What might Arendt have to say about Trump?

A few people have been asking me my thoughts on the recent surge of interest in Hannah Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism, in relation to our present political crisis.  I’m working on writing something on the subject, but meanwhile – to air some rough ideas –  I offer the following snippet  of a conversation I had last week at Brooklyn College (where I teach), in the office of the chair of our political science department:

Roy [sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated]: …Agreed. Obviously Trump is no Hitler, and this isn’t 1933. But that’s why I’m starting to think Arendt might be relevant, after all. It’s like I always said: her focal case  for totalitarianism isn’t the Nazis, it’s the Bolsheviks – and only under Stalin, not before— 

Corey Robin [impatient, scanning his inbox]: — I know, I know…

Roy [talking against the clock]: —So the point is, her theory can accommodate  a case where there’s little or no authentic mass movement beforehand. The leader need only be in a position to commandeer  and transform existing institutions, and manipulate prior loyalties…  You could think of Trump’s hold on the Republicans now as something like Stalin’s over the Old Bolsheviks – they didn’t like him before, and don’t like him now, but they’re boxed in; to abandon him now would leave them with nothing… But, look, never mind Stalin.  Arendt is sketchy on Stalin, and I’ve stopped trying to do her homework for her a long time ago.  The point is – that’s why I’m finding her relevant now. I want to say – Trump could turn out to be a better instance of what she meant by totalitarianism than either Hitler or Stalin…

Corey [baffled]: What are you talking about? I still don’t see it.  Where’s the relentless drive for logical consistency, the compulsive force of ideology? —

Roy [puzzled, then incredulous]:  — Huh? …You mean, the stuff Arendt wrote in the last chapter?  ‘Ideology & Terror’? That’s  from 1953. You thought I meant that? Corey, please  I’m talking about Arendt’s theory from ’49 —  the one in the book’s first edition.*  It’s not about consistent ideology.  It’s about taking reality for one massive conspiracy, and operating on that basis.  Part of what she saw as distinctively totalitarian in the Bolsheviks under Stalin was their flexibility — and their contempt for those who complained of their contradictions… The other stuff — the stuff Arendt added in the later chapter — that doesn’t interest me, never did. She herself  abandoned it later. We’ve been through this, remember? Thus the Eichmann book…

Corey [bemused chuckle]:  ….

[* The changes to Arendt’s theory of totalitarianism are documented in this old paper of mine,  written on the occasion of 50th anniversary of  the publication of The Origins of Totalitarianism in 2001. (The paper came out of a conference held in New York just a few weeks after the September 11 terrorist attack, which explains its ominous last paragraph.)   A few details of the interpretation are superseded by subsequent scholarship, but I’m not aware of any challenge to the basic documentary account.  Links to some other pieces I’ve written on Arendt’s work can be found here.]

Original post title: “Is Arendt Any Help? Raw Thoughts on Trump and Totalitarianism”

Arendt: “The reality in which we live”

“Never has our future been more unpredictable, never have we depended so much on political forces that cannot be trusted to follow the rules of common sense and self-interest — forces that look like sheer insanity, if judged by the standards of other centuries. It is as though mankind had divided itself between those who believe in human omnipotence (who believe that everything s possible if one knows how to organize masses for it) and those for whom powerlessness has become the major experience of their lives….

“The central events of our time are not less effectively forgotten by those committed to a belief in an unavoidable doom, than by those who have given themselves up to reckless optimism…. Comprehension does not mean denying the outrageous, deducing the unprecedented from precedents, or explaining phenomena by such analogies and generalities that the impact of reality and the shock of experience are no longer felt. It means, rather, examining and bearing consciously the burden which our century has placed upon us — neither denying its existence nor submitting meekly to its weight.  Comprehension, in short, means the unpremeditated, attentive facing up to, and resisting of, reality — whatever it may be….

“We can no longer afford to take that which was good in the past and simply call it our heritage, to discard the bad and simply think of it as a dead load which by itself time will bury in oblivion. The subterranean stream of Western history has finally come to the surface and usurped the dignity of our tradition. This is the reality in which we live. And this is why all efforts to escape from the grimness of the present into nostalgia for a still intact past, or into the anticipated oblivion of a better future, are in vain.”

