I’m currently experiencing an annoying and intermittently painful medical situation, a bit of the old gross hematuria that’s been going on for a few days. I’ve learned not to stray too far from a bathroom, as the sudden urge to piss a little blood and a few clots sometimes becomes, in two seconds, completely unbearable. I am assured by my urologist that this is not unexpected in a man my age and that medicine doesn’t know the exact reason I’m having these troubles (science calls such unknowable things “idiopathic”) or how long they will persist. I’m waiting for test results that could shed more light in a day or two. I’m told we can safely rule out all of the most scary end-stage cancer possibilities and so I’m inconvenienced, and drinking ridiculous amounts of water (a gallon and a half the other day) but otherwise not full of fear.
But enough of my medical troubles which nature will resolve, or medical science eventually will. The reason I bring them up is to foreground the life-affirming power of wrestling a difficult intellectual/emotional/moral puzzle into comprehensibility and how the effort brings a great sense of satisfaction as it helps put physical suffering into perspective. I find it a particularly rewarding exercise in this age when supremely confident, heedless ignorance is triumphantly strutting at the head of several of the earth’s largest nations.
I’ve spent the last few days, between hundreds of sessions straining and groaning in the bathroom, writing and thinking, thinking and writing, digging my way to the bottom of a deep, extremely vexing situation, the tragic end of a friendship of fifty years. Thinking helps writing, of course, and writing — and rewriting — greatly helps clarify thinking, I find.
After many hours, I finally wrote the final words on the subject, explaining to a perplexed girlfriend (two actually, my friend’s and mine) exactly why I could struggle no more to save something that appears to be dead. When any doubt about my motives and my sincere efforts to resolve things was cleared away I felt a great sense of relief and release, having worked to fully set out what had been impossible for me to fully grasp — or explain– before the hours and hours I put into grappling with the thorny issues. It was not the effort to be “right” that consumed me, it was the effort to fully understand and articulate exactly why I’d been so hurt, why the situation was so intolerable to me.
One great beauty of this process was that in the end I had something I could read to Sekhnet, that put my feelings into a reasonable frame for her. It allowed her to understand that I had not acted out of blind anger, or pettiness, or pride or any impulse but trying to preserve a friendship that was clearly on life support while in a death spiral. It put its finger squarely on what has become unsupportable in that friendship.
In the midst of this exercise, which took several days across several weeks, we watched an excellent 2013 movie called Hannah Arendt. I rediscovered Hannah a couple of years ago and wrote a kind of intro to her calling her the Intellectual It-Girl for this moment in history. She is a hero of mine and, among other things, a great analyst of totalitarianism and how it operates — how it requires ignorant faith in irrational ideas and leads to the violent repudiation of rational thought.
Her masterpiece, Eichmann in Jerusalem, is perhaps my all-time favorite book . In that short book, which made her legions of devoted enemies, she gets as close as anyone to isolating and describing that irresistible impulse in some humans, pursuing a perverse but common notion of ambition and integrity, conforming without thought to abnormal new norms, to commit the most monstrous evils, while themselves being neither psychopaths, fanatics nor monsters.
We watched the 2013 movie, which starred the superb Barbara Sukowa as the Hannah of my dreams. Take a look at the trailer. I was tickled all the more, watching the film a couple of days before what would have been my mother’s 92nd birthday (happy belated birthday, mom), at Barbara Sukowa’s uncanny resemblance to a younger Yetta, my mother’s mother. We both thought the movie was great. It showed clearly the price Hannah Arendt willingly paid to not kowtow to any particular interest group, tribe or ideology, but to get to the deeper, more difficult truth of the matter she was investigating, wrestling into comprehensibility and presenting for readers.
To my knowledge nobody has ever written a better short history of the Nazi era than Hannah Arendt’s masterpiece. It would certainly be hard to imagine one. The unsettling insight that emerges from the book is that ordinary people will do unspeakable things under unspeakable conditions and that some of history’s greatest “monsters” are simply ambitious people who unthinkingly go along with their insane masters’ plans .
In the case of Eichmann, he unquestioningly did whatever he was told by his superiors. First he diligently sought to expedite Jewish emigration, a good solution, he thought. Then, in phase two, he applied himself to the forced expulsion and concentration of Jews, which was admittedly less pleasant for him, but nonetheless necessary. He was equally diligent in the performance of his duties in the final stage, his least pleasant task: getting the optimum number of Jews on the optimum number of trains to optimize the number that could be solved, finally.
