx as a Jewish writer. 

    Born in 1818 to parents whose fathers were, respectively, a rabbi and a cantor, Marx was converted to Protestantism when he was a small child — this in predominantly Catholic Trier, a city where Jews accounted for less than one percent of the population. His own father Heinrich had taken the step of baptism in order to practice law, and young Karl and the rest of the family followed him in that a few years later. Not much is known about Marx’s experience of Judaism — or anti-Semitism — in restoration Prussia. How much did he interact with his uncle Samuel, Trier’s rabbi? Is there anything to the speculation that his mother Henrietta occasionally spoke Yiddish around her children? Marx’s biographers have had little to say about such matters. But the fact of his Jewish heritage has at times been seized upon by rivals and skeptics (Mikhail Bakunin, Eugen Düring) and put allies (Friedrich Engels, Franz Mehring) on the defensive. Because Marx penned a number of lines that rather furiously disparaged Jews and Judaism, most notably in his essay “On the Jewish Question” in 1844, the obscure situation has also made for accusations of Jewish self-hatred. 

    On the other hand, the same fact has inspired many critics to frame Marx as being in some profound and productive way a Jewish writer. This framing has tended to rely on the power of suggestion — that is, to occur without much drilling down into the relevant sources. With a minimum of analysis, it is often said that Marx and his works stand in the prophetic tradition. Erich Fromm, for example, called Marx’s version of socialism “essentially prophetic Messianism in the language of the nineteenth century.” Or a critic such as George Bernard Shaw, and there were others, briskly ascribes to Marx “particularly Jewish literary gifts” — the idea being that his irony and his deconstructive brilliance self-evidently issue from his Jewish background. Or his commitment to social progress is sketched as a Jewish response to modernity: Arendt once maintained that, “In the country which made Disraeli its prime minister, the Jew Karl Marx wrote Das Kapital, a book which in its fanatical zeal for justice, carried on a Jewish tradition more efficaciously than the ‘chosen man of the chosen race.’” Or the following paradox is wagered: Marx’s universalist mode of disidentification with regard to his “Jewish stock,” which he almost never mentioned, exists alongside — and can amount to — a form of unconscious identification. This is what Deutscher meant when he described Marx as a “non-Jewish Jew,” and also what George Steiner wanted to convey when he said that Marx was “most profoundly a Jew,” when, driven by his “radical humanism,” he pushed for the “dissolution of Jewish identity.” There is a lot of loose and stereotypical thinking in all these characterizations. 

    Of the writers listed above, Isaiah Berlin provides the most thorough and most thoughtful reckoning, not only tracing the differences between Marx and Disraeli and their “searches for identity,” but also finding various affinities amid all the contrasts. Yet the characterization given of the group applies to Berlin, too. As he works his way to his main points, he holds largely to general historical framing and psychological observations having to do with Marx’s life circumstances — that he rejected his father’s bourgeois path of assimilation, for example.Toward the end of his account, Berlin writes, “When Marx speaks of the proletariat, in particular when he alters the history of socialism (and mankind) by asserting that there is no common interest between the proletarians and the capitalists, and therefore no possibility of reconciliation . . . it is difficult not to think that the voice is not that of a proud Jewish pariah, not so much of the friend of the proletariat as of a member of a long-humiliated race.” Like Berlin, I want to build a case for overdetermination in Marx’s critical voice. I suggest that sensitivities related to (or around) certain aspects of Jewish assimilation lurk, to use a Marx word, in the creative forms of imitation that he unveils in Capital. But I will try to balance historical framing and textual analysis, locating those sensitivities in Marx’s correspondence and then reading key passages in Capital against that background. The part of Marx’s correspondence I will focus on are his letters about Ferdinand Lassalle, which are especially revealing in this regard. 

    Seven years Marx’s junior, Ferdinand Johann Gottlieb Lassal was born in 1825 the son of a Jewish silk merchant and grew up in Breslau, which belonged to Prussia at the time and is now part of Poland. Like Marx, he studied philosophy at the University of Berlin, forming a lifelong attachment to Hegel, and, once again like Marx, he was drawn to ancient Greek thought. (At university he changed his name to Lassalle to cover his Jewishness.) Marx wrote a dissertation comparing Democritus and Epicurus; Lassalle’s well-received first book was The Philosophy of Heraclitus. At an even younger age than Marx, whose commitment to communism dates to his mid-twenties, Lassalle began to devote himself to the socialist cause: he was a member of the Communist League when Marx and Engels composed its manifesto in February 1848. As a teenager Lassalle dreamed of becoming the savior of the Jews: “It has always been my favorite idea to stand at the head of the Jews, with arms in my hand, to make them independent.” But as an adult, Lassalle, too, seldom said a kind word about them, once quipping, “I despise above all two kinds of people: Jews and journalists. Unfortunately, I am both.” 

    Lassalle spent six months in prison for promoting insurrectionary activities during the revolution of 1848. Afterward, he managed to remain in Germany, whereas Marx and Engels had emigrated, and in the early 1850s they saw him as a junior partner there, expecting, or at least hoping, that he would faithfully represent their views — at the time they often used the term “Bursche” (“lad,” more or less) when they referred to him. This was a blueprint for trouble, given that Lassalle aspired to be a major thinker in his own right. And when, in the mid-1850s, his Heraclitus book established his reputation as a writer, and he became wealthy thanks to a favorable ruling in his aristocratic companion’s lawsuit against her ex-husband, tensions began to make themselves felt. Describing Lassalle in 1856 in a letter to Engels, Marx notes with distress that he seems “completely transformed” — and not in a good way. In the late 1850s and early 1860s, serious disagreements arose over political questions, such as what Prussia should do about the growing hostility between Austria and France and whether the Prussian state could be a vehicle for real social progress if universal male suffrage were instituted. 

    Isaiah Berlin went so far as to treat Lassalle, who revered Bismarck and was prepared to support Prussian militarism in exchange for domestic policy concessions, as a “precursor of the Fascists,” as the Marx biographer Jonathan Sperber has put it. Lassalle was, in truth, more like a forerunner of Walther Rathenau: dandyish, not shy about likening his gifts to those of, say, Socrates, wide-ranging in his literary activities, which included a play that he said a mysterious force had made him write, leading a personal life that invited salacious speculation, Lassalle also worked indefatigably to advance the workers’ cause. He possessed the political charisma and talent for oratory that Marx lacked, and in 1863 he launched the very first mass working-class party, the General German Workers’ Association, which later merged with another party to form the ur-version of the Social Democratic Party. Marx was not the only person who found Lassalle alternately admirable and off-putting: Engels did as well. But of their responses to Lassalle, Marx’s was by far the more vehement and extensive one. And if some of the slur-filled nomenclature they came up with for Lassalle originated with Engels — “Jud Braun” (“Yid Brown”), “Isidor Berlinerblau” (“Isidor Berlin-Bluedye”), “Herr Wieseltier” (“Mr. Wiesel”), “Ephraim Gescheit” (“Clever Ephraim”), and “Ephraim der Tiefe” (“Ephraim the Profound”), it was Marx who actually engaged with the topic of Lassalle as a Jewish writer. 