–Hannah Arendt,
Preface to The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951)

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Thoreau the Revolutionary

Thoreau portrait1. In “Thoreau and the Tax-Collector,” I looked at Thoreau’s reasons, as stated in “Civil Disobedience,” for refusing to pay his poll-tax.  My concern was to emphasize Thoreau’s political purpose, his understanding of the act as a practical step toward  combating the evil of slavery.   As I noted, this side of his argument in “Civil Disobedience” has often been slighted, when readers focus too exclusively on the paramount importance he attaches to individual  conscience.  Hannah Arendt, for one, saw Thoreau as an essentially apolitical figure, concerned only by the desire keep his own conscience clean.  In her own essay “Civil Disobedience” (published in 1970), she claimed that Thoreau had “argued his case not on the ground of a citizen’s moral relation to the law, but on the ground of individual conscience and conscience’s moral obligation” (emphasis original).   Arendt saw Thoreau as a pure case of the conscientious objector, whose one concern is to hold himself apart from entanglement with evils that his conscience condemns.  The only practical consequence his conscience allowed him to care about was his personal integrity.

As I said in my earlier piece, I believe that this is an error. It is true that  Thoreau feels impelled by his conscience to dissociate himself from the state, out of moral abhorrence of slavery.   And it is true enough that he honors conscience above any other source of moral authority.  But this doesn’t mean that his only concern is to keep his own conscience unspotted — retreating to an ivory log-cabin,  as it were.     Thoreau sees his refusal to cooperate with the state as a way to take a stand against injustice, in the hope of rousing his neighbors to join him in this.  It’s not about avoiding guilt by association; it’s about withholding his help  from the perpetuation of wrong. It’s also not about money, except incidentally.  “It is for no particular item in the tax-bill that I refuse to pay it,” he says; “I simply wish to refuse allegiance to the State, to withdraw and stand aloof from it effectually.”  To withdraw from the State, yes; but for the purpose of  making difficulties for the state’s agents — the tax-agents, anyway — who rely on his cooperation.   Refusing to recognize the state’s authority means withholding that moral support upon which  the state’s agents depend.  And this, after all, is how revolutions begin.  “When the subject has refused his allegiance, and the officer has resigned his office, then the revolution is accomplished.”

It’s only from the state that Thoreau stands aloof, not his fellow citizens.  Near the start of the essay, he says explicitly that he means  “to speak practically, and as a citizen” (my emphasis). His refusal to pay the tax is an act whose effects he hopes will be felt, not so much in the coffers of the state treasury, as in the conscience of the man he calls his “civil neighbor, the tax-gatherer.”  That’s an odd way to speak of a tax-collector, and a lot to expect from one.  In Thoreau’s time (just as in the Rome of Tiberius), taxes were collected by private contractors, who stood to lose out of pocket themselves if the tax went unpaid. (The town of Concord awarded the contract to a bidder who would pay in advance the town’s aggregate annual assessment – minus a fee – in exchange for the warrant to collect the tax from the residents, or else jail them or seize their goods for non-payment.)  There’s some historical evidence to suggest, not surprisingly, that the holders of this office were typically seen as unscrupulous mercenaries. Then again, Thoreau wouldn’t be the first to count such a tax-collector as a prime candidate for conversion.  In any event, it’s not as if Thoreau hopes to achieve his revolution simply by influencing this one other person.  It just happens that this is the only officer of the state who asks anything of him directly.  The case is meant to be simply illustrative, of a more general strategy of confrontation through non-compliance.  Thoreau offers his own example in the hope that his other neighbors, whose dealings with the state may be more extensive, might go and do likewise.