A man like Eichmann deserves to be executed, if anyone does; Arendt doesn’t flinch for a second over the fate of a blindly obedient unthinkingly murderous cog like Adolf Eichmann. He doesn’t get a pass, because he’s a clown, for his willing participation in one of the most gruesome mass murders, certainly the most coldly efficient, in world history. Hannah:
The German text of the taped police examination, conducted from May 29, 1960, to January 17, 1961, each page corrected and approved by Eichmann, constitutes a veritable gold mine for a psychologist — provided he is wise enough to understand that the horrible can be not only ludicrous but outright funny. Some of the comedy cannot be conveyed in English, because it lies in Eichmann’s heroic fight with the German language, which inevitably defeats him. (p.48)
She was right, the comedy couldn’t be conveyed in English, though she gave it a shot, a short parade of absurd examples of Eichmann’s limited and ridiculous powers of expression, to give a sense of it. She concludes:
The longer one listened to him, the more obvious it became that his inability to speak was closely related to his inability to think, namely think from the standpoint of somebody else. (p.49 — in the margin I see I have written “Trump” in pencil, hmm…)
To present Eichmann as one of history’s greatest monsters — well, to her it completely missed the point. An important point. A crucial point. When we stop thinking, analyzing, acting as moral agents, we become capable of unimaginably monstrous things. Like shipping millions of Jews to their deaths while insisting you are no killer, never ordered a single killing, never deliberately hurt anyone, are not in the least bit antiSemitic, have never harbored any ill will toward anyone.
Fortuitously, a friend just sent me a link to the first article by Arendt published in the New Yorker in Febaruary, 1963 (the articles that later became Arendt’s book length masterpiece). Read the opening, admire the mind that, fluent in English, French and German (and probably other languages) can say, without hesitation, that the German translation (the only one Eichmann and his lawyer could understand) was by far the worst. The three Israeli judges, good men all, were originally German Jews. They struggled at times to correct the poor German translation, to clarify things, and they did not pretend to wait for things to be translated into Hebrew before they replied. Hannah admired these qualities in the judges as she lamented the terrible German translation that surely muddied the clarity of the proceedings. She wonders why, with so many fluently bilingual German Jews in Israel, the German translation had been so poor. It is something to think about — and perhaps another of several reasons Arendt’s book was not published in Hebrew, or available in Israel — none of her books were– until 1999.
Of course, thought is famously hard, as is expressing thought coherently, as is arguing intelligently about which thought is more profoundly thought. Sekhnet and I loved the movie. A very articulate and well-read critic at the New Yorker had problems with the movie, serious ones, and equally profound problems with Arendt herself. You can read it and emerge convinced that the filmmaker and Hannah Arendt both missed the mark, badly. In the end, the critic acknowledged that Arendt had inadvertently written a ‘masterpiece’– though he claims this happened by accident. Take a look at the smart review if you have some time. Or, better still, watch the movie — then read her book. Then read this brilliant jerk-off’s well-argued opinion.
For me, the guy’s surgical critique of Arendt (and the film about her) brought to mind words I read at the end of a short biography of Django Reinhardt, included as part of a book teaching a few of Django’s guitar parts note for note. The writer who’d been paid to write the short bio (not the musician who lovingly transcribed what Django had composed and improvised) concluded with his considered opinion that Django had been a “near genius.” I immediately felt the urge to contact this hack writer and correct him. Actually, the urge was a bit more direct than that. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, of course, but, as someone pithily put it once: not their own facts .
There are facts, things that actually happened, physical things, tapes that can be played back to confirm what was said or show what was actually done, documents, there is data, ideally verifiable and reliable data compiled by scientists. Facts make our beliefs more or less solid, basing action on fact separates considered opinions from absolute, blind faith or sheer stupidity. The factual world, the idea of truth itself, is under attack. No useful understanding of anything is possible without first knowing, as factually as possible, the thing you are trying to understand.
In Brazil, strongman former military junta member Jair Bolsonaro is doing the same work Narendra Modi is doing in India, the tireless work this orange-toned manipulator is doing here: the human and scientific facts have NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING! Bolsonaro has taken to insisting, aping his American counterpart, that hydroxychloroquine (70% of the world supply is manufactured in Modi’s India) is a miracle drug that will protect everyone from the virus, as the pandemic sweeps through Brazil’s crowded favelas, its slums, as it has been wildly spreading here in what has become the world epicenter, of the pandemic and denial of the pandemic, both. As it is sure to sweep the crowded slums of India, makers of most of the world’s most miraculous miracle drug. If you follow leaders like these, and carry out their orders, in spite of the shakiness of the “logic” they present, be prepared for the judgment of history — if, indeed, we will have history in the future — or any human future at all, for that matter.
 Right up there with The Collected Stories of Isaac Babel (Walter Morrison translation). If you have not read these stories, particularly if you’re a writer pick up this out-of-print book, (you can also read this post.)
 A tangentially related point enraged legions of Jews and others against Arendt. She noted that had the Jews not voluntarily organized themselves, had their leaders not helped keep order in their ghettos and make lists of Jewish property and designate which individuals were to be deported, that fewer Jews would have died in the chaos that would have resulted from lack of Jewish cooperation — chaos that would have required massively more Nazi manpower to supervise (the Jews were forced to provide their own police forces to assist the Nazis). People wanted her head for this, though she made this hard to dispute observation in passing while describing several desperate cases of certain Jewish elders, forced into the unimaginably hellish position of having to deal with the Nazis who were busily killing them, some of whom believed they could make moral deals with monsters, at times making decisions a few would later commit suicide over or, in at least one case, later face criminal prosecution in Israel for (he was murdered during the trial).
 Daniel Patrick Moynihan, as the internets inform us.