    It didn’t help Marx’s relationship with Lassalle that during the peak years of interaction, in the early 1860s, his financial situation was dire. When the American Civil War began, Marx lost his job as a European columnist for The New York Tribune, and there was Lassalle, eating him out of house and home during an extended visit to London in 1862, humblebragging about how much cash he had squandered on fancy cigars and London cabs, and laughing off considerable investment losses in front of his friend who was drowning in debt. Worst of all, when Marx asked to borrow money, Lassalle struck an officious tone: he insisted that the loan be formally guaranteed by Engels. Marx bristled with resentment — his whole family did, in fact. But it isn’t resentment alone that breathes out of Marx’s accounts of Lassalle in his letters to Engels. 

    The writing also has an obsessive quality. In the Marx-Engels Edition volume of correspondence covering the years 1860 to 1864, Lassalle’s name is the one that comes up the most, more even than that of Marx’s wife Jenny. Marx often says something about Lassalle, changes the subject, and then comes back to him, evoking a recursive effect, or a sense or fixation. Then there is the near constant marking of Lassalle as a Jew, and also the preoccupation with how Lassalle’s work aligns with — and is deformed by — his style of assimilation. These features of the correspondence took shape slowly. They begin with Marx depicting Lassalle as a parvenu “sybarite,” who, with his outsized desire for “fame,” “struts around like a peacock.” Marx therefore had his doubts about Lassalle’s Heraclitus book, which Lassalle evidently sent to him. Although they “have been given this horse,” he tells Engels in December 1857, they should “look deep into its mouth — on the express condition, of course, that this Heraclitus doesn’t smell of garlic.” 

    A few months later Marx followed up with an appraisal of the book. His suspicions had been confirmed. Returning to the motif of parvenu vanity, he writes to Engels that there is “an enormous exhibition of learning” but “every informed reader will know how cheap it is to bring forth such a collection of quotations” when an author “has time and money and, like Lassalle, can have as much of the Bonn University library as he wants sent directly to his house.” Marx does seem intrigued by what he takes to be Lassalle’s methodological conceit, namely, to pursue philology with the conceptual self-consciousness of a Hegelian, but he thinks that Lassalle exhibits precisely the wrong kind of self-consciousness: “You can see how ridiculous he looks to himself in this garish philological outfit, and how he moves with all the grace of someone wearing fashionable clothes for the first time in his life.” In the end Lassalle delivers a “silly work,” characterized by the “legalistic mode” he knows so well rather than real philosophical thinking. Or as Marx puts it in his letter, “How strange it would be if some German-speaker learned Greek and thereby became a philosopher in Greek without being one in German.” 

    There was a rift in 1859, but the intimacy between Marx and Lassalle was soon restored and reached its highpoint. Marx stayed with Lassalle in Berlin for a month in the spring of 1861, with the two men spending most of that time in each other’s presence. They worked on getting Marx repatriated as a Prussian citizen under the new amnesty (he had been stateless since 1845), they discussed coediting a newspaper that would be financed by Lassalle’s companion Sophie von Hatzfeldt, and they socialized together, too, going to the ballet and the theater. For Marx, it was an uncomfortable intimacy. The more he got to know Lassalle, the less comfortable it became, and the censorious references to Lassalle’s parvenu characteristics burgeoned in Marx’s letters to Engels. He began to routinely call Lassalle “Itzig,” perhaps after the scurrilous Jewish character Feitel Itzig in Gustav Freytag’s novel Debit and Credit (1855). Sometimes he diversified the mockery with the epithets “Baron Itzig,” (Marx uses the English term “Baron”), “Grosser Itzig” (“Big Itzig”), “Lazarus-Lassalle,” and the adjectival form “Itzigsche” (“Iztigian”). Generally polite when writing directly to Lassalle, and reluctant to damage an important ally by attacking him publicly, Marx now displayed a bottomless appetite for taking him down in this private context. 

    Marx knew something about the history of German Jews attempting to distinguish themselves from other German Jews with whom they tended to be grouped together. For example, he had read Heinrich Heine’s famous, futile attempt to distance himself from the brilliant and caustic writer Ludwig Börne, whose name at birth, in 1786, was Loeb Baruch — futile, because people kept seeing them as connected by genre (early German feuilletonism), cultural-ethnic-religious identity (Jewish converts to Christianity), political orientation (progressive), wit (biting), and exile (Parisian). With its intrusions into Börne’s personal life (his mistress’s face is compared to an “old piece of matzo”), and its questionable timing (Börne died in 1837, just a few years before it was published), Heine’s book Ludwig Börne: A Memorial elicited much scorn when it appeared in 1840. Engels declared that it was “the most execrable thing ever written in German.” But Marx sent Heine a supportive note, telling him in 1845 that “the treatment this work has received from German-Christian jackasses is unrivaled in its stupidity — no other period of literature has seen anything like it.” The long review he promised to write went the way of the newspaper he and Lassalle were to co-edit: it never materialized. Still, Ludwig Börne seems to have made a lasting impression on him. 

    In setting himself apart from Börne, who was older by a decade and had once tried to mentor him, Heine — who opportunistically converted to Christianity in 1825 as his “entry ticket to European culture” but never stopped writing about the plight of the Jews and late in his life published a particularly affecting series of poems under the heading “Hebrew Melodies” — puts Jewishness at the center of things. But he did so with a twist. Jewishness is a matter of “temperament” for Heine, and it is coextensive with Christianness. Hence Heine places Jews and Christians together under the category “Nazarene,” to which Börne belonged — not because he was born a Jew, but rather because he was born with an “ascetic” disposition that manifested itself in the “narrowness” of his aesthetic judgments and the dreariness of his populism. Non-Jews can thus be Jews, which is what Heine says about one of his main antisemitic antagonists, the conservative poet Wolfgang Menzel. Employing vocabulary that Richard Wagner would appropriate in his notorious essay on “Jewry in Music” in 1850, Menzel had charged that Heine “aped” the art of others instead of creating truly original works. (When Wagner argued that Heine used special Jewish mimetic capacities to copy his way to a position of prominence in German culture, he wielded the same term, “nachäffen” or “ape.”) Not only that, Menzel made Heine out to be too dandified and depleted — he was rumored to have contracted syphilis in Paris — to create real art: “The physiognomy of Young Germany [a literary movement with which Heine was associated] was that of a dissolute Jew boy, just back from Paris, stinking of musk and garlic and dressed according to the latest trends, but wrung out and enervated because of his lascivious ways.” 