Thoreau’s sense of his practical purpose corresponds to his sense that he lives in a time of acute moral crisis. He sees in his neighbors is a sort of  moral paralysis, as a result of their having accommodated themselves to the evil of slavery. (When he also condemns the Mexican War, it is not as a separate grievance, but a sign of this same paralysis – the proof of how far the U.S. is beholden to slave-holders’ interests.  The Mexican War’s plainly foreseeable result was to add more slave-holding states to the Union, further entrenching the Southern bloc.)    That slavery is an enormous evil, Thoreau finds too obvious to need any argument.  He presumes that his neighbors should accept this as an uncontroversial moral truth, in the abstract.   What’s controversial is whether there’s anything to be done about it, in the present political circumstances.   Thoreau knows all too well that virtually none of his neighbors think that there is.   Yet he also knows that they acknowledge, in principle, that a government might be resisted.   After all, the United States owes its own legitimacy to that very principle.

All men recognize the right of revolution; that is, the right to refuse allegiance and to resist the government, when its tyranny or its inefficiency are great and unendurable.  But almost all say that such is not the case now. But such was the case, they think, in the Revolution of ’75. 

He is referring, of course, to the American Revolution —  giving its date as the one most hallowed by his neighbors.  The year 1775 was the date of the Concord militia’s first pitched battle with the British, preceding the Declaration of Independence by more than a year. If resistance was justified then, Thoreau asks, how can it not also be warranted now?

If one were to tell me that this was a bad government because it taxed certain foreign commodities brought to its ports, it is more probable that I should not make an ado about it, for I can do without them: all machines have their friction, and possibly this does enough good to counterbalance the evil.  But when that friction comes to have its machine, and oppression and robbery are organized, I say, let us not have such a machine any longer.

Thoreau is fully prepared to grant that some evils are to be borne with, as the price to be paid for political institutions. His are not the “politics of absolute ends,” if that’s taken to imply an unbending intolerance for human failings and flawed institutions.   But slavery is an evil apart.

 

2.   How is it that readers like Arendt have seen  Thoreau’s stance in “Civil Disobedience” as essentially apolitical, despite all of this?  There’s a tendency to discount his political seriousness, on account of some other things that he also says.    Arendt quotes a number of strongly-worded statements from this same essay of his that seem to express a willful indifference to public affairs, shrugging off any positive political duty.  “I am not responsible for the successful workings of the machinery of society,” he says. “I am not the son of the engineer.”  Again: “It is not a man’s duty, as a matter of course, to eradicate any, even the greatest of evils.”  Do statements like these betray an apolitical, even anti-political attitude?   Is his thinking, at best, shot through with ambivalence?

I don’t think so.  Thoreau is a careful writer, and also a careful thinker. These statements have their place in the ambit of his argument in this essay, consistent with his polemical — political — purpose.    At no point does he say such things to qualify, or in any way diminish, his acute sense of his active duty to combat injustice, as effectively as he knows how. The intended thrust of these statements is in fact to reinforce and clarify that pressing purpose, by dispelling the cloud of other, specious duties that would seem to conflict with its demands.

The point in contention is whether resisting the government — with the result, should it come to that, of dissolving the Constitution, and disbanding the United States — would bring with it evils of its own, to be weighed in the opposite scale of  the balance.  In the background is perhaps also the widespread belief (shared, sad to say, by Abraham Lincoln) that rapid emancipation would have undesirable social effects – the belief, that is, that American society would suffer from having to absorb large numbers of blacks.   Thoreau will hear nothing of any of that.   There are no countervailing social or political costs that he’s willing to set in the balance.  “This people must cease to hold slaves, and to make war on Mexico, though it cost them their existence as a people.”

When he declines to take responsibility for “the successful workings of the machinery of society,” he is referring specifically to the smooth operation of government.  (Thus: “the people must have some complicated machinery or other,  and hear its din, to satisfy that idea of government which they have.”)   No one who cares to incite a revolution, on principles such as Thoreau’s, can afford to be taxed (as it were) with the costs of disrupting the standing government’s efficiency, reckoned in social utility.