    So Heine effects a reversal in Ludwig Börne. Menzel is the Jew, and, he, Heine, belongs to the counter-category, that of “Hellene,” which means that his innate temperament makes him well-suited for authentic artistic production and the “cheerful” free creativity that it requires. Heine admits that he is conflicted about his own categories: he finds the Bible deeply engaging, and he sees Shakespeare, the greatest of all artists in his view, as a synthesis of Hellene and Nazarene. Moreover, Heine was a liberal, and cared deeply about political progress; but in the end he did not wish to be merely a political writer. That may have worked for Börne, the “little drummer” and native speaker of Yiddish who had to climb his way to proficiency in German, but it wasn’t right for Heine, the “big drummer,” whose aesthetic equipment is far more powerful. It is striking, then, that Ludwig Börne dedicates so much space to elevating prose forms that in terms of their cultural connotations stood closer to the lowly mimesis of interlopers than to Olympian aesthetic forms. Introducing a technique that Jeffrey Sammons has dubbed “double-voicing,” Heine in quite a few places ventriloquizes Börne: he has Börne say things that he might have said but didn’t, as well as some things he probably would not have said. And he also lets Börne speak directly — that is, he artfully quotes Börne, quotes him at his best, at uncommonly great length, which perplexed readers but also helped bring about the sense that whatever its ethical flaws and formal oddness, Ludwig Börne was in fact an aesthetic triumph. Thomas Mann spoke of it as “containing the most brilliant German prose before Nietzsche.” Heine himself defended the book with the line, “But isn’t it beautifully written?” 

    By the time Heine produced Ludwig Börne, the dichotomy between Athens and Jerusalem, Hellenism and Hebraism, had been established in German letters by Herder, Winckelmann, and Goethe, but to borrow Berlin’s expression, it is hard not to think of Heine when Marx describes Lassalle as “this most un-Hellenic of the Water Polack-Jews.” Actually, it is impossible not to think of Heine, because Marx mentions him and his baptism two sentences before he gives that portrayal of Lassalle. What thickens the connection is that Marx applies to Lassalle not only Heine’s vocabulary but also tropes that were insistently applied to Heine. We are already familiar with this, or with Marx casting Lassalle as a preening dandy who overreaches intellectually and lacks the psychological grounding needed to pull off a great work. In the letter to Engels in which he uses the term “un-Hellenic,” Marx also underscores Lassalle’s “plasticity,” by which he means not a Hellene’s affinity for images and the plastic arts but rather Lassalle’s problematic tendency to try to be all things as a writer. This assimilationist plasticity amounts to an anti-plasticity. 

    Again and again, Marx brings together Lassalle’s intellectual shortcomings and his assimilationism. Lassalle is the assimilationist striver par excellence: he wants to be — he has to be — nothing less than a “universal genius,” which, Marx speculates in a letter to Engels, is in part what “impressed” Sophie von Hatzfeldt, drawing her to Lassalle. Yet this very “parvenu” ambition goes along with an “‘objective’ vanity” and “sensitivity” that seem to preclude a successful outcome. Rather than getting a universal genius, “the countess” has through her contact with Lassalle taken on Jewish characteristics. According to Marx, she sometimes talks with his “Jewishy tone.” In another letter, Marx refers to Lassalle as the “Jewish Baron or Baronized Jew,” then speaks of how he aspires to be not only “the greatest scholar, deepest thinker, most brilliant researcher, and so on, but also Don Juan and a revolutionary Cardinal Richelieu.” Yet Lassalle’s conversation undermines him in this aspiration, since so much of it is “sentimentality” and “empty talk” carried on with “a grating voice that hits the wrong notes” and accompanied by “unaesthetic gesticulations” as well. Plus there is his wearying didactic “tone” (that word again). 

    In a further paradox, Lassalle’s freighted drive for intellectual originality leads to heavy citation, and to citational problems. Writing to Engels in June 1863, Marx skewers Lassalle’s speech on indirect taxes as “pushy” (“zudringlich,” a quality he explicitly associates with Lassalle’s “Judentum”) and “empty” (“schwatzhaft”), proceeding from there to some psychological analysis. The speech is, Marx says, the work of “student” who wants to “yell in the marketplace” that he is a “’solidly learned’ man and independent researcher.” In the end Lassalle winds up showing himself to be only an “arch student,” because he has recourse to quoting other political economists “up and down” and is unaware that Adam Smith “plagiarized” from the Physiocrats everything that he wrote about indirect taxes. For Marx, then, plagiarism is not peculiar to Jews — but it can be done with particular inflections, with Jewish ones. A year later, in June 1864, we find Marx complaining that Lassalle has copied from his work in an “Itzigian way,” dandifying it as he went along. 

    Also revealing are certain juxtapositions in the letters in which Marx deals with Lassalle’s Jewish assimilationist tendencies. Marx uses the derisive term “Jud” (“Yid’) whenever he refers to the journalist and newspaper owner Bernhard Wolff, a move he employs rather sparingly elsewhere and refrains from in his other discussions of Wolff. It is in this context that Marx gives his infamous account of the writer Ludmilla Assing that presents her “nastily Jewish physiognomy” as a singularly hideous phenomenon — she is, Marx comments, the “ugliest creature” he has “ever seen.” And the case of Lassalle prompted Marx to offer rare speculations on the deep origins of Jewishness and its potential cultural consequences. In one of his reports on his visit to Berlin in 1861, he enlists a scholarly text about the ancient world to shed light on Lassalle. “Apropos of Lassalle-Lazarus,” he writes to Engels, 

    Lepsius’s major study of Egypt has shown that the exodus of the Jews from Egypt is nothing but the story that Manetho tells of the expulsion of the ‘leper folk,’ who were led by an Egyptian priest named Moses. Lazarus the leper is thus the Ur-type of the Jew and Lazarus-Lassalle, except that with our Lassalle, the leprosy got into his brain. His illness was originally secondary syphilis that wasn’t properly cured. 

    It is not clear, at least not to me, how exactly Marx means to link Jewish history and Lassalle’s brain. A voracious reader of nineteenth-century scientific theory, Marx goes back and forth between the different senses of the German word “Aussätzige” — “leper” and “outsider.” The Jews were not a leper folk in the first sense, but the biblical Lazarus has the disease, and Lassalle was known to have had syphilis. Nor does Marx’s other statement about ancient Egypt and Lassalle clarify the situation. Writing to Engels about Lassalle’s visit to London in 1862, Marx, having just dwelled on Lassalle’s debilitating “impudence” and combination of insecurity and self-aggrandizement, hazards that his guest descends from the progeny of Jews who procreated with the black people who accompanied them on their way out of Egypt. The “shape of his head” and the texture of his hair indicate this, as does his “pushiness,” which for Marx is characteristic of Jews and black people alike: here we might note that Marx’s own skin was swarthy enough to earn him the lifelong nickname “Moor.” 