To be a  revolutionary is to reject normal politics, and willingly to accept one’s exclusion from the usual channels of political change. By refusing to pay the poll-tax, Thoreau abandons  the right to vote in elections.  (A word of clarification may be helpful here.  Unlike in the postbellum South, the Massachusetts poll-tax hadn’t been imposed as a bar to voting. It was simply the state’s sole direct tax, of recent origin.   The penalty of disenfranchisement arose as an ad hoc  device to ensure general compliance with the tax, at a time when the state lacked effective means for consistent enforcement.)  Thoreau doesn’t refer directly to his self-disenfranchisement, but his feelings in the matter are clear enough.  He disparages voting as no more than “a sort of gaming, like chequers or backgammon, with a slight moral tinge to it, a playing with right and wrong” he says. “The characters of the voters are not staked…. Even voting for the right is doing nothing for it” (emphasis original).  This is hardly the attitude of a man content to drop out from public affairs, washing his hands of the consequences.  The complaint is precisely that those who content themselves with voting are essentially doing that, capitulating to the status quo.

There’s no need to extract from this a general rejection of representative government, or even of electoral politics.  Whatever  Henry Thoreau’s personal leanings in the matter may have been, the positions he takes  in “Civil Disobedience” are inseparable from  his hatred of slavery, and that hatred more than accounts for them.   His attitude toward electoral politics is understandable, given the existing parties’ evident incapacity to take a principled stand against slavery, or to field candidates who might. (This was 1849, remember – the Republican Party was yet to be founded.)  His impatience with voting flows naturally enough from his sense that he lives at a time of a grave moral crisis,  made all the worse for the electorate’s failure to see it as one.   He has concluded that the crisis is as grave as the one that precipitated the American colonists’ rejection of the government of Britain.  He is urging his neighbors to join him in a a campaign of resistance commensurate with their grandfathers’, with the same revolutionary intent.    For Thoreau to regret the loss of his vote in this situation would be like Franklin or Jefferson regretting the day they gave up the chance someday to be granted a seat in the Parliament of Westminster, the better to plead the colonists’ grievances against the Crown.

Cast your whole vote, not a strip of paper merely, but your whole influence. A minority is powerless when it conforms to the majority; it is not even a minority then; but it is irresistible when it clogs by its whole weight.

Related Post: Thoreau and the Tax-Collector (Sept. 4, 2015)

Thoreau and the Tax-Collector

Thoreau portraitThere’s a side of Thoreau’s “Civil Disobedience” that I believe is often misunderstood – or maybe just misremembered. We remember his refusal to pay the Massachusetts poll tax, even at the cost of going to jail.  But what is it that he hopes this act will accomplish, practically speaking?    

Perhaps that question seems misplaced. According to some readers of Thoreau – Hannah Arendt, for one – his refusal to pay the tax is divorced from any concern with practical consequences.  He simply sees it  incumbent on him, a dictate of conscience.  “It is not a man’s duty,” he writes, “as a matter of course, to devote himself to the eradication of any, even the most enormous wrong; he may still properly have other concerns to engage him; but it is his duty, at least, to wash his hands of it, and if he gives it no thought longer, not to give it practically his support.” At most it is a matter of preserving his integrity intact, avoiding any personal guilt in the government’s wrongdoing.

This is mistaken. The author of “Civil Disobedience”  does very much aim for a definite, and immediate, practical result. Contrary to what Arendt and others have claimed, Thoreau isn’t merely acting in the interest of protecting his integrity.  I don’t mean to deny that he feels morally bound to dissociate himself from a government that permitted and protected the holding of slaves, come what may. But it’s not for this alone that he feels morally bound to withhold his taxes. What makes the latter a duty for him is his hopeful belief that by doing so, he might prompt others, too, to dissociate from the government.

If the tax-gatherer, or any other public officer, asks me, as one has done, ‘But what shall I do?’ my answer is, ‘If you really wish to do any thing, resign your office.’ When the subject has refused his allegiance, and the officer resigned his office, the revolution is accomplished.

The citizen’s principled non-cooperation finds its completion in the official’s principled abdication: both must occur, to accomplish the revolution that Thoreau hopes his act might initiate. It might be a long shot, but there’s a real enough chance to make it one that’s worth taking.