    However he wanted Engels to receive these crude genealogical thoughts (mock science?), they betray an obsession with Lassalle’s mode of Jewishness, which manifestly weighed on Marx. Consider his response to Lassalle’s death at the young age of thirty-nine in August 1864, from injuries suffered in a duel. Whereas Engels took the conventional high road, eulogizing Lassalle as a difficult but remarkable person and ally who would be missed, Marx breathed an unceremonious sigh of relief. How astonishing, he exclaims in his note to Engels, that this “noisy” and “pushing” (he uses the English word and may mean “pushy”) person is “dead as a mouse” (“maustod”) and will now “have to shut his trap altogether” (“altogether das Maul halten muss” — here again Marx mixes English and German). In sum, Lassalle set Marx off, bringing to the surface volatile sensitivities around Jewish assimilation and Jewish mimetic activities, and Marx himself invites us to see his sensitivity to Lassalle and his dubious copying as crossing over from his private correspondence into Capital

    On the very first page of the preface to Capital, Marx flags Lassalle’s copying as a concern, prominently alerting readers to how it has created the appearance of similarity between himself and Lassalle precisely where they are, in Marx’s view, quite different. He says about the “general theoretical propositions” in Lassalle’s “economic writings” that they have been “taken from my work,” taken from it “nearly word for word, down to the terminology I invented, and without attribution.” Of course, there was another way for Marx to deal with his sensitivity to mimetic practices that he associated, whether consciously or not, with a mode of Jewish assimilation that troubled him, appearing to him as something like a distorted image of his own assimilation — Marx’s version of being a hugely ambitious cosmopolitan socialist-journalist-theoretician versus Lassalle’s version, Marx’s marriage to an older aristocratic woman without means versus Lassalle’s relationship with a much older aristocratic woman with lots of means, and so on. Marx could cultivate his own alternative mimetic practices, but they were creative ones. As we know, in Capital he does that, too. 

    What remains to be seen is how these practices work. Let us turn to Marx’s style, key aspects of which can be profitably read against the background of his correspondence about Lassalle, or as being animated in part by the specific sensitivities around and anxieties about Jewish assimilation that we encounter in that correspondence. What Marx sees there as a failed project of mimesis on the part of an assimilating Jew, one that involves failures of mimetic writing, is in Capital countered by, and even transmogrified into, the literary mimesis of a modernizing writer. This is most excitingly illustrated by Marx’s use of the modern technique known as free indirect imitation. A notable example of the technique occurs in his discussion of the labor process and the valorization process. Here Marx takes up a point that he stresses in the previous chapter, where he reveals the secret of how surplus-value is produced: neither capitalists nor political economists understand how surplus-value comes about — hence “secret.” The previous chapter evokes at length the political economists’ way of misunderstanding its production; the chapter on the labor process and the valorization process represents the capitalists’ wrongheaded perspective, doing so by describing capitalist consciousness in the free indirect mode. 

    Marx invents a fictional character — a hypothetical capitalist who fails to produce surplus-value, even though he successfully makes yarn for which there is a market. In other words, the capitalist fails to produce surplus-value even though he does all the things required for doing so: puts money into means of production, hires a worker, and produces a commodity that can be sold at its value. This leaves him confused. According to Marx, the capitalist is ignorant of the valorization process, the non-natural capitalist process whereby surplus-value is generated, which is not the same as the labor process, a natural process common to all human societies. Thus the capitalist cannot know that the former process begins only when a worker works longer than his own worker did, and starts to perform unpaid labor, or only after the part of the workday when the worker brings about value equivalent to that of his labor-power. “Our capitalist can’t believe it. The product’s value merely equals the value of the capital he advanced. The value he advanced hasn’t valorized itself. It hasn’t created surplus-value; hence it hasn’t transformed money into capital.” What is he to think? 

    Our capitalist might have found solace in the idea that virtue is its own reward, but instead he starts to raise his voice. The yarn is of no use to him — he made it in order to sell it. Thus he should sell it, or better yet, he should produce only things that satisfy his own wants and needs, a trusted therapy that [John Ramsay] MacCulloch, his personal doctor, has prescribed to help against the epidemic of overproduction. Our capitalist now becomes defiant and defensive, rearing up on his hindquarters. He asks: Can a worker make commodities out of thin air simply by using his arms and legs? Didn’t he supply his worker with the material the worker needed to embody his labor and in which his labor is thus embodied? Given that penniless persons make up the vast majority of society, hasn’t our capitalist rendered an immeasurable service to society by providing the means of production — namely, the cotton and the spindle? Hasn’t he done the worker a great service, too, by giving him his means of subsistence? And shouldn’t he get something in return for this service? 

    This is not what narratologists would call classic free indirect discourse, which they tend to define as occurring where a character’s thoughts are related by a narrator in the third person but in the character’s language, or in a mix of the character’s language and the narrator’s, so that it can be hard to tell whose perspective readers are getting. In the passage quoted above, the perspective is sometimes marked more clearly than it is in classic free indirect discourse (“he asks”), and it is sometimes stressed that the capitalist is speaking rather than silently reflecting (“he begins to raise his voice”). Yet the basic features of modernist free indirect discourse are present, more so than otherwise in German letters before 1900. The fragmentary first instance of free indirect discourse in German literature is thought to have come in Georg Büchner’s drama Lenz in 1839, which was followed by some not very successful experiments around 1850 by the critic and novelist Otto Ludwig. 

    What we find in Capital is stylistically much more developed. There is a sliding from the capitalist’s perspective — “thus he should produce only things that satisfy his own wants and needs” into Marx’s — “a trusted therapy” prescribed by MacCulloch. At the same time, the capitalist’s language — “can a worker make commodities out of thin air simply by using his arms and legs?” — slides into Marx’s — “in which his labor is embodied,” thereby evoking an instability or lack of firm footing that corresponds to the weak intellectual agency that Marx ascribes to capitalists in the capitalist system. Never truly in control of his discourse, since it is narrated monologue rather than direct monologue, the capitalist loses control of it outright. There is also a proto-Kafkaesque combination of mockery and empathy — the émigré scholars Leo Spitzer and Dorrit Cohn suggested that free indirect discourse invites both. The capitalist has an economic “personal doctor” whom Marx liked to ridicule (MacColluch), yet the capitalist’s voice is not always clearly set off from Marx’s. Both the mockery and the empathy make sense. The capitalist offers up the shibboleths of “vulgar political economy” in which he is “well versed,” such as, hasn’t he “done an immeasurable service to society?” But his consternation is understandable: the system in which he operates is fundamentally opaque, which is in fact the theoretical point that Marx is emphasizing here, and also a plight with which Kafka’s characters are very familiar. 

    In addition, both Marx and Kafka play off the formal air that free indirect discourse can have. Its compositional and cognitive demands are such that it isn’t used in casual conversation in German, and sometimes it works, as it does in Capital, with a subjunctive form that has elevated associations. The formality creates a context in which the madcap moments feel all the whackier for feeling a little out of place: “rearing up on his hindquarters,” and so on. 

    Elsewhere in Capital, a work notorious for its expanses of dense prose, Marx carries out a spry imitation upward, telling readers how the political economist Nassau Senior “would have to continue” if he were more clearsighted about the production of surplus-value, and doing so to some extent in an enhanced version of Senior’s own style. It is a mode of literary mimesis that simultaneously recalls the “double-voicing” that Heine pioneered in his Börne book and anticipates the humiliating, annihilating techniques for breaking down and showing up employed by a later German-Jewish critic who analyzed the paradoxes of Jewish assimilationism while challenging the Wagnerian ideal of pure originality, namely, Karl Kraus. Walter Benjamin was being only semi-hyperbolic when he remarked about Kraus that after he imitates someone he emerges with “blood dripping from his lips.” 

    I would argue that the mimetic practices in Capital have still more functions. As with other moments of creative writing in the book, they serve as a vehicle for Marx to model the kind of multi-sided work that the book treats as essential to human flourishing. Marx certainly believed in the power of deep expertise, but he also thought that the narrowing of work, intellectual and otherwise, mutilated people: 

    Whereas simple cooperation does little to change the way an individual worker works, the manufacturing system revolutionizes his mode of labor from the bottom up, seizing the individual bearer of labor-power by the roots. It stunts the worker, turning him into a freak. For it acts as a hothouse for developing a particular skill by forcing him to suppress a whole world of drives and proclivities, just as in the states of La Plata whole animals are slaughtered merely for their hides or their fat. 

    So when Marx refuses to abide by the norms of scholarly writing and to suppress his literary inclinations — his first career plan was to become a poet — he is acting on his theoretical commitments. With certain moments of literary experimentation, such as the one that portrays the benighted capitalist’s mindset, Marx may also be trying to set himself apart from another form of intellectual-existential diminishment, albeit less self-consciously. This would be the assimilationism he keeps talking about in his epistolary reflections on Lassalle — keeps talking about in a way that lets us see the most sophisticated literariness in Capital as connected to the Jewish background Marx seldom spoke of directly. 

    One way to describe Capital is to say that it is a book about doubling, about how under capitalism the things that we make — and the labor with which we make them — become dual entities. Marx argues that capitalist societies are societies dominated by commodity production, and the commodities that they produce are use-values and values, or two opposing and complementary things. As use-values, they are diverse things whose different physical properties satisfy different human wants or needs. But as immaterial, homogenous, fungible “value-things,” they differ only with respect to how much value they represent. Similarly, there is the particular concrete labor that goes into the use-value component of a commodity, and there is the undifferentiated abstract labor that constitutes the substance of value and thus of a commodity’s “value-thing” component. Given how well the central motifs themes here align with some of the main preoccupations of late nineteenth-century anti-semitic discourse — the stripping away of particularity, the idea of a hidden insatiable force controlling basically everything, and so on — one could go much further in trying to link the book to the Jewish part of Marx’s biography. That is, one could argue that Marx was attempting to work though concerns about anti-semitism as he developed his theory of value. But it would be difficult to ground such an argument in sources because we simply do not have directly relevant source material. 

    What we do have is ample material that invites us to link Marx’s two sets of mimetic activity. On the one side, there is the mimesis of Lassalle’s Jewish assimilationism and the mimetic writing by Lassalle that, in Marx’s view, went with his assimilationism. On the other side, there is the radical mimesis in Capital that reads like a brittle, brilliant, innovative response to Lassalle’s mimeses. Marx wanted to be able to just “let the people talk,” but doing so was evidently out of reach, and the thought that “the people” would associate his work with Lassalle’s elicited in him a particularly strong reaction, which we have reason to be thankful for. He put the energy it generated to good use, investing it in mimetic forms that would continue their ascent in German-Jewish culture for decades to come. 

    AFTER TRANSLATING CAPITAL: The Inner Life of Things Made and Traded 

    Marx was a great ape: he could do Goethe, he could do the Bible, he could do capitalists as well as workers, he could certainly do Hegel — better, he thought, than the legions of Hegel’s other apes. In a sense, he was, at any one moment, Marx-Goethe or Marx-Hegel or Marx-Ricardo. It is true, too, that Jews in German-speaking lands after emancipation — which started around 1750 — were granted, or were condemned to, this kind of mimicry. They observed German law, dressed in culturally appropriate ways, took on modern surnames, spoke the local language. They could be a good German, though always threatening to degrade into the bad Jew. They asserted rights as assimilated Jews while remembering their past as traditional Jews. Freed through the state, they were then beholden to the state. Marx describes this split in “On the Jewish Question” in stark terms. He dubs it “the decomposition of man into Jew and citizen.” 

    Perhaps this is what made mimesis so appealing to Jews in German lands after emancipation. Perhaps this is why some of them became very good at it. Where imitating Germanness, or what counted as Germanness, was a requirement for living, if it could be brought to the level of art, some small share of power could transfer to the imitator, rather than stay with the imitated. This is doubtless the moral of Franz Kafka’s story, “A Report to an Academy.” Although written about fifty years after Capital, it crystalizes the dynamic. In Kafka’s tale, an ape captured in Africa imitates the humans he encounters as a captive on the ship to Europe. In order to remain an ape and still be welcome in their society, he has to imitate them. Later, once he is ensconced in Europe, in order to have a better life in this new kind of captivity, the ape goes onstage. He plays an ape who is aping a human, so that he can remain an ape. The theater allows him to spend his life openly performing his double life. Kafka’s character turns his disadvantage to his advantage, by doubling the double. Doubleness was an escape and a salvation, and also a continuation of the trap, for German-speaking Jews in Middle Europe in the long nineteenth century. 

    Doubling up may have been, in Marx’s world, a Jewish thing, but it was certainly, for Marx, a capitalist thing. Almost everything of importance in Capital looks like one thing but is actually two. You need to be good at two-ness to get it. You need to twist your thinking, fold it, and then unfold it again, to comprehend capital, where doubleness moves into the nature of things. It can feel, at times, like losing your mind. This is because, in everyday thinking, the thing you want to comprehend is supposed to be a single, unified object. This thing I am holding is a book, not a book and an ostrich. And my thought of the book is one thought. The oneness of the object and the oneness of my thought about it are intimately linked. If the object is more than one, doesn’t the thought have to be more than one, too? Am I thinking this is A or thinking this is B? We usually call this uncertainty, or doubt — being of two minds about something. At an extreme, we call it madness. All of this because truth is reported to be one. But what if capitalism has a new shape for truth? What if truth has a new number? What if a repetition compulsion doubles objects and causes problems for thinking? 