If we tend to neglect this part of Thoreau’s intention, perhaps it’s because we attribute too much importance to the financial aspect. We tend to assume that his point of withholding the tax is to refrain from making any monetary contribution to the furtherance of acts  that he cannot in good conscience endorse. It has sometimes been said, pedantically, that Thoreau’s act was based on a misapprehension, in that the tax he refused to pay provided no revenue in support of slavery or the Mexican war. That’s irrelevant. Thoreau doesn’t care in the least about how the money gets spent. “I do not care to trace the course of my dollar, if I could, till it buys a man, or a musket to shoot one with, — the dollar is innocent, — but I am concerned to trace the effects of my allegiance.”   (This is why it’s a matter of indifference to him, that his unpaid tax bill was eventually settled – without his involvement – by an unknown third party, probably his aunt.) His refusal to pay the tax is simply his way of denying the government’s legitimacy – and more to the point, his chance to challenge its agents’ putative authority.

I meet this American government, or its representative the State government, directly, and face to face, once a year, no more, in the person of th tax-gatherer; this is the only mode in which a man situated as I am necessarily meets it, and then it says distinctly, Recognize me; and the simplest, most effectual, and in the present posture of affairs, the indispensable mode of treating it on this head, of expressing your little satisfaction with and love for it, is to deny it then.

It is no mere negative act of abstention, the refusal to pay, it is an act of engagement – a deliberate confrontation, not so much with the government as an institution, as with its human agents. “My civil neighbor, the tax-gatherer, is the very man I have to deal with — for it is, after all, with men and not with parchment that I quarrel — and he has voluntarily chosen to be an agent of the government.” By withholding his tax, Thoreau hopes to make the government’s agent unsure of himself, to see that he too might renounce an officially-sanctioned modus vivendi unworthy of him. “How shall he ever know well what he is and does as an agent of the government, or as a man, until he is obliged to consider whether he shall treat me, his neighbor, for whom he has respect, as a neighbor and well-disposed man, or as a maniac and disturber of the peace… ?”

Let me press the point a bit further. It seems to me that Thoreau’s belief in his moral duty to refuse payment of the tax, on account of the government’s iniquity, rests entirely on his hopeful belief that the refusal might elicit the desired response from enough other people, without whose support the government would collapse.   Otherwise, his decision to pay his taxes, or not, might be merely a question of tactics, subject to strategic exigency. “I quietly declare war with the State, after my fashion, though I will still make what use and get what advantage I can, as is usual in such cases.” The government, he knows well, comes “armed… with superior physical strength,” and might conceivably use the brute force at its disposal to extort his compliance. “When I meet a government which says to me, ‘Your money or your life,’ why should I be in haste to give it my money?” The government’s claim upon his recognition comes only in the expectation that the money be given in haste: that is, cooperatively, granting the legitimacy of the request. Thoreau will have none of that: “It may be in a great strait, and not know what to do: I cannot help that.”

Thoreau’s hope comes through most clearly in a passage near the end of the essay, in which he raises – and answers – some hypothetical doubts about his position.

I sometimes say to myself, When many millions of men, without heat, without ill-will, without personal feeling of any kind, demand of you a few shillings only, without the possibility, such is their constitution, of retracting or altering their present demand, and without the possibility on your side, of appeal to any other millions, why do you expose yourself to this overwhelming brute force? You do not resist cold and hunger, the winds and the waves, this obstinately; you quietly submit to a thousand similar necessities.

“Why expose yourself to this overwhelming brute force?” His answer is not, that it’s better to suffer than sacrifice one’s integrity. Instead, his answer is to reject the premise, refusing the analogy.

But just in proportion as I regard this as not wholly a brute force, but partly a human force, and consider that I have relations to those millions as to so many millions of men, and not of mere brutes or inanimate things, I see that appeal is possible, first and instantaneously, from them to the Maker of them, and secondly, from them to themselves… And, above all, there is this difference between resisting this and a purely brute or natural force, that I can resist this with some effect; but I cannot expect, like Orpheus to change the nature of the rocks and trees and beasts.

Related Post: Thoreau the Revolutionary (Sept. 14, 2015)