    Since in Marx’s world mimetic doubling was marked or coded or experienced as a Jewish technique, it may have also been a metaphor for the rampant doubling carried out by the capital system. Or it could be that his experience with doubleness, as a German-Jew, helped him recognize the wiles of this new socioeconomic system. In Marx’s discourse, the Jew, in his doubleness, sometimes stands in for capital, in its doubleness. “On the inside, commodities are circumcised Jews,” Marx rather startlingly quips in the fourth chapter of the first volume of Capital. This complicated association points to Paul of Tarsus, to his discussion of inward and outward Jews in Romans 2:25–29. Like a Jew, whose one side, the outward adherence to law, is a dispensable shill for his other side, the inner faith in Christ, a commodity may be outwardly shabby but inwardly gold. 

    Marx shows us again and again that any feature of this specific social-economic field is actually two things pushed together. Capital is an outward Jew and an inward Christian. And yet it takes special sleuthing to find this out, since capital’s objects look at first glance like single things, and so a different mode is necessary to render it in the right light. To see things in the capital system, to interpret the system correctly, you need to see double. Section I, “The Commodity and Money,” would be unintelligible if you didn’t open your mind to double-vision. This is because the important objects are made up of two idiosyncratic and mutually antagonistic things that in the development of the system got coupled together. It is much too coarse to reduce this setup to an automatic and unconscious projection of what Marx underwent as a Jew in Germany in his time. Perhaps, minimally, though, we can say that with experience in the kind of double-vision that marginal social groups grow good at, Marx knew a double system when he saw one. 

    We are taught from the beginning of Section I of Volume I that comprehension can no longer mean making a single image or a single sentence. Reading Capital, we can no longer say “this is that.” The book tests readers on their grammar. We should learn to say “this is those;” learn to take a thing in from two perspectives at once, to the point at which it no longer appears as one thing alone, and neither does our perception of it — we become two people when we read Capital. It splits our consciousness. 

    Capital natives do this every day without needing to reflect upon it. We behave toward a commodity as though it were a thing to be used, a thing with particular sensual qualities and personal purposes. At the same time, however, we behave toward it as a thing to be exchanged, a thing with a single, abstract, quasi-metaphysical quality — a value. When we trade a hammer for something else or for money, we are doing implicitly what the book wants to make explicit for thinking. We act in both ways at once around the thing, in view of its use and in view of its value. It is this and it is that — discrepant. Doubtless the capital system teaches us from the youngest age to shift perspectives like this. How else could we live with objects that shift in their being? Over time we probably lose the feeling of the shift — so that later it happens without noticing. Marx tries to make the shift noticeable again. He tries to rattle us the way it must have rattled when a parent first told us to get back the correct change at the store. “Why?” we wondered. Marx puts the child’s “why” back in force. (The answer is “value.”) After reading the book, we should be less innocently able to count our change. 

    The same object is a sensual thing for use and a ghostly thing of value, and, as two in this way, can lead to divergent, even antagonistic behaviors, such as buying and selling or trading and consuming. This should shake our confidence in the categories we take for granted. There is no such thing as “a” carrot. Those who behave toward the carrot as a thing to be consumed comprehend it within one circuit of purposes. Those who behave toward the carrot as a thing that goes to market and returns as money comprehend it within another circuit of purposes. Capital teases the circuits apart, sifting their internal perspectives and inviting readers to feel the hot tension between them, the discrepancy burning inside the commodity. The doubleness of things is not just a problem with things, of course. The relation between the classes is contained in and maintained by the double carrot. As a consumable, the vegetable is for sustenance and so it represents the minimum that workers need in order to return to work tomorrow. As an exchangeable, the vegetable is for value creation and realization, and so it represents the minimum that the capitalist needs in order to keep production going another day. In this way, the double is also a split, and an antagonism, a struggle between interests. 

    Indulging in this doubling and splitting, Capital starts to build a special perspective that Marx calls “critique.” He gives critique a new meaning: double vision. Even though a commodity is almost never consciously seen in both ways at once by the same actor in the capital system, a critical perspective puts on display the convergence and divergence of both. Sometimes one way of being sleeps while the other is active, the two switching off in a rhythm. Using and trading are like this. They are almost always mutually exclusive moments in a process. Sometimes one way of being coincides with the other. Buying and selling, for example, happen at once — every sale is a purchase, every purchase a sale. No matter how you cut it, in the system of capital a commodity is what it is not. You can see this especially clearly in the carrot, because it cannot be eaten before it is traded. Its doubleness is split temporally into a before and after. As the carrot splits, so the actors split. Now the carrot is food, now it is a generic object for trade. Now I am a trader, now an eater. When I am eating I am doing a basic social activity, keeping myself alive. When I am trading I am doing a basic capitalist activity, realizing value on the market. 

    Awaken a talent for twoness and you will experience vividly the double life of things and selves under the capital system. Learn to see twice, once. Section I begins from an apparently simple, single, unified, inert, independent kind of thing, a product for use, and then moves to a commodity whose main purpose is trade, though it keeps its useful self around as a ghostly presence. A commodity is twice, once, but its doubleness stays hidden. It presents itself as usable although it has been made to be tradable, and what makes it tradable is called value. Separated from the commodity and set over against it, value takes on a separate existence as money, in which the split, now concrete, is nevertheless more hidden. In money you experience one face of the double commodity directly, but you no longer experience the doubling, since money appears as an independent agent. This is the meaning of “fetish” for Marx. Money is a fetish because we cannot see the material relations hidden doubly in the stuff, first by value, then in separate form as money. Money acts as if on its own. The world is created by money — when, in reality, labor creates value, which, forcibly separated from everything we recognize as the social life of human beings, becomes money. 

    A commodity may be made out of fabric or wheat, or out of ideas alone, but a commodity is always made out of doubles. Use/ value is one of its twos. Quality/quantity is another. As a useful thing, a commodity is known by sensual qualities. A carrot is sweet and nutritious. As a tradable thing, a commodity is known by quantities. The carrot weighs five ounces. On average there are two hundred in a bushel. Like use and value, quality and quantity tuck together within one carrot in something like a fold. Section I of Capital unfolds the densely packed interior of the commodity, to show the many tucks within it. In a marvelous maneuver, Marx invites us to meet the entire capital system folded up around itself inside a commodity, packed in so tight that a gigantic book — one completed volume, two unfinished, three more planned, along with many ancillary texts — are just enough space to display all the flaps, once its apparently uniform surface has been unfolded and spread out before us. “The simplest form of commodity,” Marx writes in a letter to Engels in 1867, “embodies the whole secret of the money form and thereby, in nuce, of all bourgeois forms of the product of labour.” The task is to recognize the multiple contents folded in two and three and four-ply layers, and at the same time to notice how the folds add up to very familiar things that don’t seem folded up at all. 

    What commodity? A carrot grows in the ground. If you see it this way, you cannot see the system. The natural carrot blocks your view, since a commodity, in order to be a commodity, holds all the parts and relations, processes and actors, times of day and seasons, legal codes and police actions, worker groupings, not to mention all the chains of raw and finished materials and the whole history of human and animal technology in a unique pattern within it. Marx’s technique in Capital can be called “shaking out the folds.” There are other more traditional names, such as “dialectics,” but “unfolding” gives a precise image for the thought-figure here. The capital system conceals a second face beside the one you see at any moment. Unfolding can also be thought of as breaking bonds — a lot of energy is stored in these forced, tense pairings. In this way too, seeing double with Marx is a practical activity that packs an explosive force: by means of critique, the world as we know it, or as we think we know it, comes apart. 

    In the innermost wrinkle, at the tightest corner in the interior of a commodity, use and value exist directly beside one another. Quite distinct modes, use and value nevertheless depend on one another as much as they also depend on staying separate. Connection that separates, separation that binds — a commodity is an unholy alliance of two kinds of social purpose, the satisfaction of needs and the accumulation of surplus-value. They must stay tightly together and also must never be confused. If use and value became confused — imagine — carrot producers might give away the crop for free for others to fruitfully enjoy, if instead of values they saw their wares first as uses. If instead of uses they saw their products first as values, by contrast, carrot farmers might not worry whether the produce was sweet, or even edible. In these examples you can see the revolutionary potential in the critical perspective, seeing both sides at once. Within capitalistic society is an unresolvable conflict between opposing interests. 

    Where value and use — intimate opponents and alien companions — fold together, freely articulated but snug, the pair itself has another partner. The value-use fold within a commodity is accompanied by and confronted with labor, which is its own folded pair. In 1868, Marx wrote in a letter to Engels: “the economists, without exception, have missed the simple point that if the commodity has a double character — use-value and exchange-value — then the labor represented by the commodity must also have a twofold character.” A human being labors on raw material and, by adding their labor to it, produces a product. Labor transforms an unusable thing into a usable thing, and at the same time, because it must be traded in order to reach its user, labor also transforms a value-poor thing into a more valuable thing. 

    And so, labor must have its own internal fold: concrete labor to make a useful thing and abstract labor to make a value-laden thing. These false friends sit in the nearest proximity, interdependent and repellent, mutually necessary and sometimes mutually corrosive. Commodity (use-value with exchange-value) and labor (concrete labor with abstract labor) fold twice inside the commodity production process. Likewise, the commodity production process is itself located at a crease, twinned with the circulation process, which is the topic of the unfinished second volume of Capital. Unfolded to their full length and breadth, the tiny pleats in the commodity open to expose the capital system itself, which fans out over the planet and the book. Marx has a highly distinctive way of theorizing. 

    Learn to see double to see a commodity, and for that matter the special commodity, labor. To understand the economy, Marx wants you to start with the production process, this four-fold. Circulation is a big topic as well — the biggest, literally speaking, in the world, although it occupies a small space in the first volume. Circulation is a necessary complement to production, its twin. Use and value are made in the production process and then in circulation they come to fruition. The capitalist gets back their outlay plus a bonus to live to capitalize another day, the merchant passes the commodity along, the worker receives wages to live to work another day. 

    Although the discussion of circulation will be expanded in Volume II, an important thought emerges in Volume I. Circuits of exchange are more than one, though in a different way than the commodity. In production there are folds; in circulation there are arcs. In short, whereas in the commodity, doubleness looks like a fold, in circulation it looks like segments of a circle that start and end at different points on the circumference. Under this kind of “seeing double,” we get the first panorama of the entire system. 

     

    Economics is the science of equivalences, and hence it has tended to concentrate on the sphere of circulation, Marx tells us, where commodities encounter one another as equivalents. Things that are unlike qualitatively can nonetheless be equivalent when it comes to value, and economics treats circulation as the place for the exchange of equivalents. For Marx, however, such an account does not suffice. Circulation needs to be described in terms that go beyond economics and equivalence. For one thing, circulation is a social phenomenon as well, not a merely mathematical or logistical one. Circulation is the milieu wherein relations between individuals and groups happen. You buy, I sell; you own, I earn; your plantings become my dinner; someone trades while someone produces and someone else counts the profits. A social phenomenon first, circulation is also, we can say, alchemical (and note that this is Marx’s own metaphor). In circulation, things transubstantiate into other things, and the whole system appears to grow magically beyond its size. Circulation is also fairly chaotic. It has the spirit of a whirlpool. Near the swirling vortex of capital circulation, persons, personalities, individual private lives, the life of mind or soul, as well as the lifetimes of family, friends, children, parents are pulled in and change their natures. They become relay points in the cycling mesh of exchanges. Individuals and groups get pulled into the vortex, homogenized and instrumentalized. 

    On the one hand, you are asked to conceive of a social system in which human beings and their other social relationships get swallowed up in the vortex of capital circulation. This is not a simple thought, because there are too many factors, too many sellers, products, buyers, timings, and placings. At the same time you are asked to conceive of a rational system that is made up entirely of individual empirical acts that nonetheless add up to the total circulating movement, which, in addition, never stops. Put another way, Marx helps us imagine a vast field of separate, random, real acts and part-acts, carried out by historical human beings under contingent conditions with a modicum of freedom and narrowed interests, which end up conforming to a hyper-rational order. Trades happen. Commodities move and become money. Capital capitalizes. People with other involvements come along and make trades happen at the right time and place. For every buyer there is a seller, for every seller a buyer; commodities dance a mad hoedown where partners constantly change places and rarely drop a step. On the whole, those who need it get the commodity they need; those who own one part with the commodity they have; those who benefit routinely benefit; those who do not benefit routinely do not benefit. Circulation is a multipolar, syncopated concordance of exchanges where an almost uncountable number take place at any time and all of them must take place over a certain course of time in order for any single exchange to work out. 

    Circles make it possible, circles of circles, a galaxy of inner orbits that revolve around a massive black hole at the center, capital’s insatiable “drive” for accumulation. Section II of Capital moves us from doublets and folds within the commodity to circles within circles. 

    Before you can think of the total circling of the galactic system, Marx has you identify shorter, more well-defined spans that make it up. Circles come in segments. Take a so-called simple exchange. Point A — producing a hammer — leads you to point B — selling the hammer — before point B leads you around the other arc back to point A — returning the original capital in the form of money, with a surplus, to the industrial hammer manufacturer. Another difficult challenge: learning to think in semicircles. 

    In a transaction, a commodity is transferred along one arc so that, later, in a separate move, money can come back along an adjacent arc. Transactions begin and finish at different points. A span opens between the moment of sale and the moment of payment, and subsequently between the payment point and conversion back into raw material for new production. For this reason, Marx asks us to understand money as what he calls a means or medium, a Cirkulationsmittel. As a means, money facilitates movement along semicirclets just as tickets facilitate train travel. It holds the seat while the transaction runs on its rails. It does this by adding viscosity to the flow, so that value can move more slowly than the surrounding time. Money captures the value and holds it at roughly the same magnitude, ready to change state at a moment’s notice back into a hard commodity. Even when further stations are added, in more complex multistage transactions, adding banking or credit rounds, circulation still moves in semicircles, and yet it is also true that the semicircles only exist if they eventually link up together into a circle that returns with inevitability to the starting point. 

    To think the capital system, familiarize yourself with this image: an infinite motion turning on the backs of finite cycles, each cycle broken and joined up again through money’s special mediating powers. Each finite cycle of state changes — money to commodity, commodity to money, money to commodity once more — reins in motion just enough to ensure that each transaction gets satisfactorily completed (on average), but this means that all of the surrounding transactions that enable it have to happen satisfactorily too. 

    Now the giant doublet that is circulation comes into view. It is economic and ecological at the same time. Circulation appears first as the exchange of an equivalent for an equivalent, as an economic thing. At the same time, Marx makes an important modification to the standard economic reasoning. Circulation is also ecological. A single exchange is interconnected with others that surround it. In circulation, local positions are defined by more distant ones. A single trade depends on many others and on many things besides trades. Commodities dance to the rhythm of the market. A thing, set of cycles. At one moment the thing is a hammer that took a certain amount of average labor to make, at another moment the thing is a wad of cash, at the next moment the thing is a carrot. Capital is not real and it is not fiction — it is surreal, like a Magritte painting, decorated with carrot-hammers and buyer-sellers, monstrous amalgams not foreseen by any philosophy. 

    To put this in the form of a general rule: a thing is a moving point in at least two of capital’s semicircles. This is to say, a thing is the way it is determined by the demands of the system at any moment. You could say a thing is not what it is but where it sits in the whole. 

    Circulation, Marx teaches, makes a thing what it is. On one hand, a thing is its position on a semi-circle. You or I, this commodity or this wad of cash, are what they are because they stand at a position in a circuit between production, exchange, and consumption. On the other hand, each thing, as it transits, transforms. If you start at one point on the circumference, you transit through specific waypoints and end up somewhere else. Raw materials move to production and then are worked into products. But, if you start at another point, the waypoints are different, and you come out at a different place altogether. The same circle is a different circle. It depends where you enter and exit. 

    In the circulation process, therefore, you may either measure the semi-circular movement of value from commodity through money to commodity (Marx uses variables to express this: C-M-C) or you may measure it from money through commodity to money (M-C-M). These are and are not the same circuit. From one perspective they are the same — the money in the middle of one can be thought of as the same money at the end of the other. From another perspective, the more important one for Marx’s analysis, they need to be thought of as different. Used as a means to produce products, money is different than money used as capital, where the product is a means to produce surplus value. It is and is not the same money. Here you can see clearly Marx’s critical act, the act of someone accustomed to doubleness. It is apologist nonsense to say that the money is the same, when it is functionally different. It would be just as naïve to claim that the money is simply a different thing as a means for production and as a means for capitalization. The critical act is to show how the two live deceptively together in the same body. Seeing single is the worse deception, and it has brutal consequences for workers. When the production of useful things conceals the industrialists’ real intention, which is the valorization of value, working conditions worsen. 

    In the first version of the circuit, a commodity leaves the factory floor to be sold, brings money back to the producer, who purchases more raw materials, in order to repeat the process. This is the production circuit, as seen from the perspective of the producers. The concerns that swirl around this circuit are well-known. A factory owner brings in materials when they are needed, pushes workers to complete the products when they are needed, and times the purchase of new raw materials to coincide with the return of capital after a sale. It is crucial that the production owner be fully committed to this version of the circuit. 

    The second version of the circuit differs from the first in a number of ways. For one thing, whereas in the first, money is a means for bringing in another commodity, in the second the commodity is a vehicle for converting money back into money, adding the all-important surplus. You are asked to shift your perspective and conceptualize the landscape from the position of the capitalist. A “capitalist” understands the product, and the worker as well, as a means or medium, with money as the cardinal input and output of the process. 

    What looks like a production process for goods is, in this shifted perspective, a production process for capital. Seeing double gives you access to the being double of the process. This is not only a perspectival shift but also a shift in the modality of life. A pre-capitalist or limited capitalist system could hypothetically function only in the first mode, as production of useful goods. Once generating capital becomes the highest goal, functions change places. The process of producing useful goods does not go away. It serves the production of value. Capital production becomes the sufficient mode, the first cause of all other activities, and production of goods for enjoyment and sustenance becomes a necessary accessory to something other than the good, shared life of the entire social unit. The good, shared life of the entire social unit requires a radical revision of our economic system and its forms of being, or so Marx argues across Volume I. 

    Doubleness itself is not the problem. On the one hand, the problem is the way things appear. The things we encounter every day, including our own laboring selves, appear simple and uniform. The sense that everything is as it seems, foisted on the world by the political economists whom Marx was disparaging in his “critique of political economy,” blocks inquiry and keeps populations captive to a lie. Why does Marx take the simplest of relationships, I buy/you sell, or I-make-you-oversee, and turn it into the most complicated, arabesque of folded intentions and entangled functions? His reason is this: if we do not see the hidden complexity in capital’s forms of being, we will not understand why, despite simple appearances, the harder and longer we work the less we actually make, while some who do not work at all make more than all of us put together. We cannot understand why, strong rhetoric and weak political actions to the contrary, we continue to destroy the earth and its ecosystems for humans and other species. 

    On the other hand, the problem lies in the proportions. It is not value per se that causes the vast majority of the population to suffer economic injustice and transforms the earth into an inhospitable cauldron. The problem is that the creation of value exceeds and controls the creation of useful things. Clearly it should be the other way around. We do not need to get back to simple things, as in some naïve handicraft paradise — we need use to exceed and control value. To accept this view, we have no choice but to descend with Marx into the two-faced hell, where nothing is what it seems and everything is duplicitous and in conflict with itself, so that we can at last read it correctly and discover how monstrous the growth on the body social is. What alchemy will be needed to shrink value down to size, to subordinate value once again to human wants and needs? We cannot even ask this question until we follow Marx on his extraordinary journey through the inner life of capital’s things. 

    Surely You Of All People Remember

    Everybody knows I have them. My problems were bad then. I have value now. I actually love chugging green juice. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy is the name of the holy game. They give me homework over there. They put ice in my hands. They take the sunglasses off my face. 

    Yeah, I miss being a terror. I miss living for kicks. I miss the way trouble felt. I miss going all in on the cowboy stuff. I miss nightclubs, women dancing, the hard feminine shoes. I miss name dropping, social climbing, jumping to conclusions. I miss the night flights going nowhere. I didn’t know their destinations. 

    I was dragging myself all over town. The same year I learned I was adopted. The same year I got my diagnosis. The same year I lost my license to drive. Wish I could say the only person I was hurting was myself. 

    I would prefer if certain records were sealed. These open records keep me up at night: borderline unforgivable, a memory cancer under my skin. 

    I even kicked the dog. 

    These days, I cradle her freaking ashes — just an unfortunate case of old age. 

    Lola

    On the other hand, she’d wanted a fight.